Chapter Seventeen: Allies

There was an art form to sneaking around, but Hogan hadn't mastered it yet. It didn't help that the ground crunched with every step he took, or that wearing his military uniform felt like he was wearing a sign that said: Enemy, shoot on sight. If he kept this up, he was going to have to ask Olsen to give him sneaking lessons. Or maybe one of the other prisoners as there had to be some country or backwoods POWs who knew a thing or two about moving silently through the forest.

"We should be getting close," LeBeau whispered. "We turn right at the next turn-off and the barn should be just a little up the road."

Hogan nodded as he kept up his slow but steady stroll to meet what he hoped was a member of the German underground. No, he knew that LeBeau's contact with the veterinarian had gone well, but the officer still feared that this could be a trap. But he had run out of options. They needed to find a way to get Crane out of camp and this was their best and only chance.

Finding the road, Hogan and LeBeau turned and within ten minutes they spotted the barn. It looked abandoned and there was no sign of anyone else in the woods. The two allies exchanged a glance; that was all it took for them to know that they both believed they should just go in.

Hogan gestured for LeBeau to take the lead and the Corporal slowly crept towards the barn. As the Frenchman opened the slightly rotting door, Hogan held his breath. He had sent his man in first with hope that the veterinarian would recognize him from earlier. However, he would not remain outside in safety while LeBeau took all the risks. As soon as the doorway was clear, he followed the Frenchman inside.

The barn was dark. But there was no mistaking the figure of a man sitting on a crate in the center of the room. And he did look like he could be the veterinarian from camp

The older man's eyes flickered with recognition as he glanced at LeBeau and remained steady as they studied Hogan. "Good, you came."

As Hogan stepped forward, the light from a small lantern confirmed that they had found the right man. It was now or never. He had to trust. "I'm Colonel Robert Hogan. You've met Corporal LeBeau."

"Oskar Schnitzer," the man said as he gestured for the two POWs to sit down. "I have found my dogs to be remarkable judges of character. Anyone they'd let hide in their home is someone I'm glad to meet."

Hogan frowned. "You didn't train them to be friendly?"

Schnitzer chuckled. "I helped them along. But I doubt they would have let any man do what LeBeau did regardless of uniform."

"I like dogs," LeBeau said as if that explained the matter.

The older man smiled and Hogan found himself liking him. "We are grateful for what you've done with the dogs," the American said. "We asked to meet because we need to make contact with the local Underground and we were hoping that you could point us in the right direction."

"That's a dangerous proposition, Colonel. The Gestapo is always looking for Underground activity and they don't always take the time to separate the innocent from the guilty. And if they discover you working with us they will not treat you as POWs."

LeBeau spoke with passion, "We know, monsieur, but we are willing to take the risk."

Schnitzer considered the matter for a moment before stating, "I can help you with this. I take it you want to escape."

"Yes," Hogan declared. "We've had several men get outside the wire, but so far no one has managed to get very far afterwards. We need help putting some distance between us and the camp. Then point us in the direction of Switzerland and we can our way from there."

The German shook his head. "Switzerland is too dangerous. We have a better route." Then, before Hogan could ask, the man continued, "I don't have the authority to share the details, but we have managed to get several downed flyers out of the country."

Hogan didn't press. The Underground had to be careful about the information they shared. When they decided that he needed to know more, he would be told. "We have one man who needs to go out soon. We are hiding him in Stalag Thirteen, but he needs to escape before the guards discover he's there."

"I think we can handle one man on short notice."

"Good," Hogan declared. "Because this is what we are going to do." For the next several minutes, he outlined his plan for getting Crane out of camp. "Any questions?"

"How will this Olsen know that I am with you when I find him?"

Hogan grinned mischievously. "Tell him a mutual friend mentioned that he hates Latin."

Schnitzer didn't seem fazed by the odd phrase; the Underground must be accustomed to using odd phrases as codes. "Is there anything else you need?"

Hogan nodded. "One of my men is almost finished fixing up a broken transmitter radio. If you get us the right frequencies and codes it will make further contact easier."

"I will send the frequencies with Olsen and I will let my contacts know that I have made friends with a Papa Bear."

"Papa Bear?"

"It is a fitting code name for a man who cares for so many cubs. Keep in contact and we will do what we can to get you and your men to safety." With those words, Schnitzer said his goodbyes and disappeared into the woods.

Hogan noticed that LeBeau looked pensively in the direction that their contact had disappeared. "Is something wrong?" the officer asked.

"I like him for a boche," LeBeau said softly.

Hogan was still getting to know LeBeau, but he knew the Frenchman well enough to know that remark hadn't come easy. France was suffering and LeBeau had shown no restraint in directing his ire towards the perpetrators – the German people.

But how can you hate an enemy who's willing to go against his own country in order to help your own?

Hogan sighed. Working with the German Underground was having an unsettling effect on him and his men. Their eyes had been opened and they were beginning to see that there was no such thing as a nameless, faceless enemy who eagerly followed the whims of evil men. Once they managed to escape, could they go back to fighting this war in the same way they had before? Dropping bombs that harmed soldier and civilian, enemy and friend?

Could they ever define their enemy in the same way they had before?

Kinchloe stepped outside and glanced around the camp. He had spent another late night in the tunnels digging and working on the radio and then another full morning helping to get rid of the dirt on latrine duty. Normally, he would be taking a nap now, but with Schnitzer due soon, he was needed out in the compound.

He tried to walk casually but he always had been a bit of a worrier. Olsen had failed to return on the original date and the staff sergeant hoped it meant their man had met up with Schnitzer and not something worse. Unfortunately, they had no way of finding out until they put their plan into action.

"Hey, look who it is," Leonard said as he approached the staff sergeant, Washington two steps behind him. "Wasn't sure you had time for us anymore."

Kinchloe nodded to his fellow Tuskegee Airmen. It was true; he hadn't talked with them since his escape attempt. Considering that the rest of camp thought the men in Barracks Two were traitors, he hadn't wanted to make things worse for his friends.

Washington crossed his arms as he came to stop a couple feet away. "Hogan let go of your leash?"

Telling himself there was no reasonable way for Washington to know what Hogan was planning, Kinchloe replied calmly but firmly, "I'm nobody's slave.

"That's a shame," Washington sneered. "I hadn't thought that you would ever turn into an Uncle Tom."

Kinchloe flinched. Those words had hurt. But how could he explain something he still barely believed was happening himself?

"Don't say that," Leonard said. "Kinchloe wouldn't do that. He's just following orders."

"I am helping Colonel Hogan," Kinchloe confessed. "I'm doing it because I want to; not because he's making me."

The younger man backed away in disbelief. "Why?"

"You really trust him, that…that…officer," Washington spat.

Kinchloe hesitated. His feelings on Hogan grew more complicated by the day. He liked the officer and he had hope that Hogan would continue to prove that he was a good man. But trust. Trust was a different matter. "Look, he's not half bad for an officer. He's working on a way for us all to escape. He recognizes that I have skills that can help him and I think he means what he says."

"But do you trust him?" Washington pressed.

"No," Kinchloe answered honestly. "Not yet."

More than a little surprised, Leonard asked, "Then why do you follow him?"

Because I want to trust him, Kinchloe answered silently. But how could he ever get Leonard and Washington to understand? They hadn't seen what he had seen. Besides, how could he convince others to believe what he barely believed himself?

Kinchloe was saved from attempting to explain the inexplicable as LeBeau walked briskly up to their group. Sensing that something was wrong, the Frenchman called out in his own tongue, "Kinch, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Kinchloe answered in French. "Just talking."

LeBeau glanced suspiciously at the other men and Kinchloe could tell that he hadn't believed him. "It's almost time."

"I'll be along in a minute."

The Frenchman shot Kinchloe a knowing look and stood his ground. "I'll wait."

Turning back to his own people, Kinchloe knew that this conversation had only furthered their suspicion over whether he had sold out. "Look, I have to go. We can talk later."

"Not necessary," Washington stated coldly. "If you make your bed with Hogan you can talk to him."

As Washington stormed off, Leonard hesitated. For a moment Kinchloe thought he was going to speak up. But that moment passed, and the younger man sighed and walked off on his own.

LeBeau continued their conversation in French as the others walked away. "Your friends didn't look too happy."

"They don't like that I'm helping Hogan."

"Once Olsen comes back, the whole camp will have to notice what we are really doing. They will come around."

Kinchloe sighed. LeBeau was trying to help, but Washington's and Leonard's remarks had nothing to do with them thinking that Hogan was a traitor. Changing the subject, he asked, "Do you really think this will work?"

"Today's plan: yes. A mass escape: no."

"Then why are you helping?"

LeBeau answered with a question of his own. "Do you know why I never stopped trying to escape?"

Kinchloe thought back to that day in the cooler. He had recognized LeBeau as someone who would never stop trying, but he had never figured out why he believed that. "No."

"The Nazis took my homeland. If we stop fighting, then we become Nazis, too. As long as we keep fighting them there is hope that France will be free."

"And Newkirk?"

"He grumbles to make you think he doesn't care, but he cares."

Kinchloe nodded in agreement. LeBeau's words made sense from what he knew of both men. Though the little Frenchman wasn't finished. "You aren't so different from us. You won't stop fighting either. Because we both know that it is better to fight and fail than to stop fighting altogether."

"Thank you," Kinchloe whispered. He had needed to hear that.

LeBeau smiled and then switched back to English, signaling that their time for reflection was over. "I see Schnitzer."

Exchanging a knowing look, the two prisoners split up as Kinchloe walked swiftly over to the side of Barracks Two, grabbed a barrel and carried it to the center of the compound as the dog truck approached the front gate. Newkirk, carrying a bundle under one arm, was waiting for him there.

"Ready?" Kinchloe asked as he set the barrel down.

"Kinch, my good man," Newkirk said as he climbed atop the barrel. "Have a little faith."

Kinchloe rolled his eyes as he continued setting up. Newkirk was in a good mood, probably because he was going to be permitted to show off. Though the American had to admit the Englishman was good at what he did.

With a wink to his partner in crime, Newkirk gestured with his hands and raised his voice. "Gather around! The First Annual Stalag Thirteen Auction is about to begin!"

The men of Barracks One, already prepped on what to do, gathered around Newkirk along with half of Barracks Two. A few other prisoners not in on the plan looked up and watched the scene with interest. With luck some of them would join in as well.

"Our first item up for auction is this lovely pocket watch." Kinchloe held the item up for the crowd to see as Newkirk continued with his speech. "A very good watch indeed. Strong enough to survive a crash landing and reliable enough that one will never be late for roll call. It is a beauty to look at and will be an excellent souvenir to show the folks back home. Now do I have a bid of one cigarette?"

One hand raised quickly into the air.

"That's one; do I have two? Yes, two. Three? Thank you, Bennett."

"Two cigarettes and one candy bar!" a voice shouted.

"Now, I that's what I like. A man with deep pockets. Do I have three cigarettes and a candy bar? No? Going once, going twice, sold to Sergeant Towson."

Kinchloe handed over the watch to the POW and grabbed the next item that Newkirk produced with a flourish. "Look at this, gentlemen. Now it might not look like much, but I give me word that this here is the sharpest razor in the whole camp. How would you like to be able to shave with ease? Surely this must be worth three cigarettes to one lucky man."

"Three," Anderson agreed.

"Newkirk! Kinchloe!" Schultz cried out as he approached the rapidly growing gathering of prisoners. "What are you doing?"

"Holding an auction," Newkirk said nonchalantly.

Schultz looked confused. "An auction?"

Kinchloe moved to stand between guard and auctioneer. "If you want to bid on an item you need stand over there with everyone else."

"Nein! Nein! Nein! You cannot hold an auction in a prison camp. Everyone back to the barracks."

"Sorry, Schultzie," Newkirk replied with a wicked grin. "Colonel Hogan told us we could."

Schultz groaned. "Colonel Hogan is not the kommandant of this camp. Please stop."

Newkirk shrugged as if to say that it was not his problem and then turned his attention back to the crowd. "I have three cigarettes for a sharp razor. Can I have four?"

Kinchloe continued showing off the item for sale as the Englishman kept talking. Glancing at the guard towers, he noticed that they had caught the attention of most of the guards in the area.

Perfect.

However, it didn't take long for them to also attract the attention of the man who was supposedly in charge of this madhouse.

"Schultz!" Klink did not disappoint as he hurried the scene. "What is going on here?"

"Herr Kommandant, the prisoners are holding an auction."

"I didn't give permission for an auction."

Schultz said nervously, "Colonel Hogan did."

"Colonel Hogan is not the kommandant of this camp."

"That's what I told the prisoners, Herr Kommandant, but they did not listen."

Kinchloe held back a chuckle. Was there a man less suited to be a guard than Sergeant Schultz?

Klink turned away from Schultz and Kinchloe braced himself. "Corporal Newkirk, Sergeant Kinchloe, explain yourselves."

"We were just having a spot of fun, sir," Newkirk replied.

Grabbing the razor from Kinchloe's hand, Klink asked, "Where did you get this?"

"We traded for it."

Klink looked doubtful as he studied the object. However, he didn't get much time for reflection as Hogan choose that moment to join their little gathering. "Is there a problem, Kommandant?"

"Problem? Yes, there is a problem."

Crossing his arms nonchalantly, Hogan said, "I thought you'd be happy."

"Happy? How could I be happy when I see prisoners turning my camp into a marketplace?"

"I thought you told me that you were unhappy about the number of escape attempts, so I suggested some activities to keep the men busy. But if you'd rather the men have more time to plot their escape, that's of no concern to me. You heard the Kommandant, men. Break it up."

The prisoners quickly moved to follow their CO's orders, much to the dismay of their Kommandant. "Wait!"

Hogan grinned as Klink reversed his prior decision. "I believe I spoke too hastily. You have my permission to hold your auction."

Then, after gripping tightly to his swagger cane as if to reassure himself that he was still in control of his camp, Klink turned on his heel and hurried back to the comfort of his own office.

Kinchloe couldn't help it; the sight of Klink slinking away was just too good and when he caught Newkirk's eye and saw that he was thinking the same thing, the two men simultaneously burst out into peals of laughter.

The noise escaping from his lips sounded like a foreign sound to Kinchloe's ears and the act itself felt good. It felt as if he was releasing months worth of fear and frustration as he lost himself in the joy of the moment.

Laughing felt normal.

Laughing felt like he belonged.

He was grinning from ear to ear as Hogan gestured for them to hurry up and finish the auction. In that moment, the American NCO straightened as Newkirk easily slid back into his role. Knowing that they needed to go through the motions for their faithful watchers' sake, the two prisoners flew through the last five items so they could return to their barracks and see if the swap of Crane and Olsen had been successful or not.

The bid for the last item dragged on longer than Kinchloe had hoped for as a few of the prisoners who were not in on the operation had joined in and started a bidding war. Though thankfully, they left quickly when Newkirk announced that the auction was over.

His task done, Kinchloe hurried back towards the barracks and was greeted by the sight of a grinning Olsen lounging at the table with a mug of coffee in his hand, while the rest of the men clustered around him, eager for stories of his time outside the wire.

As Kinchloe walked past the table, Olsen reached out and grabbed his hand, pressing something into it. "For you."

Kinchloe grabbed the folded piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. He wouldn't look at it until he was safely in the tunnel and that was where it would stay. It wouldn't be just him who would suffer if he was caught with contact information of the underground. So while the rest of the barracks continued badgering Olsen, Kinchloe snuck into the tunnel and lit a lamp.

The note contained contact information for a local operative who was identified only as the Huntsman. The note itself was addressed to a Papa Bear.

"Papa Bear?" he asked as Hogan joined him.

"Our code name."

"Fits the theme," he said as he handed over the paper.

"I'm just thankful that they decided to trust us," Hogan admitted.

"I wonder if they had some way of checking us out," Kinchloe said.

"Say more."

"Schnitzer told you that the underground has a way to get downed airmen out of Germany. What if they have contact with the Allies? With a good enough antenna it is possible to reach London."

As Hogan again pondered the paper, Kinchloe let loose a loud yawn. The long nights were starting to catch up to him. The Colonel immediately noticed. "This can wait. Go topside and rest. We're going to need you alert for evening roll call."

A hint of worry snuck into Kinchloe's voice as he asked, "You think Schultz will cause trouble when he notices we lied about Olsen?"

Hogan shrugged. "We'll find out in a couple hours."

Schultz hadn't even started counting when he saw Olsen standing in line in his usual spot. Any hope the prisoners had that the guard would fail to note the wayward sergeant's reappearance quickly disappeared. "Colonel Hogan," the guard groaned.

"Yes, Schultz?" Hogan asked.

"The man I said wasn't Olsen but you insisted was Olsen is missing and the man I thought was Olsen was missing but now he is here again."

Kinchloe tried repeating that sentence in his head; apparently a thoroughly baffled Schultz caused all those who listened to him to be confused as well. Hogan, however, had no problem following the frustrated guard, as the officer said, "Olsen is standing right there."

"Then who was the other man?" Schultz demanded.

"What other man?"

Schultz was at his wit's end. "The other man who was here standing in Olsen's spot this morning!"

LeBeau spoke up. "Are you feeling okay, Schultzie?"

"Yeah," Olsen added. "I have been here every day."

"No," Schultz insisted, "there was a man who said he was you but he didn't look like you."

"You hear that!" Olsen cried. "Schultz thinks I can change my looks. If I could do that, I would escape."

Schultz groaned. "No escaping. No talk of escaping. Please tell me what happened to the other man."

Hogan grinned as his silver tongue worked its magic. "Okay, Schultz, you can tell Klink that there was another man. But then Klink is going to want to know what happened to this other man, and you are going to have to tell Klink how this man – who no one but you believes exists – snuck into a prison camp, and then escaped out of it again. And all on your watch!"

That was too much for the overwhelmed Sergeant of the Guard. "I must be going crazy. There was no other man. Sergeant Olsen was here for every roll call this week."

Hogan grinned smugly as Schultz carried on as if nothing had happened. The officer's confidence had been well deserved and Kinchloe couldn't help but be impressed. And for the first time, he found himself beginning to believe, really believe, that this was no dream and that Hogan really could and would deliver on everything he had promised.

AN: On the phrase Uncle Tom. It stems from the main character of Harriet Beecher Stove's abolitionist novel "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and for the first few decades of its usage it was a compliment as the Uncle Tom character was seen as a hero and a martyr.

That, however, changed sometime in the 1910s with the Great Migration of Southern blacks to Northern cities (like Detroit). The Southern blacks were seen as overly subservient to whites by those who lived in the North. This was not helped by whites having a preference for hiring the Southern migrants which meant that they were perceived as taking all the best jobs. So Uncle Tom became an insult that meant one was acting overly submissive or subservient to whites.

Around the time of the Civil Rights movement the meaning evolved again and, today, the phrase is one of the worst insults an African-American person can use against another. It basically means that the person being insulted is a traitor to their race by acting white or by working against the best interest of African-Americans.