"...and if you don't start paying attention, you will all spend the next three days singing My Bonny Lass, She Smileth, and nothing else."
Lieutenant Doyle took a deep breath, almost the first one he'd taken since his diatribe had commenced. "Now," he went on, "this is what we will do. Walford, go and stand next to Davies, where you're supposed to be. Lovelock, please stop telling everyone else what to do. That's my job. And as for you, Cage, could you possibly manage to stay quiet for five minutes? Even four and a half minutes would do. I don't want to put too much pressure on you."
Almost eleven o'clock, and well past lights out, and the Stalag 13 Male Voice Choir was still in rehearsal. Hogan slipped quietly into the recreation hall, where a sleepy Schultz was on guard. He greeted Hogan with a look of resignation, and stifled a yawn.
Doyle waited some time for the men to settle down. "Whenever you're ready," he said at length, and instant silence fell, though Newkirk rolled his eyes and LeBeau suppressed a snigger. The conductor turned an icy glare on them.
"I might have to separate you two," he observed coldly. "Now, let's try again, from bar 13, please. What's the note, Carter?"
Carter, looking embarrassed, cleared his throat, and hummed softly; other voices picked it up, firstly unison, then harmony. Doyle held up his hand, glanced around to make sure he had everyone's attention, then gave them one up-beat to start.
It took a few seconds for Hogan to realise they were singing animal noises: dogs, cats and birds. He sat down on the nearest chair, shaking with laughter. He'd never heard anything like it, and it sure wasn't his style of music, but he had a feeling it was going to bring the house down on the night.
At the end of the song, Doyle dismissed his ensemble. "Get some sleep, and be back here at ten o'clock tomorrow morning," he said. "And you will know the words to all those songs by then. If some of you could find a few extra consonants, it wouldn't hurt, either." He fixed a stern eye on Newkirk, who blinked at him, apparently quite unimpressed.
"Dunno wot 'e's goin' on abaht," he murmured to LeBeau in a stage whisper. "Ain't nuffink wrong wiv 'ow I talk, right, Louis?"
"You speak perfectly, mon pote," replied LeBeau, straight-faced.
"Are those two likely to be trouble?" asked Hogan quietly, as Doyle came to report.
"LeBeau and Newkirk? Nothing I can't handle, Colonel. A bit of fooling around doesn't hurt, at the appropriate time. It keeps everyone in a good temper. They know where the line is, they won't cross it."
Hogan glanced at the surly-looking Beckett as he slouched off. "What about him?"
"Well, he doesn't like me," admitted Doyle.
"Why'd you pick him?"
"We're doing a lot of songs my men have already been working on. I drafted in four of Beckett's lads, thinking they'd probably pick up their parts easily. They've been listening to us rehearse for the last four months, some of it must have sunk in. And I brought him along to keep them in order, if only he'll cooperate."
Hogan frowned slightly, as he considered the problem. "Beckett knows what's at stake here. He's not going to do anything to foul up the mission, but he might make things difficult for you. He's not the type to just take orders, unless they come from an officer he respects. I can talk to him, if you want, but it's probably better if you can come to some agreement without my interference." He meditated some more, then added, "Maybe you should consult him about the songs."
"Oh, dear God, no." The expression of horror on Doyle's face would not have been inappropriate if he'd just been instructed to allow Himmler to marry his only sister. "Colonel, I understand the urgency of the situation, but every man has his limits. And mine don't extend as far as George Formby."
"Come on, Doyle. He's got to know something that you can put up with."
"I daresay." But Doyle did not sound as if he thought it at all likely.
His mood seemed to have lightened by the following afternoon, and when the trucks arrived to transport the ensemble to Hammelburg, he took his place with his customary complacency. Before they'd travelled two miles, the men had started singing the cats-and-dogs chorus from the night before, but rather more raucously. From there, they proceeded to Clementine, thence to Roll Out The Barrel, and from there to something which caused Schultz to turn to Hogan, riding up front next to him, with a vaguely puzzled look.
"Colonel Hogan, what does that mean?"
"Well, Schultz," replied Hogan, "when you're a little older, we'll sit down and have a chat, and maybe I'll explain it then."
The concert hall was easily identifiable from a distance still wrapped in a protective cocoon of scaffolding. Repairs to bomb-damaged buildings took time these days, and experts in Greek Revival style were thin on the ground, so the restoration of the exterior was likely to take some time.
As Doyle dismounted from the truck, Hogan took the opportunity for a quick consultation. "Did you get something sorted out with Beckett?"
"We reached an agreement," replied Doyle. "He agreed to Linden Lea, I let him have Run Rabbit Run. It's going to be a very interesting programme."
The voice of Claudia Valensizi greeted them as they reached the auditorium, and Doyle stopped in his tracks, transfixed. She was singing very quietly, but even from the back of the hall, every note was as clear as if she were standing only inches away. Below the stage, the members of the Chorgemeinschaft sat waiting for their turn; two dozen or so women and a couple of very old men. Captain Baumann, Burkhalter's aide, was also there, in the third row of the stalls. Apparently he'd been awarded the job of stage manager; it served him right.
The music ended abruptly in a flurry of angry recriminations, apparently generated by the sound of hammering coming from somewhere behind the gallery. Valensizi, flinging up her hands, broke into a shrill torrent of furious Italian, directed at the hapless Baumann. As he clearly had no idea what she was saying, she glared at him, and enunciated in a clear, cold voice, "I cannot work under these conditions."
Then she swung round and swept offstage, followed more sedately by her accompanist, the sulky-looking Fräulein Moller.
"She's beautiful when she's angry," murmured LeBeau, to which Newkirk uttered a derisive cackle.
Hogan, hands in pockets, a smirk on his face, glanced at Baumann. "Temperamental, these prima donnas," he remarked casually.
Baumann sighed. "There is a workman somewhere in the building. She finds it distracting, but every time I try to find him, he has moved somewhere else. I..." He broke off, realising who he was speaking to. "You'd better have your men get ready," he finished curtly. "Enough time has been wasted."
He strode off to the backstage entrance, as the hammering started up again. Hogan turned to Doyle. "You heard the man," he said cheerfully. "I guess that mean-looking old lady is the boss of the choir. Go and turn on the charm."
Doyle glowered at him, then donned an amiable smile as he turned to meet the elderly woman who appeared to be in charge of the Chorgemeinschaft; while Hogan, waiting only to make sure he wasn't being observed, slipped out into the foyer, and took the stairs to the gallery. The hammering had begun again; he listened for a moment, then followed the sound. It wasn't coming from inside the auditorium, but from the other side of a small, inconspicuous door marked "Kein Durchgang!" in faded lettering. Passing through, he found himself in a narrow, grimy passage, its length punctuated by a series of iron stairs and ladders which gave access to the ceiling space above the hall. The noise was much louder here; he paused again, then ascended one of the ladders. At the top, he found who he was looking for: a big, solidly built man in cap and overalls, working stolidly on one of the roof trusses.
He looked over his shoulder as Hogan appeared. "There's always so much maintenance needed in these old buildings," he remarked. "It's a full-time job, it never stops."
"And nobody ever queries a guy with a hammer in his hand," added Hogan.
The workman laughed quietly. "Hogan, you've got no idea how glad I am to see you."
Hogan relaxed into a grin. "Probably just about as glad as I am, Morrison," he replied.
Notes:
The animal song is Contraponto Bestiale, composed by Adriano Banchieri (1567-1634)
George Formby Jr (1904-1961) was a popular English music hall performer.