"That takes the bleedin' cake!"

"Newkirk…."

"And you've gone barmy, sir, for even ponderin' going along with it!"

"Peter."

"His son! His bloody son?"

"Corporal!"

Newkirk took a deep drag on his cigarette, glad that they were in Hogan's private quarters. The first pack he'd produced had drawn every eye in the main barracks until the Englander had given in to the guilt and passed the bundle around. Even the carton that the cigarettes came in had disappeared. By the time the nicotine worked its way through his system Newkirk was a little calmer, but no less baffled.

"You're tellin' me that Hochstetter faked a message through the underground, allowed a convent to be blown up, stranding seven 'elpless girls and killin' a ruddy priest. Nearly killed you, Kinch and Carter, then dragged you all the way to Austria…broke your bleedin' ribs…just to set free one lousy, junior kraut!?" Newkirk took another pull on the cigarette, pacing hard in the small space allotted, madder than he'd ever been before. He wasn't sure who he was angrier at, in that moment. Hogan or Hochstetter. "He's the bloody Gestapo, why can't he do it himself?!"

Hogan took in a breath then hesitated, giving his man a wary glance. To some degree Newkirk had every right to be angry. They'd been through a lot in the past few months, but the hardships weren't the problem. Usually it was all worth it if the end goal meant liberation for allied fliers, another part of the German war machine grinding to a screeching halt, or one more German official out of commission.

At the outset, Hochstetter's request seemed only to benefit Hochstetter.

"It's complicated." Hogan began, watching Newkirk rile himself up again for another onslaught. He cut him off angrily. "But when hasn't it been, Newkirk? War isn't black and white. We should know that better than anyone."

Newkirk stuck his cigarette in his mouth and finally perched on the edge of the roughhewn table that had been constructed precisely for the dimensions of the room, for the moment quiet.

"There are three points of view here, and at least two of them you're going to relate to."

"Really?" Newkirk said through his cigarette. "I can't wait to 'ear this."

"First keep in mind where I'm coming from. Hochstetter made it clear to me that if I didn't do what he said there'd be consequences beyond my control." Hogan hesitated, remembering the repeated threats against his men and the operation at Stalag 13. It hadn't just been his own batch of unsung heroes, but every POW in the camp, and probably anyone Hochstetter could find in the underground. "I couldn't risk saying no, even if I didn't have the resources to say yes.

"Then there's the Major's point of view. Hochstetter is very high up in the Gestapo ranks. He has a lot of attention on him at all times. He has to report every mile he travels; why, when and where. Everything he does could be reported back to Berlin and end either his career or his life."

"Great! Where do I sign up?"

"You don't! He's a smart guy. A smooth operator. He's gotten where he is because he knows how to play the game, and keep playing it. If he were with the Allies he'd be bucking for my job."

"'e may well get it, Colonel, you're gone crackers."

Hogan bristled at the insult and counted silently to five, then ten, refusing to jump on his man when provoked. Especially when Newkirk might have been right. The anger was creeping into his voice, but Hogan stuck to the topic. "Hochstetter's a father. He found out that his son had defected to Russia, and had been shot down and captured all on the same day. He's panicked. He has a lot of power, you're right, but only if he's seen as 100% loyal. And devoted Gestapo men don't use their influence to free Russian prisoners."

Newkirk stubbed out the remnants of his cigarette, shaking his head. "Why should we care about that? If Hochstetter's finally played out enough rope to 'ang himself, why should we stop 'im?"

Hogan leaned forward, putting his elbows on his thighs, and sighed. He rubbed his fingers over his forehead, feeling a headache coming on that might have had something to do with skipping his morning cup of coffee. He thought for a few minutes then said, "Look at the big picture, Newkirk. We have three options. One. We can leave things be, escape ourselves, and return to our posted duty stations in Germany where we're likely to be picked up again by the same Gestapo major, and probably be shot. In the meantime the men here will suffer."

Hogan waited for the idea to sink in then put up two fingers, "Or we can focus entirely on Private Caine, get him out, please Hochstettor and go back to Stalag 13, where the Gestapo man is just as likely to break up our operation with a double cross, and again, all the men here suffer."

"Or three…we break every man here out of the prison camp, make the major 'appy…"

"And…if we play it right, involve him in the operation so closely that he can't risk exposing us without exposing himself. He keeps our secret, maybe even becomes an ally. His son is free from imprisonment and we have half the German forces in Austria tied up for weeks looking for over two hundred escaped enemy POWs."

The room was silent again, the only noise the distant shouts and cheers of the men still at their football game in the yard.

"Option C…then." Newkirk said, resigning to the most impossible of the three plans in a way that felt very familiar.

Hogan stood and paced to the brand new window set in the wall of his quarters, turned to face Newkirk and leaned against the sill. "Good ol' reliable option C."

Newkirk thought for a minute, desperately itching for a cigarette, but trying to ration what he realized was going to be an even more precious commodity than usual. "Sir, you said there were three points of view."

Hogan winced slightly and nodded. "Private Caine. I had a conversation with him shortly after Hochstettor brought me back to camp." The Colonel paused a moment then said, "He says he doesn't have a father."

Newkirk's eyebrows shot up and he pursed his lips. "Is he an amnesiac or just doesn't like to admit he's related to the Gestapo."

"More likely the latter, or…Hochstettor's lying to us and wants Caine for another reason."

"Either way, you're going to go for it?"

Hogan shook his head, then twirled his pointer finger in a vague circle. "We're gonna go for it."

"Right…we're…gonna go for it." Newkirk said without any enthusiasm what so ever. The corporal stood shaking his head slowly, wishing he'd brought a fifth of scotch with him. "Can't tell you how it feels to be with you again, sir."

Hogan couldn't help but smirk a little, giving a non-committal shrug. "Don't worry, Newkirk, I think I know."

Two Days Later

"Are you sure you're up for this Carter?"

"I'll be fine, Louie! It's a piece of cake."

Corporal Louie LeBeau shook his head, not liking it one bit. Sending Newkirk out the day before hadn't been his favorite task either, but at least Newkirk had a passable accent, and reasonable acting skills.

Carter could blend, but only if he was sticking out like a sore thumb in a crowd of sore thumbs.

"Look, just remember not to talk to any strangers." Kinch advised, making sure that Carter's pack was on tight, then brushing at the sleeves of the Hitler Youth uniform Newkirk had made before he left. Carter didn't really look like a teenager, but even the German army had to draw the line on who they allowed in the ranks. Hopefully Carter would look bumbling enough for the uniform and papers to make sense.

"Oui, and don't get off the train until you are in Austria. No side trips."

"Don't lose your compass." Kinch added.

"Or your map." LeBeau put in.

"Keep your shoes shined."

"And your hair combed."

"And-"

"Will you guys stop it, already?" Carter snapped, perturbed at the mothering routine. "I've done this sorta thing before you know."

Both Kinch and LeBeau stood back, looking Carter over from a distance, Kinch's hand resting on LeBeau's shoulder creating a homely look that reminded Carter a little of his folks back in the states. The thought brought a semi-smile to his lips and he straightened his spine a little. "I feel like this is my first day of school or somethin'."

A second later an air raid siren sounded, muffled by the walls of earth that formed the tunnel. The three men waiting near the emergency exit instinctively glanced upward before Carter started up the ladder.

"That is the school bell. Make sure you are not late." LeBeau said, patting Carter's pack for luck before the Sergeant was out of reach. Kinch headed for the oil lamp, dousing it before Carter opened the tree trunk exit.

The three POWs were immediately plunged into total darkness, lessened only a little as Carter swung the trunk top up on its hinges. The pitch black night outside was broken by the occasional sweep of the lights from the guard towers, and the volume of the air raid siren increased to a nerve wracking wail that made it impossible for Carter to hear anything else. He scanned the woods around the stump, confirmed that none of the guards had ventured out of the camp that night, and climbed the rest of the way out of the tunnel shaft.

Even though he knew that LeBeau and Kinch still waited below, Carter couldn't help suddenly feeling very alone. He almost got a sense of relief when he spotted the body of the first bomber high above. Their target might have been the railroad, or a bridge, or some factory that had slipped by the notice of the underground. Carter didn't know, but he felt connected somehow with the pilots and bombardiers, and grinned like a kid in a thundershower as he closed the stump and scampered off into the woods.

His grin started to slip, then fell completely when the third bomber to pass over the camp, too low and slow, exploded.

Carter had managed about half a mile in the moonless darkness before the fireball lit the sky, the plane exploding in three great booms, like sausage links loaded with black powder. On a rise that afforded him a view of the camp he stared in shock as debris began to rain in great chunks onto the hapless Stalag and the forest around it.

From a distance Carter watched the confusion. There were more sirens, dogs, shouts, fires. Propellers chewing into buildings, clawing through the barbed wire and diving into the ground. Chunks of burning wings and fuselage clattered and crumbled. Unexploded bombs that managed to fall from the plane intact, hit the ground and left craters. Only one of the eggs burst in camp but it was enough.

Carter couldn't move. He could barely breathe and he knew he was crying. He stumbled twenty feet back down the hill then skidded to a halt clinging to a tree trunk. Would the tunnel still be there? Could he even get back into camp that way?

He was dressed as a Hitler-Jugend. Mass confusion or no he couldn't very well stroll into camp through the front gates.

What would Colonel Hogan do if Carter didn't show up at the camp in Austria? What would he do if Carter did, and could only say he didn't know if the others had survived the horror of a plane crashing into the Stalag?

His heart was trying to tear itself out of his chest and he knew without a doubt that he couldn't walk away. He had to try. With a fleetness of foot that more than earned his Native American title, Carter covered the ground back to the tunnel entrance in a quarter of the time it had taken for him to get away.

The trunk lid had been blown open, probably as a result of pressure building underground, but there was no smoke coming from the tunnel. Carter clawed at the flashlight on his utility belt and pointed the powerful beam into the darkness, desperately searching through the dust hanging in the air.

The ladder was still firmly attached to the wall and the entrance itself looked clear. Carter scanned the forest around him then ducked into the shaft, vowing never to think about home again if it meant that LeBeau and Kinch were alright.