Newkirk was wearing a self-satisfied smirk as he returned to the barracks with LeBeau and Carter just behind.
"Got it?" asked Hogan.
"Piece of cake, Colonel," replied Newkirk complacently. "The fake report's in the safe, the real one's in my pocket."
"Okay, let's go to my office and have a look." Hogan glanced at Carter, but the mask had already gone back up, and there was no sign of anything wrong, other than a slightly distracted air.
Once they were safely inside, Newkirk produced several sheets of thin paper.
"Well, whoever the mole is, he's pretty well placed," said Hogan, perusing the typed pages. "He's got the names of half the Underground members between Düsseldorf and the French border, locations of weapons stores, safe houses, details of recent operations...for what it's worth, there's nothing about Stalag 13. I suppose that makes sense," he went on thoughtfully. "He'd hardly be using Klink as an intermediary if he knew about us, would he?"
"Let's be honest, Colonel. He's got to be pretty bleedin' thick to use Klink anyway," remarked Newkirk, squinting at the page over Hogan's shoulder.
Hogan grinned. "Don't underestimate the Kommandant, Newkirk. He's done more for the Allied war effort than the War Bonds Commission." He folded the report, and passed it to Kinch. "This guy isn't local," he said. "The whole report is on Düsseldorf, and the area around it. So why's he come so far out of his own area to pass the information?"
"Wants to avoid arousing suspicion, maybe," suggested Kinch.
"Could be. Better get word to London, Kinch. They'll need to take action on it, since it's not in our area. Unless any of you want the excuse to get away from Stalag 13 for a few days?"
"What? And leave all this?" Newkirk shook his head. "No, thanks, Colonel. Not that I don't appreciate the thought, but Düsseldorf's hardly my idea of a holiday destination. When you want someone to go to Brighton, mind..."
"You'll be the first man I call on," replied Hogan.
He dismissed them, but as they left, he called Carter back. There was additional business that could only be discussed in private. Hogan waited till the door had closed behind the others before he spoke.
"How are you getting on, Carter?" he asked.
Carter met his gaze with what looked like perfect candor, which was suspicious in itself. "Fine, Colonel. Everything's going fine."
"Uh-huh." Hogan paused, regarding Carter intently. "What happened out there just now?"
For a few seconds, Carter held his gaze, then his eyes dropped. "You noticed, huh?"
"Yep."
Carter shrugged uneasily, his color rising. "It's no big deal, Colonel. Schultz said something, that was all."
"You going to tell me what he said?"
"Nothing. I mean, he didn't mean anything," said Carter quickly. "I didn't ought to let it get to me. I won't let it happen again, sir, I promise."
"Was it something to do with Jackson?" Hogan persisted. He doubted it, it didn't sound like Schultz. He was tactless, and not particularly bright, but never malicious. Anyway, since officially Jackson had been shot while trying to escape, none of the guards ever mentioned him.
Carter shook his head, and looked up briefly. "Can't we just let it go, Colonel? I just got distracted for a second. It wasn't even anything important, it was just stupid." But his eyes turned to the floor again. Whatever Schultz had said, intentional or not, it had struck a sore point somewhere.
Hogan weighed up the situation. "Carter, level with me. Do you need a break from active duty?"
"No. Please, Colonel." The words broke out apparently against Carter's will, and for a second he looked as if he regretted it. After a moment he went on. "It's not so good when I got nothing to do. I start thinking, and...and it's just not good."
"I get that, Carter," replied Hogan slowly. "But I've got to take other things into consideration. You dropped the ball today, but it was only Schultz, so it didn't matter. What if it happens again? What if it happens when you're out on assignment?"
Carter flushed. "It won't." He hesitated for a moment, then added tentatively, "Colonel, I've been doing really dumb things ever since I got here. The only reason you're making such a big deal about it now is because...because you know some stuff now that you didn't before." He finished in a rush.
For half a minute, Hogan didn't say anything. Carter had a point there. It was nothing new for him to mess things up, and in the overall scheme of things, such a minor dereliction hardly rated a mention. It wasn't his moment of inattention that was the problem, but rather what might lie behind it.
There was still a lot Hogan didn't know about what had actually happened at the 182nd. He'd heard only as much as Mills had been able to report, and that was limited to what had been common knowledge around the squadron at the time. Only Carter had the whole picture, and even now, he wasn't talking. There was no saying when he might stumble into some unsuspected pitfall of conscious or unconscious memory.
Still, Hogan had to admit to himself that it was only because of what had recently come to light that he was entertaining any concerns. Two months ago, he'd have given Carter a reprimand, and then it would have been business as usual. In real terms, nothing should have changed.
"Okay," said Hogan at last. "But if it happens again, we'll have to reconsider. I can't have our operations compromised. For now, you can concentrate on demolition work. That should keep you busy enough."
"Yes, sir." Carter hung his head, whether from embarrassment or distress was hard to tell. "Can I go now, sir?"
"Yeah. And take it easy, okay?"
Carter glanced up at him, started to speak, then thought better of it, and went off without saying anything. But there was a touch of exasperation in his face, and Hogan could hardly blame him for it. "Yeah, that's easy for me to say," he muttered to himself, as soon as the door had closed.
Most of the men were outside, as the weather, though cool, was fine. Only LeBeau remained in the barracks, preparing the evening meal, and he was too preoccupied to notice anything unusual. "Carter, you're not doing anything," he said. "You can peel the potatoes for me."
It was something to keep busy with, anyway. Carter sat at the table and set to work, while LeBeau gave the casserole on the stove a gentle stirring.
"What are we having?" he asked, to break the silence.
"Boeuf provençale, Stalag 13 style." LeBeau gave a little shrug. "In other words, no red wine, no olives, no lard fumé, the tomatoes are barely fit for pig food, and the beef probably comes from a very old sheep."
"Sounds real good," murmured Carter, and LeBeau rolled his eyes. In fact, he was quite proud of himself. He'd almost pulled off a miracle, creating something appetizing from such miserable ingredients. It was a letdown to see Carter so indifferent about it.
Carter's thoughts were far away. He knew he should have come clean to the colonel. But even now there was a tiny but insistent doubt in his mind. When Schultz, in answer to some casual remark, had turned and said those words, almost the same words that had been spoken long before by Major Staller, that misgiving had suddenly blossomed.
You're not as innocent as you look, Carter.
Staller had painted an ugly picture of what Carter could expect, if the truth ever came out. Either you'll be written off as a troublemaker, or people will start wondering...
Up till now there had been nothing in Hogan's manner to suggest that Staller's prediction was accurate. But Hogan was real good at covering up, maybe he had doubts, and was keeping them to himself. Or what if anyone else found out, and what if they thought...?
"Carter!" LeBeau's voice broke in on his abstraction. "What do you think you're doing?"
Carter, called back to awareness, looked at the potato in his hand, or rather, what was left of it. He'd peeled it down to almost nothing.
"Sorry," he stammered. "I got other things on my mind."
"While preparing food, you can think of other things?" LeBeau gave a contemptuous sniff. "It's no wonder there are no great chefs from your country." He shook his head, and went to check his seasoning, and Carter silently began on the next potato, paying strict attention to the task.
Now he had a new anxiety. If he was so messed up that he couldn't even peel potatoes properly, what chance did he have of continuing as part of the Stalag 13 operation? And if he wasn't able to do his job any more, what then?