General Staremberg arrived promptly at three o'clock. Klink would willingly have locked himself in the cooler and swallowed the key, rather than receive the man, but it was never a good idea to offend a high-ranking officer of that particular branch of the service. So the Kommandant polished his monocle, resurrected his most obsequious smile, and went out to greet his visitor.
Staremberg was around Klink's age, but looked younger; a stocky, athletic-looking man. He seemed civil enough, for an SS general. At least he didn't respond to Klink's effusive burblings with the insulting behaviour one came to expect from such men. He gazed around the compound with an expression of interest, or possibly of possessive anticipation; it was hard to tell.
"You appear to have quite a good set-up here, Klink," he remarked, once they were in the office. "Very well laid out, very efficiently organised."
"Thank you, Herr General." He knew he would hate himself for it later, but Klink couldn't help preening himself a little. He poured a glass of Schnapps for his guest. "You know, there has never been a successful escape..."
"So I've heard. An enviable record. You are to be commended."
Maybe he's not so bad, after all, thought Klink. Or maybe, when he sees exactly how well this camp is run, he'll leave us alone.
Hard on the heels of this thought came another. If Staremberg did take over, he'd still need an experienced Kommandant. Perhaps they could come to some agreement...
"Would you care for a tour of inspection, General?" he suggested. That would show him.
The general accepted the offer with apparent pleasure.
It was only natural that the first point of call would be one of the barracks, and Klink knew exactly which one would be most suitable. There were never any problems with the prisoners in Barracks 6; they were on the whole well-behaved. And none of them were...well, they all looked right. There was nobody there whose skin colour might attract adverse attention. There would be none of that kind of unpleasantness. Barracks 6 would be perfect.
Unfortunately, to reach Barracks 6, they had to pass Barracks 2. And of course Hogan just happened to be loitering outside the door, together with that aggravating Engländer and the little cockroach LeBeau.
"These are some of your prisoners, Klink?" asked Staremberg, regarding LeBeau with an expression of distaste.
"Yes, Herr General. This is Colonel Hogan, senior prisoner-of-war officer," muttered Klink. "Hogan, General Staremberg."
"I've heard a lot about you, General," said Hogan. At least he saluted, although he managed to make it look like a personal insult. Newkirk, loafing in the doorway, didn't so much as look up, but LeBeau glared at the general as if he'd welcome the chance to spit on his grave, and was planning to engineer an opportunity to do so as soon as possible.
Staremberg seemed amused rather than put out. "I wonder how that might be, Colonel Hogan," he remarked.
"Oh, you know how it is, when your life is just a meaningless routine." Hogan's voice remained level. "You get interested in any gossip that comes in. Newkirk, wasn't it a couple of guys transferred from another prison camp who told us about the general?"
"Stalag 8, Colonel," replied Newkirk, gazing off towards the delousing station. His tone and manner were deliberately insolent, and Staremberg flicked a glance in his direction.
"That will do, Newkirk," said Klink hastily. "Go about your business. You too, LeBeau." He'd noticed the glowering hostility on the Frenchman's face.
As the two of them, prompted by a subtle nod from Hogan, went on their way, the Kommandant turned back to his guest. "If you'd like to come this way, General, Barracks 6 is just..."
Staremberg interrupted him. "This is your barracks, Hogan?"
"It's not much," drawled Hogan, "but we like to call it home. At least until the escape tunnel is ready. We're just waiting on the decorator. You can't get good tradesmen these days." It was the sort of thing Hogan always said, but there was something unusually jarring in his tone. It was as if he was going out of his way to be offensive.
"Very droll, Hogan," muttered Klink. Then, with a forced laugh, he added, "He's such a joker, General. Escape tunnel, indeed!"
The general ignored him. "I'm most interested in the facilities for housing - shall we say, guests of the Reich?" He paused for a moment, but as Hogan didn't reply, he went on. "I wonder if I might be permitted to inspect...?"
It was politely worded, mildly spoken, and if Hogan refused, this man might well have him shot, regardless of the rules set out by the Geneva Prisoner of War Convention. Still, Hogan took his time thinking it over, before he smiled. "Be my guest," he said.
Klink gestured to Schultz, who was escorting the inspection party, to go in first.
Please, don't let anyone be in there...
"Achtung!" Schultz's voice shattered that hope. With a suppressed sigh, Klink followed the general into the barracks.
The temperature within was at least ten degrees hotter than outside. Klink felt an instant prickly sweat break out of every pore on his body, and it wasn't just because of the heat. There were two men in the barracks. He didn't care about Carter, there was no harm there; but he'd have preferred to keep Sergeant Kinchloe out of the general's way.
Apparently they'd been playing cards; it looked like Carter had the better hand.
Staremberg stood in the centre of the barracks, next to the stove. He surveyed the barracks without comment, taking in the rough construction, the basic fittings, the general air of minimal provision. His gaze fell on Carter, lingered for a moment without interest, then passed on to Kinchloe, who looked back at him with a challenge in his eyes. The general read it, smiled slightly, then turned to Klink.
"Do you have many of these here?" he asked, in a conversational manner.
Schultz's mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened, while Carter turned to Hogan with a startled, disbelieving look. Hogan lifted his head, and his eyes narrowed. But Kinchloe didn't even blink.
"I don't know what you mean, Herr General," muttered Klink. It was the nearest he could approach to uttering the protest which rose to his lips. He didn't exactly like Kinchloe, but he had some respect for the man, and Staremberg's directness shocked him. But he couldn't protest. One just didn't, not against the SS. Especially if there was a chance that keeping on Staremberg's good side might mean staying on at Stalag 13.
Staremberg didn't pursue the question. He gave Kinchloe another condescending look, which was met with silent contempt. It seemed to disconcert him.
"Thank you for your courtesy, Hogan," he said. "I won't take up more of your time."
This time Hogan didn't salute. He watched as Staremberg left the barracks, then turned a long, searching look on Klink, who couldn't meet it, but scuttled after the general, with a reluctant Schultz trailing behind them.
"Klink, your prisoners seem a little above themselves," observed Staremberg, as he walked back across the parade ground. "They need to be reminded of where they are." His manner was harsher than it had been.
"General, I can assure you..." faltered Klink.
Whatever he'd been about to offer in his own defence was destined to remain unsaid. From the road which passed outside the fence came a sudden squeal of brakes applied incautiously, followed by the dull thud of metal hitting some obstruction; then a cry of alarm from the guard tower: "Ein Autounfall! Kommen Sie schnell!"
The sentries at the gate were staring out along the road. "Schultz, go and find out what happened," Klink ordered fretfully. "General, perhaps we should postpone..."
Staremberg paid him no attention. He strode towards the gate, and Klink had no choice but to follow, growling, "Back to your barracks!" at the prisoners who were coming to gawk.
A small car - a Citroën, from the look of it - had apparently missed the bend, and ended up with its front wheels in the ditch which ran along the side of the road. As Staremberg reached the gate, Corporal Langenscheidt, who had got to the car first, was helping the driver out; a woman, not young, but pretty and very elegant. In spite of the circumstances she exited the vehicle quite gracefully, her hand resting on Langenscheidt's arm. Staremberg gave a startled exclamation, and hurried forward.
"My dear Madame Rochaud, I did not expect to see you here. What an unfortunate occurrence! I hope you are not hurt."
"General Staremberg? I must say, I had no idea you were anywhere near here." She was a little breathless but otherwise composed. "I seem to have taken a wrong turn."
She looked up at the barbed wire and guard towers, with a faint, puzzled frown, then turned to Langenscheidt. "This isn't the Hotel Felsbrunnen, is it?" she asked.
"Nein, gnädige Dame," he replied timidly. "Felsbrunnen is on the main road, twenty miles north of here. This is Luftstalag 13."
"I thought it looked a little less welcoming than I expected." She turned back to inspect her vehicle. "Well, that was careless of me. Now what am I supposed to do?"
She glanced back at the general, then her eyes travelled on towards Klink. She gazed at him for a few seconds, before her features softened into a slow smile of recognition. One eyelid dropped fractionally, just for a half-second. Klink's heart, an organ normally immune to outside influence, suddenly quickened its pace. He knew her. At least, he had known her, once. Many years ago, when they were children, at the Hotel Excelsior in Rosenthal.
Marie...?