Author's notes: This chapter is a bit shorter than the others; I had originally intended to include a flashback of the operation's first field mission, but I soon realized that it would be much more powerful as a separate fic. Newkirk's impersonation in this chapter was inspired by episode 113, "Up in Klink's Room," and LeBeau's claustrophobia was first addressed in episode 14, "Oil for the Lamps of Hogan."

Carter stayed true to his words, even though the wheedling voice in his head kept insisting that this was wrong. Pretending to be deep in thought, he paced the area beside the bunk that concealed the trapdoor. The cover story would be that Newkirk was just moping in the tunnels again, like he had been the previous day. Hopefully, Hogan would not choose the next ten minutes to hold a pep talk for the Englishman.

Newkirk set to work warming up the radio. He cleared his throat before talking, taking a deep breath. There would be too many questions if his voice was heard; he would have to imitate Hogan's voice as best as he could.

"Papa Bear to Briar Rose," he said, deepening his voice. "Papa Bear to Briar Rose, do you read me?"

"Reading you loud and clear, Papa Bear," a voice answered.

"Papa Bear requesting status of the eight bowls of porridge at Stalag 6, plus one—imported from France," Newkirk said. "Any and all news about them requested, but do not, repeat, do not put yourself at any risk."

"Affirmative, Papa Bear," the voice replied. "Will attempt to find out everything we can about them, and will report findings to you by tonight."

Newkirk flinched. That wouldn't work; if Kinch or Baker—or worse, Hogan—happened to be at the radio when Briar Rose reported in, the Englishman would never hear the end of it.

"Negative, Briar Rose," he said. "It's too risky at this end; I'll get in touch with you again when I'm ready to receive the information—tonight or tomorrow morning, most likely."

There was a pause.

"Affirmative, Papa Bear."

Newkirk finally let out a sigh of relief. Part one of the plan was over, and had worked. Hopefully part two would give him the information he would want to hear—that LeBeau was alright.

"Thank you, Briar Rose. Over and out."

Newkirk shut the radio off, sidling over to where the other wine bottles had been kept. He poured and drank one drink to make it look a bit authentic, and proceeded to climb up through the bunk bed trapdoor, holding onto the bottle.

Carter gave him a glance, the relief evident on his face.

"Don't ever make me do this again," he pleaded.

"Just once more so that I can get a reply from them," Newkirk promised. "That won't be for a while; you can relax until then."

"You know what I mean," Carter said. "Going against the colonel's orders--"

The young sergeant fell silent as Hogan himself entered the barracks. The colonel glanced at them both, his officer's sixth sense telling him that something was amiss. Glancing at the bottle in Newkirk's hand, his first thought was the wine being the cause of whatever problem there was.

"Newkirk, I think you've had enough of that," he said.

"Yes, Sir," the Englishman replied, placing the bottle aside. He gave a look to Carter, trying to tell him that everything would be alright.

The sergeant was not convinced; as far as he was concerned, he had just helped Newkirk dig himself into a hole—one that could only get deeper.

"Carter?" Hogan asked.

"Sir!" he replied, snapping to attention.

"At ease…" Hogan said, his eyebrows arching slightly. Carter only acted like this when something was bothering him. Hogan initially assumed that he was worried for LeBeau, but there seemed to be more to it than that. "I just wanted you to keep track of Klink's incoming and outgoing calls; let me know if any of them involve Burkhalter."

"Sure, but… why Burkhalter?" Carter asked.

"I highly doubt that Klink is going to tell him about the transfer—I might be able to use that to my advantage somehow," the colonel replied.

"You mean… get Burkhalter to insist on Louis coming back?" Newkirk asked.

"No; I gave LeBeau my word that he didn't have to come back here if he didn't want to. And he chose to escape. But Burkhalter can put the bite on Mullenberg long enough to distract him from what LeBeau is up to. LeBeau and those eight fliers can use that time to make their escape."

"Does it 'ave to be Burkhalter, Sir?" Newkirk asked. "If Carter puts on that General von Siedelberg disguise again, it'll give us a little insurance policy on the escape. We can't depend on Burkhalter."

Carter stared at Newkirk, his expression unreadable.

"We're going to have to try and see how things go with Burkhalter first," said Hogan. "I already told you that there's too much of a risk if we get personally involved."

"But it's also more likely to work if we're involved," Newkirk muttered under his breath.

Hogan didn't hear him—not that Newkirk had intended him to.

"Keep your ears open," Hogan said to Carter. "Use the recorder if you think the call is important enough. I'll be inserting the idea into Schultz's head, in the meantime."

"Right, Sir," said Carter, saluting again as Hogan moved to go out the door.

"Carter, you're going to give us away," Newkirk said, after Hogan had left. "Stop being so conspicuous!"

"Give us away?" Carter asked. "You hold on for just a second! I was against this idea from the start!"

"That well may be, but now you're in the thick of it with me, aren't you?"

"Well, if that's the case, then I'm getting out of it—and staying out of it! Good night!"

"…It's ten in the morning, Andrew."

"And that's beside the point!"

"Right," Newkirk said, pretending to throw in the towel. "I shouldn't force you to go against the colonel's orders—in spite of whatever they do to Louis."

"Do you have to make this so difficult?" Carter asked, a pained expression on his face.

"Yeah, I do," Newkirk replied, as though he was stating the obvious. "But I'm thinking about someone else, mind you. I wouldn't be going against Colonel Hogan's orders solely for me own benefit. I'm trying to right the wrongs that I made and get our Louis out of there."

"The cause is a great one," Carter agreed. "I'm just not sold on the means."

"Well, of course, you wouldn't be," Newkirk said, with a wave of his hand. "You toe the line and do as you're told. You're not as rebellious as I am. And given your knowledge of demolitions, I reckon we should all be grateful for that."

"Yeah, and speaking of following orders, I'd better go to that coffeepot and listen in on Klink." Carter headed towards Hogan's office, but paused. "You know, you just said that you weren't surprised that I didn't like your idea."

"So?"

"Do you think Louis would go for you disobeying the colonel—for his sake, too? He wouldn't care for it, if you ask me; he always believes in the colonel. What do you think he'd say to you?"

Without waiting for a reply, Carter headed inside to office.

"Cor, thanks a lot!" Newkirk yelled after him, as he recalled the times that LeBeau had convinced him to follow Hogan's orders—particularly on their early missions. "You 'ad to go and say that, didn't you?"

Carter stuck his head out of the office door, unable to hide his smile.

"Yeah, I did," he said, using the same stating-the-obvious tone of voice that Newkirk had used earlier.

"Go listen to your ruddy coffeepot."

Carter retreated inside, leaving the Englishman to ponder over what he had said.

You can't second-guess yourself now; you have to do this for Louis—whether he likes it or not, he rationalized. And you can't depend on anyone else getting him out of here.

He wanted LeBeau to return to Stalag 13, but, as Hogan had mentioned, the Frenchman had already made his choice. Newkirk couldn't blame him, of course; given the opportunity, he would've been out of here in a heartbeat, embracing sweet freedom. When the emergency tunnel had first been completed, Newkirk had contemplated escape many times; only his loyalty had kept him from disobeying Hogan's orders about no escapes, in spite of however close he had come to making a clean break.

And it was not easily for Newkirk to ignore his loyalties and go against Hogan's orders this time, but the Englishman's motivation was from another source. After all, worse than the idea of betraying Colonel Hogan's trust was the haunting image of the French corporal lying in a coffin.

Major Vulsor hovered around the outer office as Mullenberg called Colonel Backsheider. Based on the tone of Mullenberg's voice, Backsheider didn't mind fulfilling the Kommandant's request. It turned out that Backsheider had been trying to have the serum replicated from the formula in the case file; success had been limited, but he was willing to send a sample of their work in the hopes that Vulsor himself could tell them what adjustments had to be made. It would arrive tomorrow by special courier.

Oblivious to the impending danger, LeBeau was communicating with the other prisoners in the cooler by Morse code; he was able to send and receive messages from the prisoner in the next cell. It was a risky move; there was every chance that the guards would catch on, and LeBeau was keeping an eye out for passing shadows blocking the small sliver of light that shone under the door—the telltale presence of a guard outside. He had instructed the prisoner to look out for the same thing.

"How do we know that we can trust you? You could be a plant," the prisoner relayed.

"Major Vulsor will vouch for me, if you can get in touch with him. I am Corporal Louis LeBeau of Stalag Thirteen."

"A Frenchman?"

"I can give you the words to 'La Marseillaise,' if it will convince you." The eyeroll could easily be pictured in the way that LeBeau sent out the message.

"Don't bother." The prisoner seemed to be rolling his eyes, as well.

LeBeau paused, searching for a way to let the man know that he could be trusted. It was a risk he had to take. Briefly pressing his ear to the door to make sure that no one was coming, he proceeded to quickly send out another message.

"I am here to act on the behalf of someone who can help you—someone who was trying to help you before Hochstetter stopped you. In my language, we would call this person Père Ours."

The prisoner didn't reply; perhaps he didn't know French. If that was the case, then LeBeau was stymied; he was not going to risk tapping out "Papa Bear" in English.

There was the very faint sound of tapping; the prisoner was talking to another prisoner. The corporal waited with baited breath until he finally received a reply.

"I got a translation. We will trust you."

"Good," LeBeau responded. "How much does Hochstetter know?"

"Assuming that the others are telling the truth, he does not know any more than the fact that we were heading towards Stalag Thirteen. His interrogation methods are only going to get worse; is there any way you can get us out of here before he comes back?"

"I cannot make any promises," LeBeau replied. "But I shall try."

"Good. What is your plan for ditching this cage?"

"I am still working on that. I have a pair of sleeping pills to slip to Mullenberg on the night we make our move, but it shall have to wait until he lowers his guard enough."

LeBeau felt for the pills under his collar, and blinked as he felt more than just two pills. He instantly knew who was behind this.

"Oh, Pierre…" he muttered. He wasn't upset with the Englishman for this; he must've done this with the best of intentions.

"That will work to keep Mullenberg out of our hair until we are clean away," the prisoner agreed. "But how do we get past the guards? Is there any chance that you were outfitted with a weapon before you came here?"

"No, but I have limited access to a chef's knife. Mullenberg has given me the task of preparing his meals."

"That will not be enough," the prisoner replied.

"Never underestimate anyone short when he holds a chef's knife," LeBeau warned him. "Just give me enough time to think; I will find some way."

More than ever, LeBeau wished for the others to be here. Hogan was an expert at thinking out of the box, and Newkirk's skills at that were very good, too; between the two of them, they could probably come up with a plan involving Carter blowing the cell doors off of their hinges while Kinch kept Mullenberg busy with a fake phone call.

The Frenchman had no such help on this solo mission, other than that of Major Vulsor, whom he was still not ready to fully trust.

"Right, Corporal," the prisoner said. "We will leave it in your hands."

LeBeau's heart began to hammer, and it wasn't due to the enclosed space of the cell he was in. His options for an escape attempt were few, and practically impossible. Sleeping pills and a chef's knife were all but worthless against the guards and their rifles.

Their best bet would be to construct a tunnel. A tunnel presented another set of problems, the main one being that with most of his time being spent in the kitchen, LeBeau would have to trust the other prisoners to construct it without fleeing themselves. Leading eight men was going to be difficult enough; he did not need more to worry about.

And then there was the issue of the time it would take to make the tunnel; the Frenchman didn't want to spend any more time in here than he had to. More than that, the prisoner's worries were not unfounded; Hochstetter would be continuing his interrogation of the eight men. Under the man's cruel methods, they would be able to maintain their silence for only so long.

"D'accord," he mumbled to no one in particular. "I am willing to admit that I might be in over my head this time."

He shut his eyes to stave off the claustrophobia he suffered from, determined to think up something on his own. He would have to confide in the American major; there was no other alternative.

He only hoped that he would not regret this decision.