No matter what kind of crisis hung over Stalag 13, the daily routine of camp life had to go on. The prisoners assembled for roll call, then dispersed to their morning duties.
While his mates cleaned up the barracks and put everything in order, LeBeau, who had made up his bunk before breakfast, went off to fetch some extra firewood. He came back with an air of ill-suppressed excitement.
"There is a staff car at the gate," he announced, dumping the wood by the stove. "I don't recognize it."
Hogan went to the door, and opened it an inch or so. The unfamiliar car had been admitted, and came to a halt at the steps of the Kommandant's office, where the driver, a hulking, square-jawed type in SS uniform, got out to open the rear door and allow his passenger to alight.
"He sure didn't waste any time getting here, once Burkhalter was out of the way," observed Hogan softly, his eyes narrowing.
He hadn't allowed enough space for anyone else to join him at the door, but Newkirk, thinking fast, grabbed a blanket off the nearest bunk, and went to give it a good shaking out of the window. "Is that Mills' chum, then?" he said. "Blimey, he doesn't look much, does he? Weedy little bloke like that couldn't put the frighteners on a white rabbit, let alone a tough customer like Mills."
"He doesn't need to," replied Kinch, glancing out at the visitor. "He just asks the questions, and lets his goons do the dirty work. And they look like they could handle any amount of it."
A second SS man, as beefy as the driver, had gotten out of the car, and now followed his boss up the steps and into the building, while the driver stayed outside, pacing back and forth, his semi-automatic rifle casually on display.
Hogan closed the door. "My office."
Apparently the sentry on the gate had already alerted Klink, because as soon as the coffee pot was plugged in, the Kommandant's voice came through: "Please, come in, come in. Heil Hitler," he added, in a jaunty tone which failed to disguise how nervous he was. "How can I be of assistance, Herr...?"
A soft, innocuous voice replied. "Graf. Kriminalkommissar, Gestapo Section E."
"He's got a name, after all. If it's his real one," said Hogan tersely. "Take notes, Kinch. I don't want to miss any of this."
"Welcome to Stalag 13, Herr Graf," Klink babbled. "Can I offer you anything? A cup of tea, or maybe something a little stronger?"
"No, thank you, Kommandant. You are very kind, but as I am here on Gestapo business..."
"Of course. I always say there's nobody more businesslike than the Gestapo."
LeBeau uttered a snort. "Even if he doesn't mind embarrassing himself, does he have to embarrass us?" But he subsided at a glance from Hogan.
"At present I am engaged on a matter of a highly sensitive and confidential nature," said Graf. "I must impress upon you the need for absolute discretion. Officially, I was never here."
"You were never here," faltered the Kommandant.
"Correct. Now that you understand, I will tell you why I have come to Stalag 13. You recently had a group of newly captured American prisoners placed in your custody. I need to question some of these men, and for reasons of security, it is essential that I speak to them alone."
Klink hesitated briefly before he ventured on a protest. "Sir, while I am always prepared to co-operate in full with the Gestapo - my record in this respect is impeccable - still, there are certain regulations. The Geneva Prisoner of War Convention..."
"There are some situations when those regulations must be waived in favor of the interests of the state. But let me assure you, only those who have something to hide have anything to fear."
"Oh, yes, indeed. But the rules are very clear about this. A Luftwaffe officer must be present at any interrogation of...I mean, unless you have authorization from..."
"From your direct superior, General Burkhalter. Who is, I believe, currently indisposed. This matter cannot wait until he recovers sufficiently to give the order. But with your reputation as one of his most efficient and intelligent officers, I am quite sure he would trust you to make a decision in a case of such urgency."
Hogan's lips compressed. This son of a bitch was good. He didn't even know Klink, and he was still playing him like a concertina. Playing very well too, going by the smug tone of the Kommandant's response: "Actually, sir, if I say so myself, the general has always shown the greatest confidence in me. But may I ask what this is about?"
"All I can disclose is that your prisoners may have information which will be of critical importance in defeating Germany's enemies. Under such circumstances, the petty regulations forced on us by foreign bureaucracies cannot be taken into consideration. Kommandant, I ask you only to do your duty, to the Führer and to the Reich."
A brief pause followed, just long enough for Hogan to wonder what it would be like if for once Klink did the right thing. But the Kommandant's answer, when it came, was no surprise: "Which prisoners do you want to question?"
"I do not think we need to bother with the lower ranks," said Graf, still in that quiet, almost gentle tone. "If you will allow me access to those prisoners who hold the rank of sergeant and above, that will be quite sufficient for my purpose."
"I bet it bloody will," muttered Newkirk.
"Let me see." Klink's voice became a little more distant, indicating he'd moved away from his desk. One of the drawers of the big filing cabinet opened and closed, then a rustle of papers. "There are four men. Lieutenant Jeffries, Technical Sergeant Cooper, and two staff sergeants, Mills and MacNeill. Mills is currently in solitary confinement, the other men should be in their barracks."
"I will see the man in solitary first. Please have him brought to this office. Then the others, in descending order of rank."
Footsteps followed, and then the opening of the door, and a fretful summons: "Schultz! Go to the cooler, and bring the prisoner Mills here."
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."
"And then wait outside. This man is from the Gestapo, he will give you further orders. I will be in my quarters."
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."
Hogan stood up. "Let's see if I can head this off. "
He left the barracks and strode briskly across the yard. As he approached, Graf's SS goon stepped forward, turning the barrel of his semi-automatic rifle towards the intruder. Hogan responded with his best dumb-American grin.
"Hi," he said cheerfully. "Colonel Robert E. Hogan, senior prisoner of war officer. Don't mind me."
He moved as if to go past, but the SS man blocked his path. Hogan regarded him with vague surprise. "Excuse me, you're in the way," he pointed out politely. "I need to go inside." He took a step to one side. The Kraut did the same.
Hogan gave an exasperated sigh. "Oh, come on, pal. I just want to see Colonel Klink for a couple of minutes. See, me and the Kommandant have an understanding, if it's a matter of the prisoners' welfare, his door is always open. So if you'll just let me..." Once again he tried to get past. This time, still without saying a word, the goon raised his rifle and pointed it directly at Hogan.
"Colonel..."
It was Mills' voice, low and strained. Schultz, reinforced by one of the other guards, had brought him over from the cooler, unkempt and showing the signs of lack of sleep. He was staring, not at Hogan, but at the SS driver, who he clearly recognized. But he dragged his eyes away, and glanced at Hogan long enough to give an almost imperceptible shake of his head. It seemed like he didn't want the colonel getting involved.
"What's going on, Schultz?" said Hogan.
Schultz, affecting indifference, shrugged his shoulders. "Kommandant Klink told me to bring Mills to his office."
"What for?"
"I know nothing."
"Then I guess I'll just have to ask Klink when we get inside." And Hogan, straightening his jacket, stepped forward again.
"Nein, Colonel Hogan, you cannot go inside now. There is..." Schultz broke off, at a low threatening growl from the SS man. After a few seconds, he finished up, rather lamely: "He just wants to speak to Mills. Nobody else."
"But, Schultz, you know as well as I do..."
"Please, Colonel Hogan, don't make trouble when the Gestapo...I mean, don't make trouble. Back to your barracks, schnell."
Hogan was ready to argue the point, but Mills forestalled him. "Sir, please do what he says." He spoke quietly, but with resolve, and he glanced sideways at the SS man, whose gun was still aimed squarely at Hogan's chest. The message was clear: No point in getting yourself shot... It went against the grain, but the best thing Hogan could do for Mills was to walk away, for now.
"All right," he said. "But this is against all the rules, and believe me, Klink is gonna hear about it."
He turned, and with a fine display of offended military dignity, half-expecting to receive a bullet between the shoulder blades, he walked back to the barracks.
"Not a chance," he growled, once he was safely back inside.
"You had us worried for a minute there, Colonel," said Kinch, who with the rest of the team had been watching the whole business from the barracks door.
"Had myself a bit spooked, too," Hogan admitted, as he led the way back into his quarters. "I don't know if the bastard would have gone as far as to shoot me in cold blood, but I wasn't prepared to take the chance. I can't help Mills if I'm dead."
He held up his hand to discourage any further comments, as the voice of the Gestapo man came through the speaker: "So, Sergeant Mills, now that you've had time to consider your alternatives, shall we continue our conversation?"
There was a lengthy pause before Mills replied. "Mills. Paul. Sergeant. Serial number..."
"Yes, thank you, sergeant, I already have that information. What I want to hear is not your name, but the names of the German citizens who abetted your attempt to evade capture." Graf waited for a few seconds, then went on. "I'm sure you already realize that, eventually, you will talk. The longer you persist in this obstinacy, the worse it will be for you. And if you think anyone will be grateful, or will admire your courage, let me assure you that nobody is ever going to know. Think how foolish you will feel when it is over. So much time, and so much pain, and all for nothing. Be sensible, Mills. Tell me what I want to know, and spare me the trouble of forcing it out of you."
Mills' voice shook. "Go screw yourself, Fritz."
Then there was a thud, and a low, half-choked cry. Newkirk and LeBeau, driven by reflex, started up, but Hogan rapped out a sharp command: "Wait."
The few tense seconds which followed felt endless, before Graf's cool thin voice spoke: "Don't break his arm, Schäfer. You know the sound makes me feel sick. Besides, I don't want that fool of a Kommandant asking questions." And a stifled gasp indicated Mills had been released.
"The evil sod," muttered Newkirk.
"You disappoint me, Mills," said Graf. "I really thought you were more intelligent. Schäfer, tell the guard to take him back to the cooler. He can stay there until it is time to leave. And have the other three men brought over, so I can see each of them in turn."
LeBeau was almost ready to burst. "Mon colonel, what are we going to do? Once he takes Mills away..."
"I'm thinking," Hogan snapped. "Give me a minute."
His eyes flickered, as he contemplated the problem. Newkirk glowered, LeBeau fidgeted, and Carter, shocked, stared at the coffee pot.
"Okay," said Hogan at last. "You three, grab a couple of the others, go down to the tunnel and get into German uniform. I'll be down in a couple of minutes to tell you what to do next. Kinch, you stay here. I'm gonna need you."
The others had gone on the word.
"I don't get it, Colonel" said Kinch. "This guy came here to put the pressure on Mills, and he's done that. How come he's hanging around to question the others?"
"Probably because one of them is his informant," replied Hogan in grim tones. "The easiest way to get a report is to have the guy in for interrogation, along with a couple of other men as camouflage. So I guess we're about to find out who..."
He broke off, as the speaker crackled into life again with the sound of Klink's office door opening and closing, then a barked order from Graf's aide: "Achtung!"
"Your name," said Graf.
The answer rang out loud with nervous defiance: "Jeffries, John, Lieutenant."
"Your squadron?" No response. After a few seconds, Graf repeated the question, but Jeffries kept stumm. "Where in England is it based?" Still no answer.
"What was the target of the bombing mission on which you were shot down?" Graf went on.
"Jeffries, John, Lieutenant."
"Not much of an interrogation, is it?" murmured Kinch.
"The son of a bitch is just going through the motions," replied Hogan. It was pretty obvious, Jeffries wasn't their man.
The answer to that mystery came at last a few minutes later, after Jeffries had been dismissed. The next man in didn't wait for Graf to speak. He got in first, swiftly and indignantly: "It's about time you showed up. I've done what you told me to. When are you gonna meet your end of the deal and get me out of this craphole?"
"I'll be damned," whispered Kinch.
Hogan's eyes kindled. And Graf, with no change in his cool indifference, confirmed it: "When I have the information I need. That was our agreement...Sergeant Cooper."