Author's note: I reference Episode 42 and 43 ("A Tiger Hunt in Paris" parts I and II) in this chapter, and Private Garlotti was a one-time character from Episode 22 ("The Pizza Parlor"). I also reference another in-progress fic for a different fandom; no knowledge of that fic or fandom is required to enjoy this one.

The lunch that was presented to Mullenberg was met with his satisfaction. The Colonel was surprised; he had expected some sort of resistance from the Frenchman. Either he had the Frenchman cowed, which he doubted, or the Corporal was planning something else for another time. It was likely the latter; that was how the prisoners of Stalag 13 had Klink wrapped around their fingers. The fact that LeBeau wasn't acting suspiciously was suspicious in and of itself.

Major Vulsor arrived in the kitchen later that evening to speak to LeBeau just as the chef in the middle of preparing the dinner. As tempting as it would be to serve Hochstetter a meal that would earn a "Bah!" from him, the Corporal knew that there was too much at stake to let his emotions guide him. He was putting the final touches on the meal when Vulsor found him.

"You have a lot on your mind," he observed, noticing the chef's pensive expression.

"I was just wondering what everyone in Stalag 13 is eating now," LeBeau replied. He looked back at the American major. "I assume that your search of my possessions yielded nothing."

Vulsor glanced at him, amused. He shouldn't have been too surprised that the Corporal knew the unwritten POW protocol, especially if what he had heard about Stalag 13 was true.

"There was nothing to suggest that you are working with the Germans," Vulsor admitted. "But I was surprised to see that you had a letter from the late Viscount de Chagny."

"He was family," LeBeau explained, as he began to chop up some herbs. He didn't feel like going into specifics, so he did not elaborate. "You have heard of him?"

"He was responsible for my mother being sentenced to life imprisonment."

LeBeau froze, his hand with the herbs now stationary over the stew pot. His mouth opened, trying to come up with something to say.

"Relax, Corporal; I don't blame you," Vulsor said, sensing the Frenchman's thoughts. "My mother was initially performing her research for good. After anti-venom and pharmaceutical serums became too dull for her, she started a series of undocumented experiments developing other sorts of serums—serums that were deemed unethical, and perhaps dangerous." He shook his head. "When I said that I was carrying on her research, I meant the research for the anti-venoms. I don't condone her illegal practices."

"I must admit, I am surprised that you do not begrudge me, but I am highly grateful," LeBeau replied. Now he knew why he had heard the name of Vulsor in passing. All the same, he wasn't sure if he could trust the major now; this could be just an act.

"I suppose that I am required, by family pride, to consider you as an enemy," Vulsor sighed. "But we are both contending with another enemy—the same enemy." He indicated the window, where the Sergeant of the Guard was patrolling just outside. "And you know how the old saying goes. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.'"

"How profound," the Corporal replied.

Vulsor didn't reply; he glanced out the window and at the sergeant again. The American then turned to face away from the window.

"That sergeant knows how to read lips—in German and in English," he explained to the puzzled LeBeau, lowering his voice. "Corporal, I'm not here to discuss about our feuding families; there's something else I wanted to ask you—about Stalag 13."

"Oui?" LeBeau asked, also facing away from the windows as he finally added the herbs.

"You know that during the last escape, eighteen of my men headed for Stalag 13," Vulsor said. "Tell me, Corporal… Can I cease my worrying for them? Did the ten men who avoided recapture reach London?"

LeBeau glanced back at Vulsor. He wanted to believe that he was truly asking this out of the concern he had for his men; if he or any of his friends had escaped, Hogan would have been just as concerned. Hogan was undoubtedly concerned for the Corporal now. But even if Vulsor was on the level, there still was the chance that the walls had ears that neither of them knew of.

"Pardon, Major," he replied. "I am but a chef. I spend most of my time cooking, and my mind is in the kitchen."

Vulsor understood the Corporal's caution. This man was no fool.

"I see," the American said. "But I have also heard stories of a bear hibernating in Stalag 13." He didn't know exactly who Papa Bear was, but, based on what he had heard, people came to Stalag 13 to make contact with this Papa Bear—and subsequently found their way to freedom soon after. And there were also whispers of other activities that Papa Bear was involved with in order to ruin the German war effort.

"Bears are dangerous animals, Major," LeBeau replied. "That is why many would like to see them dead. But those who know and appreciate bears will die to protect them."

Vulsor blinked. This chef was undoubtedly one of Papa Bear's men, and he was willing to take any and all secrets to the grave, as any loyal man would.

"Just tell me one thing," he said. "Is it because of a bear that you are here?"

LeBeau sighed, thinking of the Englishman. "It's truly because of a fox," he muttered.

Vulsor frowned, trying to work out what the Frenchman meant. However, his train of thought was forced to activate the emergency brake upon hearing the sound of a staff car pulling into the compound. The car was soon followed by a truck, within which were the recaptured prisoners.

"Hochstetter is right on time," Vulsor murmured, peering through the window.

LeBeau cursed in his own tongue again as Hochstetter got out of the car and began to survey the prisoners as they got out of the truck. The guards were quickly ushering them towards the cooler, as the Frenchman had suspected.

Hochstetter let Mullenberg lead him to the dining area in his quarters as the sergeant, who had quickly gone to ensure that the returning prisoners were secure, returned to his station outside the window.

LeBeau sighed as he returned to the garnishing, all the while keeping an ear on the conversation, which was already off to a heated start.

"Did the men talk, Major Hochstetter?" Mullenberg asked.

"No, they did not," Hochstetter replied, scowling. "But I refuse to believe that they were heading to Stalag 13 because of rumors alone; something is going on there, and I will find out what it is."

"I was telling that to Colonel Klink only last evening," Mullenberg mused. "He seems certain that there is nothing going on. Personally, I didn't see any evidence, but if there is, then I must give some credit of intelligence to whoever is behind it."

"I have had my eye on the prime suspects," Hochstetter went on, unaware that one of them was only a few yards away in the kitchen. "It's only a matter of time until they make the blunder that incriminates them. But if I can get these men to talk, I won't have to wait."

Mullenberg decided to say nothing about LeBeau at the moment; he assumed that as a prisoner from Stalag 13, the Frenchman either knew about the operation, or was a part of it. Aside from the fact that Hochstetter would take away his new chef for questioning, Mullenberg had his own ideas of getting information from the Frenchman. If he succeeded, he could present the information to Hochstetter himself; if he was to be the one responsible for dismantling the organization at Stalag 13, a promotion would be practically ensured to him.

"You weren't able to get any information from your spy?" Mullenberg asked.

"Gretel?" Hochstetter sneered. "I had her sent to Paris; Colonel Backsheider will deal with her."

LeBeau's eyes widened. Aside from the fact that he loathed the thought of that witch being in his beloved homeland, he remembered Colonel Backsheider all too well from the time that Hogan and he had rescued Tiger from him. It was a successful mission in more ways than one, for it was also when the Corporal had first crossed paths with Marya. His feelings for her had not faded.

"But why did you send Gretel to Paris in the first place?" Mullenberg asked, pulling LeBeau's thoughts away from the Russian temptress to focus on eavesdropping.

"I had reason to believe that she is working to discredit me; she was apparently reporting… certain activities to General von Siedelberg. She denies this; she claims that the prisoners of Stalag 13 have framed her."

"General von Siedelberg…?" Mullenberg repeated. "The name doesn't sound familiar to me."

"It will soon; he told me a few weeks ago that he's planning to transfer you to the Eastern Front due to the mass escape," Hochstetter replied.

"What!?"

"I am sure that the General must have reconsidered," Hochstetter went on, slightly amused by Mullenberg's discomfiture. "You would have heard by now if you were going anywhere." He, too, was wondering who exactly von Siedelberg was, having only seen the man once. "Colonel Klink apparently knows him; he said that he was most opposed to the idea of transferring prisoners; he blamed the escape on your shifting prisoners around. He is also easily irritated."

LeBeau laughed silently. Neither Mullenberg nor Hochstetter could have known, of course, that "General von Siedelberg" was actually one of Carter's many disguises. Ordinarily, it would have been expected that Hochstetter would have tried to track down this nonexistent general and find out more about him, but between dealing with Gretel and trying to uncover the secrets of Stalag 13, the task had been placed on Hochstetter's back burner. Regardless of the reason, LeBeau was pleased that the young American sergeant had successfully instilled some fear into these two men. Oh, if they only knew…

Mullenberg sat back in his chair, trying to put this general out of his mind. All Klink has to do is mention about the Frenchman's transfer to von Siedelberg, and I will find myself in Russia. Well, with any luck, Klink would forget all about the transferred Corporal. And if I do manage to get some valuable information from him, then all will surely be forgiven!

"What are you smirking about?" Hochstetter sneered, as Mullenberg began savoring the idea of a possible promotion again.

"Nothing, Herr Major," he replied. "Has Backsheider told you anything about Gretel?"

"Not yet; apparently, she is still sticking to her story about the prisoners trying to discredit her," Hochstetter said. "As much as I want to look out for my own interests, I can't help but wonder if she may be right. Those ruffians were probably trying to cover for that Englishman, Corporal Newkirk. She claimed that she got the information by tricking him, and that the other prisoners must have covered their tracks. My own doubts are as to whether or not she was indeed in love with the Englishman. Regardless, she will not be working for me anymore; should Backsheider decide that she was not working with the Englishman after all, she will stay in Paris and remain under his watchful eye."

LeBeau sneered, both at the thought of Gretel remaining in Paris and at the memory of how he had felt when Newkirk had betrayed their trust.

Can you truly blame Pierre for being deceived when you, too, were fooled? the voice in his head asked. When he brought her through the trapdoor, you were the first one to whistle and gawk!

"Corporal!" Mullenberg's voice called. "Corporal, what's taking so long!?"

LeBeau bit his lip, wondering how on earth he was going to answer without the risk of Hochstetter recognizing his voice. Unlike the others, LeBeau was not able speak German or disguise his voice convincingly; as a result, when they impersonated Germans, he rarely spoke. Silently, he turned to Vulsor, his eyes speaking for him again.

"Dinner is just about ready, Kommandant," Vulsor announced.

Hochstetter grumbled. Why do American officers seem to have so much freedom in these POW camps? First Hogan, and now this one…

"Merci," LeBeau whispered to Vulsor, readying two servings of the appetizer.

Major Vulsor quickly spoke to the sergeant outside the window to send one of his men to serve the dinner. Within minutes, a young private arrived to serve the meal to Mullenberg and Hochstetter. Mullenberg didn't protest to this; he had his own reasons for ensuring that LeBeau went unseen.

"I had better get back to the barracks," sighed Vulsor. "We'll talk later, Corporal."

"Oui, Major." LeBeau saluted him once more.

Once he had gone, LeBeau sighed, leaning against the wall of the kitchen. It was a narrow escape this time, he realized, but the night wasn't over yet. He had to pray that Hochstetter would not catch a glimpse of him in some other way.

Most of Carter's attempts at cooking that day went no better than the ratatouille that morning. Even though he had decided to abandon French dishes after the morning's fiasco, the only remotely edible dish he presented was fried potatoes—something that the mess hall would have provided them with, anyway.

"I can try again tomorrow, Colonel," he offered. "If I just had a good recipe to follow, I could try the ratatouille again."

Hogan sportingly took a bite of the potatoes—and had to enlist the full power of his jaw muscles in order to chew.

"Carter, don't take this the wrong way, but I recommend that you stick with demolitions."

"Yes, Sir," Carter said, good-naturedly. "You know, Private Garlotti might be a better choice for replacement cook than I am."

The young Italian-American shrugged. His father was the one who owned a pizzeria in Newark, but he agreed to try his luck the next day.

"Alright, but tonight, break out the K-rations," Hogan said. He then turned to Sergeant Olsen. "Olsen, I need to talk to you."

"Sir?" the outside man asked.

"With LeBeau going out of the picture, we're going to need another member for the core team," Hogan began. "I'll need you to step up and take on some of his duties when we go out on our missions--"

"LeBeau ain't out of the picture yet, Sir!" Newkirk snapped from his bunk, adding the "Sir" only as an afterthought.

Hogan sighed to himself. He had expected this reaction from the Englishman.

"Newkirk, he's not trying to replace LeBeau," said Kinch. "He knows as well as the rest of us that LeBeau is irreplaceable. Try to understand his position; if we're going to continue with our operations, we can't afford to have the gap left by LeBeau's absence."

Newkirk opened his mouth to reply, but decided against it. He rolled back over on his bunk, facing away from everyone. He had no right to yell at them. The words kept replaying in his head: if it hadn't been for you, this wouldn't have been an issue!

Carter looked up at the corporal, sympathetically. He walked over to the bunk.

"You want some K-rations?" he offered.

"Not 'ungry."

"I'll leave some for you in case you change your mind."

Newkirk merely grunted in reply. The sleepless night he had spent yesterday was now catching up to him. He was only vaguely aware of Carter continuing to talk to him, and the American's voice was growing more and more distant as Newkirk slipped into slumber. It was still not a relief to the Englishman's troubled mind.

"You know, Louis is always going to be a member of the team, even when he's back home," Carter was saying. "Hey, he might even end up being one of our contacts on a mission someday; you never know…" The sergeant trailed off as he realized Newkirk had fallen asleep.

Hogan checked his watch; because they had been waiting for the results of Carter's final cooking experiment, they were eating rather late. Schultz would be coming around to order the lights out in about twenty minutes, assuming that he wasn't too upset with LeBeau's departure to bother with it tonight.

The colonel took one more look at Newkirk as Carter pulled the blanket up to the sleeping corporal's shoulders. He had a suspicion that the Englishman's morale for future missions might be next to nothing.

Newkirk, you're as important to this operation as LeBeau was. Don't make me lose two men instead of one.

Newkirk was running, guided by the moonlight. He had taken the motorcycle from the motor pool and had driven for hours until he had neared the area where Stalag 6 was. When he deemed that he had been close enough, he had hidden the motorcycle and had taken off on foot.

He gave a yelp as he realized that people were running in his direction—Allied fliers. Despite himself, Newkirk grinned; LeBeau must've led them to freedom already. He paused, trying to see if his friend was among the fleeing men, but he couldn't see the short Frenchman anywhere.

He's probably covering their escape, he realized. He headed again towards Stalag 6, following the sounds of sirens, carefully avoiding the dogs and guards.

At last, the barbed wire of Stalag 6 was in view. His heart hammered in his chest as he scanned the area, but his face split into a grin as he finally spotted the small, running figure, barely illuminated by the moonlight as he headed for the hole in the barbed wire.

Well done, Louis; you did a smashing job! Newkirk thought, as he headed towards the wire from the other end.

LeBeau was still nearing the hole in the wire as Newkirk finally made it. But movement in the shadows of one of the buildings diverted the Englishman's attention. A figure was stepping out into the open, its face still hidden from the building's shadow. But the moonlight falling on the figure's all-too-familiar uniform quickly betrayed who it was.

"Hochstetter!" Newkirk snarled. But his anger turned to horror as the moonlight glinted off of the gun in the major's hand. "Louis! Look out!"

His warning came too late, drowned out by two shots. LeBeau cried out in pain and fell forward, landing face-first on the snowy ground, just inches from freedom.

"Louis!" Newkirk cried, now entering through the hole, not caring if Hochstetter got him, too. "LOUIS!" His heart skipped a beat, relieved as he realized that LeBeau was still breathing—albeit in pained gasps. "Louis!?" he whispered, as he knelt by his friend.

"Non, Pierre…!" LeBeau gasped. "Arrêt…!"

Newkirk blinked, thinking that LeBeau didn't want to be moved because of the pain.

Footsteps made the Englishman look up; Hochstetter was approaching the two of them. But as Newkirk looked into the face of the man in the major's uniform, his jaw dropped in utter horror, and it took all of his will not to scream.

The major's face wasn't Hochstetter's; it was Newkirk's own face, sneering down at the injured LeBeau and at his horrified counterpart. The gun was still in his hand.

Newkirk was staring at his double with such horror that it took him a long time to notice that there was another set of footsteps approaching them, as well. Looking at the new arrival, his blood ran even colder. It was Gretel.

Newkirk's attention quickly turned back to his doppelganger as he took one more step towards them. With a swift movement, he placed the tip of his boot under LeBeau, and kicked to turn him over on his back.

"Stop!" the Newkirk on the ground exclaimed, as LeBeau cried out in pain. He quickly began to cradle the wounded corporal.

The Frenchman wasn't even noticing the Newkirk holding him; he was staring, pleadingly, at the cruel Newkirk glaring at him.

"Pierre…" he rasped, overcome with physical and emotional pain. "Pierre, non…! Wake up, Pierre…!" Despair filled his eyes. "Oh, pourquoi, Pierre…?"

The Newkirk holding him could only continue to stare in horror as the standing Newkirk silently lifted the weapon again, aiming it—and his cruel glare—at LeBeau.

"Pierre…" LeBeau whispered, a single tear falling from one of his eyes.

The cruel Newkirk's lips curled into a satisfied smirk.

"NO!" the Newkirk on the ground cried.

He reached up with his arm, trying to throw off his doppelganger's aim, but, again, he was too late. LeBeau could only manage half a gasp as he was struck again by the third shot. His eyes closed soon after.

"Louis!?" the horrified Newkirk gasped, his voice cracking.

He glanced back at his doppelganger, who merely placed the weapon back in his pocket. He then turned to Gretel and kissed her, and the two walked away from the scene with their arms around each other.

The left-behind Newkirk desperately fought back against the cry welling in his throat as he still cradled the lifeless LeBeau. But as Newkirk stared into the ashen face of the other corporal, he could not hold back any more; his friend's name tore from his lips again.

Back in Stalag 13, Peter Newkirk awoke, sitting bolt upright in his bunk as he gasped for breath, the nightmare's visions still vivid in his mind. Outside Barracks Two, the winter wind howled, but that did not stop the sweat from pouring down the Englishman's face.