Doyle's straight talk may not have made him any more popular with the men of Barracks 9, but it had at least earned him a measure of respect. Beckett was quite civil to him when the choir assembled for the trip to Hammelburg the following morning; and, as usual, the other malcontents took their tone from him.
And on the way to town, when Doyle, by way of a vocal warm-up, set them off on Sumer is icumen in, dividing his forces to sing it as a round, the whole ensemble seemed ready to give it their best. In the cabin, Hogan joined in, quietly, not sure of the words but responsive to the vigorous drive of the melody.
Doyle, however, wasn't satisfied. "For heaven's sake, gentlemen," he burst out, "this isn't a vicarage garden party. Let's have a little more energy, if you please."
And a measure of support came from his chief opponent: "I think what the lieutenant is trying to say is, put some balls into it."
The men reacted to that with a sudden crescendo which almost startled Schultz into driving off the edge of the road. Hogan couldn't sing another note for laughing, nor could he answer immediately, when Schultz, having brought the steering under control, turned to him with a plaintive question: "Colonel Hogan, I know my English is not good, but they say so many things I don't understand. What do they want with balls? They're not going to play tennis, are they?"
Another surprise greeted their arrival at the concert hall. "Gosh," said Carter, staring at the stage. "Nobody said anything about an orchestra."
An orchestra there was, all the same, a small one apparently composed of equal parts age-wearied amateurs and reluctant school children. And, as always seemed to be the case with orchestras in the tuning-up stage, the noise was appalling.
Hogan sighed. "Doyle, go have a talk with whoever's in charge. Make sure the right person is going to be conducting, okay?"
He grinned at the sour look on Doyle's face, and strolled off in the direction of Claudia Valensizi. The soprano appeared in the sunniest of tempers, and Captain Baumann was receiving the benefit; Hogan almost felt guilty at interrupting their little tête-à-tête.
"Well, it's all coming together, isn't it?" he remarked. From somewhere behind him, the complaint of an unhappy clarinet gave a decided negative response. Baumann turned, the smile fading from his lips.
"I think it's going quite well," put in Valensizi innocently, her dark eyes glimmering.
"Yeah, it sounds real good," said Hogan, to the accompaniment of further woodwind squeaks. "You know what I think, Baumann? I think now you've got the orchestra, you'll really notice a difference." He winced involuntarily at the sounds coming from the string section. "Yep, it's going to be some show."
For several seconds, the three of them stood silent, considering the prospects for a successful performance.
"Well, you've got work to do," said Hogan at length. "Don't let me keep you, Captain."
He sauntered off to the back row of the stalls, and took a seat. Presently the orchestra began to settle down; the choir shuffled into place, Doyle took up his place in front, and the rehearsal began.
It wasn't pretty. Hogan and his guys had engineered train wrecks that sounded better.
Valensizi, leaving Baumann, came to sit beside Hogan. For a while, neither of them spoke.
"I want to see him," she said at last.
Hogan glanced at her. She was watching Doyle, looking slightly bored; but her hands, gripping her purse as if it were a lifeline, gave her away. Fräulein Moller was sitting across the aisle, just out of earshot, shadowing the soprano as usual.
"Give it a few minutes," murmured Hogan. "Anyone notices you've left the hall, questions are going to be asked. They're probably already wondering why you keep coming to rehearsals when you're not needed."
"No, they're not," she replied. "Everyone knows why I'm here. I just can't keep away." Her eyelashes dipped slightly. "Poor Captain Baumann, I'm afraid he's in for a disappointment, when I lose interest. So temperamental, we Italians. Passionately in love one minute, completely indifferent the next."
She caught Baumann's eye, and smiled, coyly averting her eyes; and Hogan felt a twinge of pity for the captain. She was playing him, all right. But it was risky.
"Careful, signorina," Hogan murmured. "It's possible Baumann's brighter than he looks."
On the stage, Doyle had called a stop to proceedings. "This won't do at all," he announced. He fell into contemplative silence, then gave a further opinion. "The balance is still wrong. We're going to have to lose some of the women."
Shrill protest broke out instantly. Not one of the sopranos was prepared to stand down. Doyle held up his hands for silence.
"Well, what else can we do?" he said. "If we could find a few extra men - even just three or four..." He broke off, frowning, then turned a speculative eye towards the Stalag 13 guards.
"Sergeant Schultz," he said, "I wonder if you would mind...?"
Schultz just stared at him, round-eyed. Doyle waited, then beckoned, and Schultz, deeply suspicious, edged forward. Hogan couldn't hear the ensuing discussion, but he could see the consternation on Schultz's face, and read the emphatic words on his lips: "You want me to...?"
Doyle interrupted, pointing towards the other guards. Then, as Schultz continued to object, the lieutenant appealed to the highest authority in the building: "Colonel Hogan, could you spare a moment?"
After that, of course, it was plain sailing.
"Well, of course you're here to guard the prisoners, Schultz," agreed Hogan, in reply to Schultz's main argument. "And what better place to guard them from, than right on stage?" Then, as Schultz wavered, he threw in the clincher. "Of course, if you can't sing..."
That did it. Schultz glared at him, muttered incoherently, and waved his men forward; and as the ensemble rearranged itself to accommodate the extra bodies, Hogan retreated to his seat again, and gave Valensizi a wink.
"Okay," he murmured. "That's the first part."
Part two didn't require much effort. Once again, Doyle cut the song off in mid-phrase. "Something's still not right. I've got some very odd noises coming from the tenors."
Newkirk held up his hand. "Please, sir, I think that might be me. Bit of a sore throat this afternoon, it's messing up my voice a bit."
"We had an Adolf Hitler impersonation contest in the barracks last night," put in LeBeau. "Newkirk came second. Perhaps he overdid the angry shouting a little bit."
Newkirk made a dismissive gesture. "Well, you can't do a good Adolf without a few demented shrieks, right? It's all part of the show, innit?"
"Who came first?" came the query from the back row.
Carter looked down, embarrassed. "Well, it's no big deal. Either you got it, or..."
"If you don't mind." Doyle broke in with an impatient wave of the hand. "Newkirk, you'd better take a break for now. Go and sit down, and try to go without speaking for the rest of the..."
A few muffled jeers greeted that, and the conductor amended the conclusion: "Well, for as long as you can, at least. Now, as for the rest of you..."
As Newkirk, not particularly downcast, strolled off stage towards Fräulein Moller, Hogan leaned a little closer to Valensizi. "Give Newkirk enough time to get comfortable with your friend over there," he said softly. "Then head backstage."
He got up, keeping an eye on the guards on stage, but they were fully occupied, trying to follow the music scores they had just been given and the directions of the conductor at the same time. Even Schultz had no attention to spare. Hogan's eye rested on him, then travelled to Langenscheidt, who was sharing a book with Carter, both of them looking terribly worried; from him to the lanky Gluck, and finally across to Telemann, broad and heavy-set, in the back row. And suddenly Hogan knew, to the last detail, exactly how he was going to get Morrison out of the concert hall, and back to Stalag 13.
They had one day to organise it; but if they could only swing it, it would happen right under Schultz's nose. And that would be the icing on the cake.