First of all, sorry I didn't post last week; I went to Comic Con, and got distracted by other stuff when I finally got home.
Second, this one might be a little crack, depending on your definition, but it was such a fun idea that I couldn't resist. Sorry if I didn't characterize Klink and/or Schultz right; I haven't really tried them before.
With a blissful sigh, Colonel Klink settled in his office chair to do paperwork.
Yes, it sounds odd for him to be happy about performing such a menial task, but think about it: if he had time to do paperwork, it meant that no mischief was occurring in his camp, and he would have a bit of peace. Also, if Klink got his paperwork done, Berlin would have no reason to be especially displeased with him, meaning less need to do things like send the Gestapo to investigate him, or have General Burkhalter breathe down his neck-essentially, the Kommandant was in heaven.
It was unbelievable how much paperwork could arise from such a successful camp; never any need to fill out forms explaining how prisoners had escaped, or riots had broken out-granted, there were incidents like the Tiger tank that had broken out of the rec hall, or more recent ones like that hole in the roof of Barracks 2 (Klink had finally been able to spare some lumber for it, after Hogan complained that rendering a place unsuitable for prisoners to live with reasonable comfort was in violation of the Geneva Convention, because it was 'inhumane treatment')-but on the whole, he thought things were nice and quiet here as they waited out the war-
The sound of feet outside his far office window jolted Klink out of his peaceful mindset.
No. Tell me there's not an escape attempt-
If there was, wouldn't there be shouting?
A shudder of fear went through him.
Maybe it's another assassination attempt. Someone wants to kill me!
But, if he was truly honest with himself...Klink knew he wasn't important enough for anyone to want to kill. Except maybe Burkhalter when he was utterly exasperated with him. But even then, he wouldn't waste money on an assassin, he'd just order a guard to shoot him, or cut out the middleman and do the job himself. He tried not to think about how truly pathetic that made him.
Instead, quietly picking up his heaviest paperweight (just in case), he crept across the office, crouched down slightly as he did, until he was able to peek out the window.
Nobody was there.
Just as Klink was starting to straighten up, feeling very foolish (while at the same time wondering if he'd started hallucinating), he heard a muffled noise from just below the window. Raising the paperweight again and trying to consider how much force he'd need to use it if the worst should occur, he craned his neck-and saw a figure curled up on the ground just below him.
After a moment of searching his memory, he identified him as Sergeant Carter. The awkward one. He was huddled up, one gloved hand crammed into his mouth, still making that muffled noise. It took Klink another moment to realize that he was giggling. Sitting and making a soft, snorty giggling sound, but trying to be quiet about it.
What on earth-?
And, naturally, he was about to demand what was going on, when both Kommandant and prisoner jumped about a foot at the enraged bellow of "CARTER!" that came ringing from the barracks.
Klink rushed to the window overlooking that side of camp, in time to see Corporal Newkirk come running out of Barracks Two towards Klink's office. Oddly enough, he was barefoot...and there seemed to be something wrong with his toes…
Carter realized that Newkirk knew where he was, and was coming to get him.
Shoot.
He didn't wait for Newkirk to catch him, of course; he jumped up and took off running just before the Englander rounded the corner. Not fast enough for Newkirk to avoid seeing him, though; he heard the racing of footsteps (and the occasional curse as Newkirk stepped on a sharp rock or a thorn) behind him, and increased in speed.
Moving at the speed of terror (which in many circumstances is infinitely faster than the speed of light could ever hope to be), Carter flew across the camp, looking frantically for a good defensive position. He found one.
Sergeant Schultz was minding his own business, patrolling near the gates, keeping a watch on the prisoners and prepared to threaten them with his (empty) rifle if any of them tried to get out that way. He was not prepared, however, for Carter to come running and duck behind him.
"What-what-what-" he started to splutter.
"Sorry about this, Schultz, I just need to borrow you for a bit-"
"I can see you, Carter!" Newkirk bellowed, dashing towards them. "You can't 'ide from me!"
"I'm not hiding!" Carter called back, "He's my shield!"
As the Englander reached them, he lunged at Carter, who immediately circled around to the other side of Schultz. It gave the old guard a moment to see what the problem was. Newkirk's toenails...he had to stifle a bubble of laughter that was welling up…
His toenails were bright green, with a little pink heart in the center of each one.
With an angry growl, Newkirk chased Carter around the other way; Carter dodged his grasp with a frightened squeak. This routine went on for about ten more seconds, before Newkirk finally anticipated where the younger man would dodge next, and quickly closed a hand around his wrist, starting to drag him out from behind Schultz. The glint in his eyes filled Carter with a primal terror, and he prepared himself for inevitable destruction-
"What's going on over here?!"
Hogan, followed by Kinch and Lebeau, jogged over, the colonel with hands on his hips like a father who'd come home to find his children fighting. Carter took the opportunity to slip out of Newkirk's grasp and dodged back behind his shield.
Newkirk straightened up, cursing softly as he stubbed his toe on another rock, and said, "Colonel, I demand a court martial for Sergeant Andrew J. Carter!"
Hogan raised his eyebrows. "On what charge?"
"...Defacing a junior officer!"
All three POWs looked down at their fellow's elegantly painted toenails. All three faces scrunched up as they began fighting not to laugh. Newkirk was not amused.
Finally, Hogan got a bit of a grip on himself.
"Newkirk-" he snorted, and had to start again- "Newkirk, I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure this wouldn't be considered serious enough for a court martial."
"It-what-you-" Newkirk spluttered angrily for several seconds, gesturing at Carter, fingers twisted into claws. Carter shrank as far behind Schultz as he could, looking like a frightened child, in accordance with Hogan's role as the parent.
"Carter, what was the meaning of this behavior?" Hogan asked, peering over Schultz's shoulder at him.
"You said those guys needed a diversion, and to use our imaginations," Carter whispered. "And he was napping with his socks off, and Hilda had some polish handy, and...it just came to me."
Everyone stared at him in some surprise (including Schultz, who of course had no clue what they were talking about, and wanted to know even less).
Yes, they'd needed to give the three members of the Underground they were sheltering at the moment a chance to slip away with the information they were smuggling. But Hogan had been coming up with a plan of his own, and had been about to put it into action when this whole fracas started.
"...How do you know they'd know what to do? They might still be in the tunnel."
"No, I told them to head out when they heard Newkirk yelling my name. They should be gone by now." He gave Hogan a timid smile. "Sorry I didn't say something, but I figured it'd be more realistic if he was really angry."
Hogan glaced at Lebeau. "Lebeau, go and check just in case."
"Oui, mon colonel." The little Frenchman ran back to the barracks.
"Tu-tu-tunnel?!" Schultz leaned over slightly, eyes bulging. "Colonel Ho-gan, please, you are not supposed to be digging tunnels! You are not supposed to be smuggling people out of camp-"
"Don't worry, Schultz, they're not our people." Hogan placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, patted it slightly. "It's just some nice German civilians we're smuggling out of the country-"
He smirked as Schultz slapped his hands over his ears, nearly smacking himself with his own rifle.
"I know NOTHING!" he bellowed.
Perfect timing, of course, for Klink to come scurrying up.
"What is the meaning of this?!" he demanded. "Hogan, there had better be an amazing explanation-"
He glanced down in surprise at Newkirk's bare feet, and to everyone's surprise he, too, stifled a snicker for a second.
Newkirk growled, and stomped aside until he was sure it would be easy for any of the guard towers to see him.
"Yes, I've got painted toenails!" he bellowed to the world in general, lifting a foot and brandishing it. "Anyone else wanna see?!"
"Just some hijinks among my men, Kommandant," Hogan said smoothly. "Nothing big."
Klink hmphed in annoyance. "You should keep your men under better control. My men would never perform such a juvenile prank on each other."
"Well, it's not their fault," the POW wheedled. "They're probably going stir crazy from such a long period of forced inactivity. Maybe if you opened up the rec hall tonight-"
"No!" The Kommandant looked appalled at his audacity at making such a suggestion. "Just make sure there are no more disturbances today!" And he tucked his stick under his arm, and marched back to his office, looking like an overgrown vulture.
Lebeau reappeared at Hogan's side, saluted, and whispered, "They made it, colonel. On their way to England."
The colonel smiled. "Not bad, Carter."
Carter smiled back, pleased that A) his plan had worked, and B) nobody was mad at him for it.
Well, almost nobody...
As they made their way to the barracks, Newkirk glared at Carter.
"You're still a dead man walking. Remember, I know where you sleep."
Carter glanced around Kinch (who had become his new temporary shield) at him. "I know," he said sheepishly.