Spring gave way to summer; the flowers now in bloom were larger and brighter. The heat grew oppressive, wearing on the bodies and tempers of both prisoners and guards. Kommandant Klink had given up his occasional evening walks along the edge of the woods. Too many mosquitoes, he said.
This came as a relief to Hogan and his crew. Klink's forays outside the wire had become an inconvenience, making their own excursions just a little riskier. Carter had come within moments of detection one night, when the Kommandant came into view just as he was exiting the emergency tunnel; and there had been several occasions when one or other of the men had been forced to lurk behind the bushes for an hour or more, while Klink sat nearby contemplating the moon, or whatever it was he was doing.
"He needs to get his leg over," was Newkirk's opinion. It was an unusually forthright statement, even for him, but although none of the others would have expressed it quite so bluntly, they all agreed the suggestion had merit.
"We could maybe arrange something," suggested LeBeau; but Hogan vetoed the idea at once.
"We're not going into that line of business," he said firmly, and that was that.
The business they did engage in continued to prosper. The operation was well established now, and most missions went pretty well as planned, although sometimes a degree of improvisation was required. Hardly surprising, given the constraints of place and time; well, there was a war on.
The latest instructions from London suggested the next major assignment would be a little less strenuous than usual, as Hogan explained in the briefing. "Some time in the next few days, Klink will have a visit from someone - who, we don't yet know. At some stage, this visitor will find a way to pass a microfilm to us. We then forward it on by the usual delivery service."
The team - the regular team - had crowded into Hogan's office; four of them gathered around the desk, while Newkirk leaned back against the bunk. He was a little more cynical, a little more morose, and a little more war-weary than he had been at the beginning of spring. There had been an incident with a woman, just as Hogan had anticipated. Nobody had any sympathy with him over it.
"What's on the microfilm, Colonel?" asked Carter.
"Top secret, Carter," the colonel replied. "Whatever it is, they're not even telling us. We don't look at it, we just send it on." He spoke quite sharply. Just like everyone else, the continuing sultry weather was getting to him
Carter hunched his shoulders. "I only asked," he muttered.
"How are we going to know who the contact is?" asked LeBeau.
"He'll identify himself," replied Kinch. "The recognition code is Perpignon."
"Oh, that'll be easy to work into the conversation," remarked Newkirk sourly.
"Well, it's not like we get so many visitors here," said Carter. "So I guess whoever it is, it won't be that hard to pick him out."
Fate decided to mess around with them. That day saw the visit of a medical team doing routine checks on the general health of the prisoners; the Kommandant of Stalag 4, passing through on his way to Düsseldorf; one of General Burkhalter's aides, who delivered a new code book; and Major Hochstetter of the Gestapo. In the following days the camp received a Red Cross delegation on an inspection tour; the commanding officer of the 3rd Panzer Division, with his subaltern; Hochstetter again, twice; General Burkhalter himself, accompanied by his sister Gertrude; and the Kommandant of Stalag 4 on his way back from Düsseldorf. And that wasn't counting couriers, delivery trucks and the regular garbage collection.
"We should set up a pie wagon in the middle of the compound," observed Newkirk irritably, as they waited in the barracks for lights out. "We'd make a bloody fortune. It's like Hyde Park Corner out there. And we've got another bleedin' general tomorrow, Schultz says. Some SS big shot - General Staremberg, I think he said. Never heard of the bloke."
"Yes, you have."
The reply came from Kinch, in a voice which caused every man in the barracks to fall silent, and turn to look at him. The expression on his face was so cold, so utterly bleak, that Carter involuntarily retreated a few steps. Nobody dared say a word.
"Kinch?" It was Hogan who finally broke the silence. He'd never seen his right-hand man looking like this.
Kinch looked up at him, then turned his gaze towards Newkirk. "Mahndorf," he said, very softly. Newkirk stared at him, his own expression slowly changing from incomprehension to disbelief.
"That was him?" whispered LeBeau.
Kinch didn't respond. Without a word, he got up and went to the bunk which stood over the tunnel.
The hush continued for a few moments after the entrance had closed behind him. Some of the men were exchanging bewildered glances; others - the ones who had been here longest - obviously knew what the reference meant. Carter was clearly perplexed, but LeBeau looked as if he had been suddenly taken ill, while Newkirk was breathing deeply, his gaze fixed on the tabletop and his eyebrows drawn together. Hogan looked from one to the other.
"Would someone like to explain?" he asked.
Newkirk and LeBeau glanced at each other. "Before your time, Colonel," said Newkirk slowly. His voice was very low, but nobody had any difficulty hearing him. "It was not long after Kinch first got here. We heard about it from a couple of blokes transferred in from Stalag 8. They'd had a mass escape, a few weeks before. Nine of them were recaptured near Mahndorf, by an SS patrol."
He stopped short, and looked at LeBeau again. The Frenchman shook his head."Je peux pas," he muttered, and pressed his lips together. He wasn't sick; he simply couldn't trust himself to speak. Newkirk drew another full breath before he continued.
"Five of them were sent back to Stalag 8. The SS shot the other four." He paused for a moment, then added, "The four they shot were black."
A choking gasp came from Carter. It was the only sound in the barracks.
"Staremberg?" said Hogan at last.
Newkirk spread his hands. "I never heard the name, but I know Kinch got as much information about it as he could. If he says Staremberg's the one that ordered it..."
"And how come this is the first I've heard of it?" There was a dangerous glint in Hogan's eyes.
Newkirk looked away, and shook his head. After a few seconds, Hogan answered the question himself. "No official report. No records. No evidence. Right?"
"Only hearsay. And at the time, we had no way to get the story out." Newkirk glanced up. "By the time we did, the prisoners from Stalag 8 had been moved on, so we couldn't follow it up."
"But you believe it happened."
"Mon Colonel, one of the men who was there told us about it," said LeBeau. "If you'd heard him...There can be no doubt. It happened, just as he said."
"Did Schultz mention what Staremberg is coming here for?" asked Hogan, after a moment.
"Courtesy visit. The SS are running a training exercise, just the other side of Meilenheim. As it's in Klink's area, he gets an official visit to notify him of it." Newkirk's expression hardened, his eyes narrower and his jaw firm. "Any chance we could take care of him, while he's here?"
Hogan didn't reply directly. "I better go talk to Kinch," he said quietly, and headed for the tunnel.
He found Kinch by the radio, his elbows resting on the table, hands supporting his forehead, as if he had a headache that wouldn't go away. Hogan didn't speak, but leaned against one of the roof supports, waiting.
Eventually, Kinch sighed. "All the shit we put up with," he said wearily. "The way they look at us, the way they talk to us, all of it. You get over that. No, you don't get over it, but you get used to it. You let it go, because you can't fight it out every minute of every day. But something like this..."
"Yeah. I know."
"I don't think you do, Colonel. You have to live with it to get it." Kinch was silent for a moment. "Sorry. I know how lucky I am - all of us - to be here, with you in charge. Even with Klink as Kommandant. You know, for all he's what he is, one thing you have to give him credit for. He's never treated anyone as if they were second-class."
"A monster, but an impartial one." Hogan came over to lean on the desk. "What do we know about Staremberg?"
"Not a lot. Career military, transferred to the SS in 1938. He's come up the ranks pretty fast. Has an interest in eugenics; he's written discussion papers on the subject. I've never read them, but I hear his main arguments are in favour of forced sterilisation of non-Aryans, and of drowning children of mixed marriages at birth."
"Nice." Hogan's expression didn't change, but Kinch knew him well enough to be aware of the cold fury below the surface.
"Colonel, we know about Mahndorf," Kinch went on. "But we don't know - and there's no way to find out - if it was a one-off."
"Get on to London," replied Hogan, after some thought. "Give them the story, and request authorisation to deal with Staremberg while he's here."
"They won't give it." Kinch spoke in a tired, resigned voice. "The microfilm delivery will have priority. They won't let us take any chances on fouling that up."
"Ask anyway. At least that way they'll know he's in the area." Hogan straightened up. If Kinch's expression was grim, the colonel's came close to matching it. "And if they don't give us the go-ahead, we'll figure something out. One way or another, we're putting the bastard out of business."