The new prisoners arrived at Stalag 13 early on Friday afternoon.
"Poor buggers, they look a bit down in the dumps," remarked Newkirk. He was slouched against the barracks wall, while LeBeau, sitting on a little three-legged stool, peeled potatoes.
For a few seconds they watched in silence, each remembering his own capture and the long period of adjustment which had followed. Then Newkirk straightened up, and went into the hut. A minute later, Hogan came out, and with his customary briskness strode across the compound, while Newkirk resumed his position holding up the wall.
Seen close up, the fourteen men had a surly, unkempt appearance. The guards who had brought them shoved and shouted them into line. Two of the goons stepped forward to block Hogan's approach, but fell back again as Klink came out of his office. "It's all right, let him past," he said, before turning his attention to his new charges. With a superior smirk, and condescension in his eye, he made a slow inspection of each man.
"So, Hogan, these are the latest examples of American military standards," he said. "Disgraceful. I've never seen such a sloppy turn-out." His gaze fell on the nearest man, who from all appearances had not had a chance to clean or repair his uniform since he'd been taken prisoner. "Just look at this man," Klink went on. "You would never see any German soldier in such a filthy state."
A flash of resentment crossed the man's face, and his hands clenched, but Hogan was on the alert, and he intervened quickly. "Well, it's hardly his fault, Kommandant. The valet service at those transit camps is terrible. Frankly, I'd like to see some improvement. Maybe if you wrote to the German High Command, and gave them a few pointers..."
"Thank you, Hogan, that will do. You are here to observe, not to interfere." Klink spoke through gritted teeth, then turned his back on his greatest annoyance, just in time to catch the furtive grins on the faces of a couple of the new prisoners. Apparently they weren't completely beaten down yet.
Klink drew himself up, pinned a smug smile on his lips, and embarked on his standard welcoming speech. "Gentlemen, you have been brought to the most secure prisoner of war camp in all of Germany. There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13, and there never will be. Now, I want to make it clear from the outset..."
Hogan had heard it all before. He let it wash over him, while he took his first good look at the new arrivals, trying to see past their outward scruffiness and assess what was going on behind it. The standard reactions were all there: sullenness, hostility, ill-concealed fear, along with the usual contemptuous wonder at the ridiculous figure of their head captor. Most of them were taking in as much of the camp as could be seen, glancing at the guard towers, the barbed wire, the rows of barracks buildings.
Hogan's gaze, moving from one man to the next, came to rest on the last in line. This man - a sergeant, going by the stripes on the torn, stained sleeve of his uniform - stood just slightly apart from the others. He kept his eyes lowered, and his expression was almost unnaturally blank.
For a minute or so Hogan studied him. He looked pretty ordinary, average height, sturdy build, good-looking in an unobtrusive way. Nor was his manner particularly unusual. Plenty of newcomers tried to hide their feelings until they had found their feet. There was nothing suspicious about it, except that this guy seemed to be taking it to extremes. He didn't show any response, or look up, during the whole of the Kommandant's long-winded and tedious address.
"...and I can promise you this. For as long as this war lasts, until your government accepts the inevitable and surrenders, you will remain as guests of the Third Reich. So I suggest you forget about seeing your homes and families until that day comes." Klink paused for effect, but the prisoners remained unimpressed. After a few seconds, the Kommandant turned to Schultz. "Call the roll, and then take them to the delousing station."
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," rumbled Schultz. He put his glasses on, and peered at the clipboard in his hand, while Klink stumped off to his office. Hogan loitered, watching with interest.
The man who had caught his attention answered, in a soft, neutral voice and without looking up, to "Mills, P, Sergeant." Two others held the same rank, but the barracks chief would be Lieutenant Jeffries. He had seniority, but looked a little younger, and a lot more nervous and unsure of himself, than Hogan would have liked.
Having completed the roll call, Schultz removed his glasses, and put them away with finicky care. "Colonel Hogan, do you want to say anything to the men before they go to the delousing station?"
"Just a few words," said Hogan, stepping forward. "I'd like to extend a welcome to you men, on behalf of the rest of the boys. Now, you'll probably soon know your way around the camp, but I'll just let you know the important points. The mess hall is on the other side of the camp. Avoid it at all costs. Even the rats won't eat there. Red Cross packages come in once a month, and sometimes the guards only steal half of them. The woodworking class meets in Barracks 5 every afternoon. They're learning to make ladders. There's also a class in basic German conversation, that's in Barracks 9 on Thursdays. It's always handy to know a few words when you're out and about. And if you've managed to sneak in any contraband, see Sergeant Roberts in Barracks 3. He's got the right contacts and can get you a better price than you'll get on the open market. That's all. Enjoy your stay, however short it might be."
The tension among the new men had lightened during his speech, although it didn't seem to have had any effect on Mills. But he shot a brief glance at Hogan, before he followed the others to the delousing station.
Carter and Kinch had joined the others outside the barracks. "Well, Colonel?" asked Newkirk, as Hogan arrived back. "Anything dodgy?"
"Most of them seem to have the right attitude," said Hogan. "But any Kraut informer is gonna be smart enough to know how a man who's just been taken prisoner should act. That doesn't tell us anything."
"You want us to go over to the delousing station and have a rummage through their kit?"
"Not now. There's a lot of the guards who brought 'em in still hanging round. If you were spotted by our own goons, you could fast-talk your way out, but transit camp guards are always a little trigger happy." He paused, frowning. "There's a guy called Mills. Something about him isn't right."
"You think he's a plant?" said Carter.
Hogan pursed his lips. "No, there's something else going on. My guess is, something's gotten to him. Maybe he's still in shock, from being shot down, or maybe some of his crewmates didn't make it. Some guys take that harder than others. Or he could just be shaken up over getting captured, and trying not to show it."
"Transit camp's not exactly a cakewalk, either," remarked Kinch. "Those places can really mess with a guy's mind."
"Right, Kinch. So let's not jump to any conclusions." Hogan glanced towards the delousing station. "Let 'em get settled into their barracks, then we'll start work on them. I'll go over and brief the senior officer about his duties, and see what I can get out of him. Kinch, you and Newkirk can organize the welcome wagon. Take up a collection throughout the camp of stuff they might be short on - spare clothes, shaving kit, any leftovers from the last Red Cross delivery, the usual things a new prisoner needs and probably doesn't have."
"Just being neighborly, like?" said Newkirk.
"Yeah. But while you're there, let it drop that there'll be a poker game in Barracks 2 tomorrow afternoon, straight after the exercise period. A friendly game, strictly no cash bets. See if you can't get one or two of them to come along. They might be more inclined to loosen up over a game of cards."
"You want us to get this guy Mills?" asked Kinch.
"If he's interested. But don't push it," said Hogan.
He didn't say any more, but he doubted they'd have any luck with Mills. For any new prisoner, there were other enemies besides the Germans. Every man at Stalag 13 had fought his own battle, with more or less success, against fear, humiliation and despair. But Hogan had looked Sergeant Mills in the eye, and he had a feeling that, for this man, the battle might have already been lost.