As Hogan and his team trudged wearily back into the radio room, Luck, Smoot, Toft, and Burgin got up from their bunks, where they'd been sitting, to help the team pull off their heavy packs.
"What did they send do, send the whole commissary to you?" Smoot grunted as he lifted the pack off LeBeau enough for the Frenchman to slip his arms more easily out of the straps.
LeBeau let out a small groan of relief. "It has to last a good while," he answered, massaging his aching shoulders.
"They got off all right, I take it," Luck asked, giving Hogan's pack the same boost while Burgin helped Carter, and Toft helped Newkirk, who turned and helped Kinch.
"Yeah. They should be reaching the channel in another hour if everything goes well. The pilot said he'd had a smooth ride over; we'll hope for the best on their way back," Hogan replied bleakly.
No one said the thought uppermost in all of their minds: the moonlit night, its visibility so perfect for flying, would not be wasted by the RAF in its regular bombing raids, and Nazi anti-aircraft guns and fighters would be lying in wait for those bombers. Perhaps the Lysander's night camouflage would protect it; they could only hope so.
Luck simply nodded, then he dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out Ted's dog tags. Handing them to Hogan, he said, "You'll want to hold onto these." Hogan nodded, fingering them gently before slipping them into his trouser pocket.
Luck, Smoot, Toft, and Burgin were ready to turn in by the time Hogan and his men had stowed the supplies, cleaned off their faces, and changed back into their uniforms. Hogan carefully tucked Ted's dog tags into his own uniform shirt pocket before shrugging on his jacket. He'd have to find a place down here to keep them—it wouldn't do to have them up in the barracks where the guards might find them. But for now, just for tonight, he wanted them safely at hand, where he could touch them, feel their weight. A touch of superstition, perhaps, but somehow it helped ease his heart just a tad, having them so close. As he had the night before, Kinch blew out all the oil lights but left on the electric lamp over the radio.
Hogan turned to his crew and gestured to the ladder. "You fellas go on up and get to bed."
"What about you, Colonel?" Carter asked, his forehead creased.
Hogan glanced over at the radio. "I'll stay down here, monitor the radio till London gives us the word they got back."
Kinch put his hands in his pockets and slouched against the support brace by the radio table. "Uh, Colonel, that's my job, you know."
Hogan smiled briefly back at him. "I know. But I can tell I'm not going to sleep, so I figured I'd keep an eye out down here. Better than pacing my quarters in the dark. You fellas go on up, get some shuteye. You've earned it."
Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter looked at each other, and Kinch waved them to the ladder. But after they'd climbed up, Kinch lingered below, then pulled the trap door closed. Hogan lifted his brows in surprise.
"I'm not going to sleep either, so I may as well keep you company," Kinch replied to the unspoken question with a casual shrug of his right shoulder.
Hogan regarded him for a moment, then shrugged back. "We can both take naps tomorrow, I guess." He settled himself down on the bunk by the radio, leaning back against the tunnel wall and drawing his legs up, to rest his arms on his knees. When Kinch started to sit down on the stool at the radio table that he normally occupied, Hogan patted the bunk next to him instead. "It's going to be a long wait. Might as well make ourselves as comfortable as we can."
Kinch dropped down beside him, leaning back and stretching his legs out. They sat for a minute or so in silence.
"So," Hogan drawled softly. "I hear you have a sister."
Kinch cut his glance sideways, seeing an inquisitive look on the Colonel's face. He stroked his mustache. "Yeah, I do," he answered with a slight grin. "Would you like to hear about her?"
"Yeah," Hogan answered back affably, "I would."
Through the dark hours the two men sat there in the small circle of light, talking softly of family and pre-war times, waiting in hope for London to call with the good news that Seven League Boots had made it home.
The End
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed this story. While I had it fully drafted when I posted it, I've revised and expanded it, often based on comments from readers. So it owes its final form to the many generous suggestions and ideas you readers have posted, and I am grateful for all the enthusiasm you've expressed for my admittedly radical premise.