When Hogan rapped on the rec hall tunnel exit, it immediately opened, displaying the anxious face of Corporal Foster. "Schultz is right outside," he filled his CO in as Hogan climbed up into the room and dusted himself off. "He asked if you were in here, and we told him if he'd wait a moment you would be. He decided . . ."

"To see nothing till I got here," Hogan finished for him. "Right."

Addison hurried up. "The Kommandant is out there now too," he whispered. "Schultz is delaying him."

"Okay, I'll go deal with them. One of you go hunt up Corporal McIntosh from Barracks 13 and bring him over. Tell him I need his accordion-playing talents. And let's hope he's got some," he muttered to himself, crossing the large open rec room with the other two dogging his footsteps.

Opening the door, he found Schultz blocking it. Fortunately, the Sergeant was of a size that he could easily delay Klink simply by standing at the door.

"Schuuultz! I said, stand aside, you oaf!" Klink's order had nearly reached shriek level.

"B-b-b-but-but-but—" Schultz stuttered as he stalled desperately.

"Hi, Kommandant. You looking for me?" Hogan put in, peering over Schultz's shoulder. He could see the big sergeant go nearly limp with relief, followed by an immediate stiffening as he smartly stepped out of Colonel Klink's way, standing to attention next to the door.

"Mmmph!" Klink glared and shook his fist at his sergeant as Hogan came through the door out into the compound. "Yes, Hogan. Do you have a name for me on that matter we spoke of this morning?" He turned his scowl to Hogan, clearly expecting the colonel to have failed to fulfill his promise.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Hogan answered with false geniality, crossing his arms across his chest as he automatically slipped into his usual persona when dealing with Klink. "Corporal Foster here was just about to go find the man I have in mind. Go on, Foster," he added, as the corporal gave a quick salute and headed out, quietly accompanied by Addison. "Shall we go to your office while we wait for Foster to bring him, Kommandant?"

"Yes, I suppose," Klink sulked, apparently vaguely feeling like someone was getting away with something but unable to put his finger on just who or what.

Once settled in Klink's office, Klink behind the desk and Hogan in the chair on the other side, Hogan reached automatically for the cigar humidor. Klink grabbed it away to safety, then reconsidered as he saw Hogan's sardonically quirked eyebrows.

Hogan stretched his legs out and folded his hands across his stomach. "I won't order McIntosh to do this, you know," he commented amiably.

Klink huffed, then opened the humidor, selected two cigars, and handed one to Hogan.

"Danke, Kommandant," Hogan murmured, sniffing the cigar with pleasure, before tucking it carefully away in his jacket. He grinned. "I still won't order him to do it."

Klink was saved from answering by a knock on the door, and Fräulein Hilda's entrance. "Corporal McIntosh," she announced, moving aside for him to enter, then departing after dimpling as usual at Hogan, who summoned up a small smile for her.

McIntosh turned out to be a slightly small, sandy-haired man of roundish face, meek demeanor, and American uniform, despite his Scottish surname. Hogan only vaguely recognized him from his internment interview a few months back; he hadn't been involved in any of the covert operations so far, though he'd passed all the security checks. McIntosh was obviously puzzled about the mysterious summons to the Kommandant's office, which he had not seen since the day of his arrival in camp.

"Now," Klink said, smiling to put McIntosh at ease; the effect, however, was to simply disconcert the corporal still further, "I understand that you play the accordion."

"Ah, no sir," McIntosh stammered, looking at Colonel Hogan, clearly alarmed as the look on Klink's face switched from affable to irate.

"You don't?" Hogan sighed, wishing he'd put more time into checking the information out; he remembered now that Kinch had been unsure. The problems posed by the arrival and impending departure of Bobby—no, Ted, he had to remember that—and the Lucky Strike crew were distracting him too much. He shook his head slightly: he needed to focus on this right now. "Do you play any other instruments?" he asked hopefully.

"Well, sir, I play concertina. It's kind of a cousin of the accordion, since they're both free-reed instruments," McIntosh offered hesitantly. "And I play piano," he added. "But I guess I'd be really rusty on either; I haven't played since I got here."

"Well then," Klink said brightly, "if you play concertina and piano, I'm sure you can manage the accordion. It's really just a cross between them."

McIntosh's mouth dropped open in astonishment at this bewildering piece of reasoning, and he glanced over at Hogan in mute appeal.

"Corporal McIntosh," Hogan started, trying to rescue the situation, "Kommandant Klink is looking for someone to play accordion for a girls' gymnastics team performance in Hammelburg, to improve the townspeople's morale. Their regular player got called up by the Wehrmacht. We thought you might be able to fill in for the practice sessions and the performance, but I'm not ordering you to do so. It's your own choice—if you think you could manage the instrument."

He watched with some amusement as the words "girls' gymnastic team" sank in. McIntosh brightened enormously. Clearly the offer was having an excellent effect on his morale.

"Why, yes sir, Colonel—err, Colonels! I'm sure I could manage! All it would take would be some practice, right? I mean, it can't be all that different. I'd just need the instrument for a while so that I could work on it. Practice, I mean. And meet with the girls—I mean, the young ladies, so I'd know what they wanted. I'd be glad to do anything for them!" McIntosh beamed.

"I'll just bet you would," Hogan chuckled.

Klink looked somewhat askance at the musician's enthusiasm, but accepted the offer. "Very well, Corporal. I'll have Sergeant Schultz send a man into town this afternoon to fetch the instrument so that you can practice on it. And I'll check with the leader of the gymnastics team, Fräulein Ulla, to see when you're needed."

"Fräulein Uuullaaaa," McIntosh breathed ecstatically, drawing out the syllables of her name just as Klink had in the morning. Hogan rolled his eyes.

"Corporal McIntosh!" Klink snapped. "You will confine yourself to your professional role as musician for these ladies!"

"Sure thing, Kommandant," McIntosh drew himself up to his full five feet, seven inches. "I'll be as good a musician as I possibly can for them to dance to." His twinkling eyes suggested he was fully aware of how women could be swayed by music—even an accordion's.

"It is for gymnastics—athletics! Not a dance team!" Klink corrected with some asperity.

"Yes, sir, Kommandant," McIntosh brightly agreed.

Hogan suspected that for the new accordion player it was a distinction without a difference. Well, he'd gotten this hare started; he'd have to see what he could do with it over the next few weeks. There had to be some way that this out-of-camp contact would be useful at some point down the road. Once Klink dismissed McIntosh to go dream of girls dancing to his tune, Hogan settled down to bargaining the price of his service. No point in letting the opportunity go to waste when he could get some good out of it for the rest of the camp. That was his job, and he'd better do it right this time.

ooOoo

When Hogan came back to the barracks, having finally settled his dickering with Klink, he found Newkirk and LeBeau seated at the table with Saunders, Garlotti, Davis, and Barnes. They broke off their conversation as Hogan came in. Remembering the look of shocked epiphany on Saunders's face when Bobby had come up earlier, Hogan could just guess what they'd been talking about, especially given the too-innocent looks they all immediately pasted on their faces. Calling them on it didn't seem like the best idea, though. No point in reinforcing the importance of the subject of their gossip by chastising them for it, especially since he had no concrete evidence of what they had been discussing.

"Did you fellas get the shopping lists finished for Kinch? And get the teams started on papers and suits?" he asked instead.

He got a chorus of "yes, sirs," and decided to leave it at that. "I'll be in my office. Send Kinch in when he's got the final list assembled," he added, guessing that both he and Carter must be below. God only knew what was happening down there, but the two of them should be able to keep a lid on it, he decided, closing the door behind him and leaving the others to their gossip. His own presence down below was just likely to worsen the situation.

Now finally back in privacy, Hogan sat down on the lower bunk, sagging down with his elbows on his knees and his hands drooping between them, too tired and disheartened for once to haul himself up to the top bunk he usually preferred. He'd spent half the night thinking about how to handle the crew below, and especially his son, knowing that it was going to be difficult given the last argument he'd had with Bobby four years ago and the lack of response to any of his overtures since then.

At least now he knew why—and now that he knew he couldn't think of the Mahoneys without a near blinding fury possessing him. He'd known that they had never liked him, had never forgiven him for eloping with Katie, had seen that choice (and maybe with some reason, he could privately admit to himself now) as disrespectful. On the other hand, he had doubted then and still doubted now that they would ever have come around to accept him—and Katie herself had thought waiting would do no good on that score. It was one reason she'd agreed to elope with him. And once she was gone, they had wanted him to have as little contact with Bobby as possible. Still, he hadn't believed they'd actually keep his letters back from his son, though that expectation seemed ridiculously naïve now that he knew they had done so. That long silence wasn't the result of a teenaged boy's sense of hurt and desertion; it was from being kept in the dark that he had a father who cared about him.

Hogan sighed and rubbed his eyes. He had wanted so badly last night to put their relationship back on track, had so carefully thought through what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it, but the day had gone badly so far nonetheless. In fact, it could hardly have gone worse. The final furious comment from the most recent fight with the young lieutenant rang hauntingly in his ears: "I have nothing more to say to you. Ever! Sir."

Well, he couldn't blame the kid for being upset at losing his place in the crew he'd worked so hard to become a part of. Luck, despite his resistance to breaking up his crew, seemed intelligent—and after all he did play ball when pushed. He'd gotten his whole crew out alive from a mortally damaged plane; that spoke well for him too, as a pilot and a commander. He was probably a good officer to have learned under, been a co-pilot for. His protectiveness toward his crew was heartening, even if inconvenient in some ways at the moment. It was too bad that he'd no longer really be Bob– no, Ted's CO after tonight. (He had to remember that name change, he scolded himself.) Luck had certainly earned Ted's loyalty and trust. It was no wonder that Ted was upset and angry about losing his place under the man's command, especially given that they were evidently close enough that Ted had shared his family background with his CO.

Luck's final comment from their earlier discussion in the tunnel came back to him: "I guess you should have let him carry the name of the family that raised him. Sir."

That still made him wince. Most likely because Luck was right. If he hadn't been prepared to take on Bobby as a baby and raise him as his own, he should have let the Mahoneys have the boy fully, let them adopt him and give him their name. Let the boy be the Mahoney he was raised as and obviously wanted to be, not have to carry a different last name that always reminded him that he was something of an outsider in their family, a grandson rather than a son. Hogan couldn't help thinking dismally that apparently all he'd managed to do in the past nineteen years was make Bobby—now Ted—resentful of the way he'd dropped in and out of his life.

His reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door. He sighed silently. Probably Kinch.

"Come in," he answered, straightening himself up.

Kinch came in, doing one small double take when he didn't see his CO at the desk, and a second when he did see him sitting on the lower bunk, to all appearances completely and quite uncharacteristically idle. "Got the shopping list complete, Colonel," he said, handing it over for inspection.

Hogan ran his eye down the items. It was a sensible list of needs and requests: various parts for their all-important radio came first, including a new headset, followed by cloth, thread, yarns, and buttons for clothes; paper and inks, all of varying sizes, weights, and colors for their forged papers; film and developing chemicals; foodstuffs and spices of different kinds so LeBeau could continue working his special brand of magic; and several types of explosives, wires, detonators, and timers, so Carter could do his. The food list was topped with "coffee," written in all capitals; another more cribbed handwriting had scribbled "tea" in even larger letters slanted off to the side and then underlined it twice. The ancient argument tugged the left side of his mouth almost into a half grin. He nodded and handed it back. "Get that off to London; they should be able to get most of it together in time. Tell them we'll need it sorted into five packs for transport back to camp from the plane."

Kinch nodded and turned to leave, then hesitated and turned back. "Lieutenant Hogan was still awake a few minutes ago, sir."

Hogan scowled. "So I take it Carter gave a full report to you? Like Saunders, Newkirk, and LeBeau were filling in the others when I came in the barracks?"

"Carter didn't hear much, just gathered that you two were at odds," Kinch answered cautiously.

Hogan snorted. "Well, that's putting it mildly." He slumped, resting his elbows on his knees again.

Kinch looked down at him with concern; it was rare—and somewhat alarming—to see the colonel this dispirited. Still, what was weighing his CO down wasn't the usual business of their operation; it was the unexpected eruption of his personal life into their life at Stalag 13. That could throw anyone off.

"I was just realizing I've never really made it work," Hogan mused aloud, and Kinch nearly held his breath, not wanting to break this unusual moment of the colonel confiding in him. "I should have left Bob– I mean, Ted, with the Mahoneys, let him be theirs, not tried to see him."

"I guess I can see why you might think that, given what you told us at breakfast," Kinch responded cautiously. "But when he got here last night he was obviously really glad to see you, Colonel. And he's turned out well. I mean, a second lieutenant at nineteen, copilot on a Marauder: he's obviously very capable. You've got to be proud of him."

"Of course I am!" Hogan straightened up, his voice vehement, but then his shoulders drooped a bit. "I'm not sure I have the right to be, though. He isn't what he is because of me." He paused, thinking over their first conversation. "At least, not much," he added.

"Colonel, just go talk to him again."

Hogan shook his head. "As Carter no doubt told you," he scowled, "he made it very clear he doesn't want to talk to me. And . . . he does have a lot of real reasons to resent me, both past and present. I think I'd have to order him to listen to me, and I just can't do that to him, or to myself either. At this point, I should probably leave him alone, limit the damage."

"With all due respect, sir, I think that's wrong." Hogan glanced sharply up at him but didn't interrupt, so Kinch gathered his resolve and went on. "Forgive me if I'm interfering where I'm not wanted, Colonel, but leaving things the way they are between you two right now is a mistake. And I think he'd talk to you now."

"Oh?" Hogan frowned. "And just why's that?"

"It's a dangerous war, sir. You know that. You might regret it if you don't straighten things out between you while he's here. While you can. Plus, he and I talked some." Kinch could see the Colonel tense. "I think he's coming around, sir."

"What did you talk about?" Hogan asked warily.

"Nothing he's not supposed to know—nothing classified beyond what he's already seen. Just . . . what we're doing here. What you're doing here."

"Kinch, sometimes I don't know what I'm doing here," Hogan sighed.

"Yes, you do, sir."

Hogan eyed him. "You sound very sure of that."

"You just get tired sometimes. We all do." Kinch spread his hands. "But we all know what we're working for. What we're working against. Why it's important. How we're making a difference. How you're making a difference, Colonel."

Hogan stood up, eyes traveling to the window. "Yeah, I suppose. It's just . . . with him being here, it's like I can see this whole other life I didn't choose, didn't live." He crossed his arms in front of him. "Maybe I could have taken him on, not joined the Army, raised him myself if I wanted to be his father, even without his mother. Apparently he wanted that, at least some of the time. But it's way too late to expect him to see me that way now."

Kinch leaned against the bunk. "I can see why that 'other life' looks good to you right now. But to be frank, Colonel, a lot of other people would be much worse off if you'd done that."

Hogan turned back to him and shook his head. "The Army's a big outfit. Someone else would have done the jobs I've done."

"No," Kinch said firmly, standing up straight again. "Not here. This outfit wouldn't exist without you, Colonel, if you hadn't been here to start it. All that we've done getting people out, passing on information, stopping shipments, delaying troops, destroying munitions: none of that would have gotten done. We've made a big impact on the war for the Allies. You know that, sir."

Hogan looked down at the floor, and after a moment he nodded.

Kinch looked down too, sticking his hands in his pockets, then continued more quietly, "And, well, I have to be glad you got here, Colonel, because otherwise I'd probably be in a concentration camp instead of here. Maybe dead. Klink wouldn't have stood up for keeping me without you pushing so hard for it. So I know getting here was a hard road for you, sir, and that you've paid some big prices along the way—but there's a bunch of people grateful you've been here, Colonel. Starting with me."

Hogan swallowed, looking over at his radio man. Kinch lifted his eyes and held his gaze for a moment before looking back down at the floor, blinking hard a couple of times. Hogan nodded, then took a deep breath and let it out, unsure what to say.

Kinch added quietly, "I think the lieutenant is starting to see some of that too. Try him again, Colonel. You don't have much time before that plane gets here tonight, sir—don't waste it."

"Well, I try to follow good advice when I get it," Hogan responded huskily. "Sounds like I just got some."

Kinch nodded, smiling just a bit, and turned to open the door. He could hear Colonel Hogan following right on his heels as he left the small office.

ooOoo

Author's Note: You can see a guy who looks rather like my description of McIntosh playing accordion as part of the backup band for LeBeau's song in "Praise the Fuhrer and Pass the Ammunition," though he's probably a bit taller than I describe him.