"Of course Doyle wants Carter in his choir," observed LeBeau. "Who wouldn't?"
Hogan gave him an exasperated glance, but as LeBeau was looking at Carter with a slightly malicious grin, it went over his head.
"Well, comes in handy for us, anyway," said Newkirk. "And you know, Carter does have a bit of the choirboy look about him."
There was nothing of the choirboy in the glare he received from Carter. "That ain't funny. Colonel, can't Newkirk go instead?"
"Newkirk is going. And so are you, Carter." Hogan grinned at him. "By special request of the conductor." Though I seem to be the only one who doesn't know why.
Carter scowled, and scuffed his feet. "Why's it have to be Doyle, anyway?"
"You got something against him?" Hogan directed the question at Carter, but it was meant for everyone, and it was Kinch who answered.
"He's too pleased with himself. Thinks he's above the rest of us. Don't get me wrong, if he wants to set himself up, it's fine by me. But I'm not itching to join his appreciation society."
"Seconded," put in Newkirk. "Though I will say for him, he knows how to get a man to sing."
"That's all I want him to do," replied Hogan. "That's what gets us into town, and keeps us in contact with Valensizi." He ignored a murmur of approval from LeBeau, and went on. "Hopefully, that will get us in touch with Morrison, wherever he is. And you guys get to sing. It's a win-win."
Newkirk leaned back in his chair. "Depends on what we have to sing, doesn't it? Who knows what kind of horrors that bunch of old ladies in Hammelburg have in store for us?"
"What makes you think they're old ladies, Newkirk?" said Carter, gazing at him wide-eyed.
"Because all the young ones have better things to do with their time," replied Newkirk confidently. "Isn't Burkhalter's missus in there? It'll be all friends of hers, you'll see. Ballads and folk songs, that's what we'll get."
"Nothing wrong with folk songs," muttered Carter under his breath, but nobody was listening.
"Don't forget, Doyle gets to approve the programme," remarked Kinch.
"Oh, that makes it much better." Newkirk held up one finger, like some ancient seer on the point of revealing some prospective calamity. "He'll have us singing some bleedin' oratorio or other. I'd bet my life on it."
A chorus of protest broke out, but Hogan interrupted ruthlessly. "Okay, cut it out. Whatever Doyle tells you to do, you'll do it. Firstly because we need this to work, and secondly because Doyle outranks every one of you. So whether he gives you an oratorio, or barbershop harmonies, or the entire score of Rose Marie, you'll sing it."
He spoke more forcefully than usual, at least in part because he knew Doyle wasn't a general favourite with the other prisoners. The fact was, Hogan didn't like him either. It was rare for officers to be sent to Stalag 13; Doyle was said to have earned his relocation here as punishment for his part in covering up a mass escape from his previous place of incarceration. Hogan had no reason to doubt it, but it didn't make the man any less of a pompous, self-satisfied jerk.
By mid-afternoon, a piano had been found in Hammelburg, a dilapidated upright apparently rescued from some dark corner of the Hotel Hauserhof. The instrument was delivered to Stalag 13, and with a great deal of fuss, many unconstructive and contradictory suggestions from everyone concerned, and much anxious hovering on Doyle's part, it was manhandled off the delivery lorry, and brought safely into the recreation hall.
It wasn't a prepossessing instrument. The varnish was cracked, the keys yellow and caked with dirt, and a general air of neglect, dust and spider infestation hung around it.
"Schultz, I said a decent piano," mumbled the Kommandant, regarding the thing with horror.
"Herr Kommandant, I am sorry. It was the only one I could get." Schultz twiddled his fingers together apologetically.
"But…but it's a wreck," Klink stuttered. "It's an utter disgrace. It's…"
"It's beautiful." The interruption came from Doyle, who had lifted the lid with an almost reverent hand. "Perfectly beautiful."
He ran his fingers across the keys, then played a few chords, very softly. "But it does need tuning," he added. "I don't suppose you thought to get the appropriate tools, Schultz? Ah, well, one must work within the constraints of the situation. Does anyone have a socket wrench I can borrow?"
He turned everyone out while he carried out the necessary work; and for some time only the disturbing sounds of a piano in torment could be heard from within the hut. After a while Doyle emerged, slightly dusty but perfectly self-possessed.
"Carter, old chap," he said, "I could use some help."
The discordant noises continued for a short time after Carter, looking vaguely alarmed, had followed Doyle back into the hall. "Sounds like they're rebuilding it from scratch," observed Kinch dryly.
A brief silence fell; then from within the walls, a tune could be heard, slightly tinny, slightly tinkly, but beautifully played.
"Barbara Allen," said Newkirk. "Not exactly Doyle's cup of tea, I'd have thought." He listened for a moment. "Sounds all right though, doesn't it?"
Hogan was in full agreement. He went quietly into the hall, waving the others back. It was Doyle who was playing, apparently improvising around the old familiar melody, while Carter leaned on the top of the instrument, listening.
"Still doesn't sound right," he murmured, as Hogan, unconsciously going on tiptoe, crossed the floor.
"Well, I'm afraid it's as close as I can get with the tools available," replied Doyle, almost apologetically. He had removed his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves, and looked about as unbuttoned as anyone at Stalag 13 had ever seen him. "The strings won't stand much more. The relative pitch is right, isn't it? Then that will have to do."
He played another few chords, then began what seemed a simple enough tune with one hand, gradually adding more parts until the whole thing seemed almost insanely convoluted.
"If it makes you feel any better, Carter," he added, pausing at a cadence, "we won't be using it for rehearsal."
"Then what's it for...sir?" asked Carter, with a puzzled frown.
Doyle continued his performance, and didn't answer the question. "Thanks, old man," he said. "Rehearsal in here at seven this evening."
Hogan nodded in reply to Carter's querying look, and after a moment Carter left. Doyle kept playing, still very softly, to the end of the piece.
"You know, Colonel," he said, "it's been two years. You never quite lose it, but I'm dreadfully out of practice."
"Yeah, it sounds like it," replied Hogan, gazing at him critically. This was a side of Doyle nobody had seen before. He was thinking over what Doyle had said earlier: Every home needs a piano...
From the look on the lieutenant's face, as his fingertips lingered over the keys for a moment, those two years had been very long indeed.
Then he straightened up, his customary self-assurance dropping over him like a cloak. "It's extraordinary, you know. One person in ten thousand, that's what they say. What are the odds I'd find one of them here? And he hasn't a clue. What I wouldn't do to have that kind of..."
He smiled at the look on Hogan's face. "You really don't know, do you? I'm talking about Carter. He's got..."
"Perfect pitch." Hogan finished the sentence with him. It was obvious, now.
Doyle began reassembling the piano, hiding the internal mechanism from sight. "Any particular instructions, Colonel?"
"You're going into Hammelburg tomorrow afternoon," replied Hogan, helping to fit the front panel over the strings. "I'll be coming along to supervise the men. There will be guards, as well. At some stage I'll need to get a few words in private with Brunhilda - I mean, Signorina Valensizi." That nickname was going to stick. "You may have to distract the guards. And keep your eyes open. I'm not sure I trust the soprano, she seems very cosy with Burkhalter's aide. If she talks to him, I want to know about it. Did Klink get you the list of songs for the programme?"
"He did. I've rejected most of it," replied Doyle smugly. "We're now working on the basis of three songs with the town choir, plus a few on our own."
"Can you manage that, in three days?"
Doyle gave him a sideways look, and the smirk on his face realigned into a genuine grin. "I daresay we'll find out." Then he laughed aloud. "Trust me, sir. I'll get them into shape, all right."
He closed the lid of his piano, and strolled out into the light, with the air of a peer of the realm taking a promenade around his estate. But Hogan thought he had a handle on Doyle now. And if Doyle reckoned he could make an ensemble in three days, Hogan had no doubt that three days would produce the best ensemble this prison camp could offer.
As long as they didn't lose sight of the objective, this operation could turn out to be fun.