In spite of the circumstances, Newkirk was having trouble staying awake. He leaned back in his chair, with his leg stretched out under the table to reduce the pain in his knee. His head ached, and his eyes felt as if they'd been sandpapered.
He gazed wearily at Hogan, who was still keeping watch at the door. It was over an hour since Carter had escorted Elise from the premises; the Gestapo hadn't returned, nor had the SS given up on their surveillance outside the premises. Bruno had disappeared into the cellar a few minutes earlier.
Newkirk had given a full report on the events that had brought him here. Hogan didn't ask any questions, just listened, and there was a long period of silence after the story was finished.
"You don't have to say it, Colonel," said Newkirk at last. "I really buggered this one up."
Hogan gave him a quizzical glance. "It's buggered, all right, but I'm not convinced you deserve the credit for it."
Newkirk pressed his fingers against the centre of his forehead, where the headache seemed to have settled. "I should have just brought her straight back to Stalag 13. She wouldn't give up the names, unless I brought her home."
"It surprised us that you didn't. But given who she is..."
"Wouldn't have mattered if she'd been Princess Elizabeth," Newkirk interrupted, almost irritably. He paused, then added quietly. "I thought I knew how to read people. Now I just...I don't trust myself, Colonel. I can't tell any more."
"Newkirk, you made one mistake. Okay, it was a big one, and you better not ever forget it. But don't let it get out of proportion. This assignment went wrong for reasons you had no control over. Next time, we'll make sure we know what we're getting into before we send anyone out."
"You sure there's going to be a next time, sir?" murmured Newkirk with a half-smile.
"I think we can swing it. Now that we've give Carter and LeBeau a good head start, we'd better make a move. Where's Bruno?"
The barman reappeared, clutching a dust-coated wine bottle in one hand. With his legs, long and thin in flannel underwear, visible below the hem of his apron, he looked even more ridiculous than usual, but his expression was grave.
"Chateau Maraison, eighteen sixty-five," he explained. "The boss has been saving it for the end of the war. I guess for us, that could be today, so..."
"Not yet, Bruno," said Hogan briskly. He was looking out at the two men still on duty in the street outside.
"You got an idea, Colonel?" Newkirk looked up, blinking rapidly.
"Not one of my better ones," admitted Hogan with a grimace. "It should work, but in means sacrificing Bruno's dignity."
Bruno gazed at him solemnly, then looked down at his own legs, and Newkirk laughed. "I think that pigeon's already flown, sir. Sorry, Bruno."
"Ah, well, I never had much, anyway," sighed the barman. "What are your instructions, Colonel?"
Hogan looked out into the street again. "There are two of them out there. We need to get them in here, then we can take them out." He glanced at Newkirk. If you're up to it, was the unspoken qualifier. Newkirk understood, and gave him a nod. He was up to it, all right. As if he had a choice.
"Bruno," the colonel went on, "go out there and tell those two what happened out here."
"You mean the true story?"
"Exactly. Except you weren't part of it; we overpowered you and locked you in the back room. You've just managed to break out of there. You're not sure what we're up to, but it seems to involve some explosives we've got stashed in the cellar, which is where we are at the moment. You can fill in the details however you like. Newkirk, behind the door. You take the first one in; I'll deal with the other one."
"You're right, sir," observed Newkirk. "Definitely not one of your better ones." He stood up, wincing as his leg gave him due warning, and hobbled to the door. "You noticed they have semi-automatics, then? Just thought I'd mention it."
"Duly noted, corporal," replied Hogan, as he slipped into the cloakroom alcove. There was a spark in his eye. He'd missed that English attitude.
Bruno glanced from one to the other, checking they were both ready. He took a deep breath, opened the door and flung himself into the street. "Hilfe!" he shrieked. "Schnell!"
Newkirk leaned back, keeping well out of the line of sight. He could just make out Bruno's voice, as he poured out a torrent of exclamations, half in execrable German and half in his own Alsace dialect. One of the Krauts interrupted him: "Sprechen Sie langsamer." Bruno complied, repeating his story more slowly. Newkirk still couldn't make out a word of it, but the SS men did. There was a lull in the conversation, then the light coming through the glass panel was dimmed by the approach of a large body. The door opened slowly; Newkirk pressed himself even closer to the wall, and held his breath. If the bastard turned his head to the right...
He didn't; he turned left, away from Newkirk, who counted down in heartbeats from five to zero, and then launched himself forward and flung an arm around the man's throat. As he threw his weight back, he was vaguely aware of a shooting pain in his knee. It was just enough to send him off balance, and the pair of them hit the wall, hard.
The second man swung round, bringing his weapon to bear on the struggle. Newkirk, with all the strength he had left in him, fought to keep his opponent between himself and the gun. The next moment, Hogan emerged from the cloakroom, grabbed a chair and swung it against the second man's upper back, sending him down for the count.
Newkirk wasn't doing so well. The impact with the wall had knocked the breath out of his body and shaken his grip on his opponent, who managed to drive an elbow into Newkirk's ribs before twisting free and turning on him. Before the man could take further action, a bottle crashed against the side of his head, smashing against the edge of his helmet. He went down, stunned and bleeding from the broken glass, and as he tried to get up, Newkirk proved that there are no gentlemen in a free fight, by kicking him in the face. He shouldn't have done that; it sent the pain in his leg into overdrive, and he staggered back against the wall, gasping.
Bruno, still clutching the neck of the shattered bottle of Chateau Maraison, eighteen sixty-five, stared at the unconscious soldier, then at Newkirk.
"Well, that does it," he muttered. "I'll have to leave the country after this."
"What, because you laid one of them out? It can't be the first time, Bruno," said Hogan.
"No, that's all in the day's work," replied Bruno impatiently. "But the boss'll skin me alive for breaking this bottle."
Hogan had gone to Newkirk's assistance. "What did he do to you?"
"Put his face where my foot was aimed," said Newkirk, with the ghost of a laugh. "Sorry, Colonel. I think I've done myself some damage."
"Can you walk?"
"Just about." He stood upright, and put some weight onto the injured limb. It was bearable, but he didn't refuse the support of Hogan's arm. "What now? Do we take their car?"
"Well, they won't be needing it," observed Hogan. "Bruno, you'd better come back with us."
"No, I don't think so. Not yet." Bruno was quietly resolute. "You can drop me off; I'll tell you where. There's some business for me to attend to first."
"Blackbird?"
"Yes, that has to be dealt with. It's our affair, Colonel," he added, before Hogan could say anything."
There wasn't time to argue the point. Hogan nodded in acquiescence. "Okay, let's go before these two decide to rejoin the party."
The afternoon was drawing on, and the sunlight, turned grey and sickly by the lingering haze, was beginning to fade. Hogan checked quickly; nobody was in the street. Still supporting Newkirk, who was quietly exercising his vocabulary with every step, he left the Weinkeller and headed for the SS car. He put Newkirk in the back, and sent Bruno to the front passenger seat.
Hochstetter's men had been careless. The keys were still in the ignition. So much the better; hotwiring would have taken extra time. Hogan started the car, and got them away from there.
He played it safe, avoiding any possible traffic snarls; it didn't take long to get out of the city, and into the warehouse district Bruno directed him to.
"We'll let you know when the problem has been resolved," he said, gazing at Hogan with those ridiculously magnified eyes. "I don't know how, but we will be in touch."
Hogan had already thought about that. "Once you've dealt with Blackbird, you can commandeer his radio. Send us a message when it's safe. Code word - " He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and the corner of his mouth turned up as he remembered the shattered wine bottle. "Maraison."
"Oh, very funny," muttered Bruno.
Newkirk was drowsing in the back seat, and scarcely registered that they had stopped, but the renewed motion of the car roused him with a start. He looked around, blinking in confusion.
"Thought I was somewhere else for a moment," he murmured indistinctly. "Are we nearly there?"
"Not far. You'll have some walking to do, and I don't know yet how I'm going to get you down the emergency tunnel ladder."
"Oh, I'll manage it. Don't you worry, sir."
He fell silent, gazing out at the darkness.
"How bad was it?" Hogan asked, after a couple of minutes.
"Never been so scared in all my life," replied Newkirk without hesitation. "We were right out in the open, had to shelter in an alleyway. I really thought that was it. Still, it turned out alright, didn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess it did." Hogan didn't bother pointing out the outstanding matters: they still didn't know if the others had made it back to Stalag 13; there would be some serious fence-mending to do with the Underground at Hammelburg; and somehow Elise had to be got out of Germany. There would be plenty of time to worry about all of that.
He got as close to camp as he dared, before driving the car off the road into the woods. Tomorrow they'd have to see about moving it further away, but for now he just wanted to get Newkirk safely below ground.
He got out, and opened the rear door. "Last leg." Then, as Newkirk chuckled, he added, "Sorry - that was tactless."
Newkirk eased himself out of the car. "I don't think it's too bad," he murmured, testing his weight. "If it was serious, I wouldn't be able to stand up." Then he looked around. "You're chancing it a bit, Colonel. Patrols come this far out sometimes."
"Not when it's this cold, Newkirk. And I'd like to get indoors before it gets any colder."
The final part of the journey took longer than expected; Newkirk was finding it particularly hard going, although he resisted all of the colonel's attempts to help him over the uneven ground.
"Okay, Newkirk, just the ladder to go," whispered Hogan, when they finally reached the tree stump that stood over the tunnel entrance. "Are you sure you can manage?"
"I'll get there if I have to hold on with my teeth," replied Newkirk, faint but determined.
"You'd better. I didn't chase all round Hammelburg after you just so you could fall and break your neck now."
The spotlight from the nearest guard tower swept across, and they dropped to the ground, and waited. Two minutes, and it passed over a second time. As soon as it was dark again, Hogan raised the top of the stump, and helped Newkirk scramble inside. Then he crouched again, to wait for the next pass.
The descent really tried Newkirk's endurance, and not just because of the leg. Weary muscles and overall fatigue were almost ready to take over from the obstinacy which had carried him this far. Besides, he'd forgotten, as he always did, just how long this ladder was. Each rung required a renewal of effort, and soon he lost count, so when he felt someone grab his arm, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"It's okay, Peter. I've got you." It was Kinch. Newkirk's hand released its grip on the ladder, reached out blindly, and found his friend's shoulder.
"Just a couple more steps," Kinch said, getting an arm around Newkirk and supporting him. His feet found the floor, and he finally let go of the ladder and leaned against his mate.
"You'd better sit down." Kinch drew him away from the foot of the ladder.
"No. If I sit down, I'll never get up again." Newkirk's voice was little more than a whisper.
A few seconds more, and Hogan joined them. A smile broke across Kinch's face. "You made it," he said. "Man, we were worried."
"Did Carter and LeBeau get back?" Hogan demanded sharply.
"All safe, Colonel. The lady's asleep; not sure about the other two."
All safe. Newkirk's mind grasped at the words The smell of the tunnel surrounded him; dust, damp earth and the fumes of the lamps along the walls. It was oddly comforting. He closed his eyes, and his head drooped against Kinch's chest, but he roused himself when Hogan spoke: "Don't pass out on us now, Newkirk."
"Not even close to it, sir. Although I could just about do with an early night."
"Mrs Hochstetter's got the sleeping quarters," said Kinch, "but we could make up the cot in the radio room."
"I'll sleep in my own bunk, if it's all the same." Newkirk sounded half asleep already.
Over his head, Hogan's eyes met Kinch's. "If you insist, Newkirk," said the colonel. "Let's get you out of those clothes. Kinch, go tell Abrahams he doesn't have to keep wearing the nightshirt." Kinch grinned, and headed off to the barracks.
"What was that about Abrahams?" murmured Newkirk.
"He was your stand-in this morning." It seemed a lifetime ago. Hogan got Newkirk's arm around his shoulder, and supported him every step of the way along to the wardrobe room. Lowering Newkirk onto a bench beside the wall, the colonel began taking off his boots.
Kinch came back, bringing the nightshirt with him. "They're pretty excited up there," he reported. "You sure you can stand it, Newkirk?"
"After the earful I got from LeBeau earlier, there's nothing more can hurt me, Kinch," replied Newkirk.
"Don't be so sure of that." Hogan dropped the first boot on the floor, and started on the second.
Both men gazed at him; Newkirk, with a puzzled, slightly dazed expression, and Kinch suddenly apprehensive. "What's on your mind, Colonel?" he asked.
"That Gestapo captain, Rohmer, had a pretty neat description of Mrs Hochstetter's escort," said Hogan grimly. "Tall, dark hair, foreign accent. That means they have a witness - probably Blackbird. I hope I'm wrong, but I don't think so."
He stood up. "You'd better get a good night's sleep, Newkirk. Because if Hochstetter doesn't turn up here in the next day or so looking for someone fitting that description, I'll eat in the mess hall for a month."