Hogan clapped his hands, attracting all his compatriots' attention towards him, and therefore to the plan he had come up with.
"We need to create a diversion to draw off most of the guards." He looked over at Lebeau. "Am I right in thinking that we still have some fireworks in storage?"
Lebeau nodded. "Oui, colonel. And a few bags of gunpowder."
"Good. C-" he quickly amended, hoping nobody had noticed the slip- "Kinch, I want you to set some up on the side of camp farthest from the gates, so the Kraut's attention will be drawn over there. That will allow another group, at least three of them disguised as Gestapo officers, to get a staff car, and drive into Hammelburg to get Carter out."
"...How are you going to get a staff car out of the gates with nobody noticing it?" asked Jager, eyes narrowing.
"Schultz is on guard duty," was the simple reply.
The prisoners of Stalag 13 nodded in understanding; the men from the underground looked more confused, but evidently decided to go with the explanation.
"What are you going to do about roll call?" Lebeau asked. "It's only a few hours away."
"I know." Hogan grimaced. "We could just say that some of you tried to escape in all the excitement-"
"I have a better idea," Jager spoke again. He gestured to himself and his men. "Let us go and get your man back for you. That way none of you will be found missing except for him-unless…"
He pulled forward another member of the Underground, Fischer. He was of medium height, on the slender side, and dirty blond. Jager picked up Carter's cap, which he'd left on his bunk, and slid it onto Fischer's head, pulling it down over his eyes.
Of course, nobody who examined him closely would mistake him for Carter. But there was enough of a passing resemblance that even in an emergency roll call, on a dark chilly night where nobody wanted to be out there for long, especially a cowardly monocled colonel or a rotund sergeant, he might be able to get away with it.
"We can use the radio to bring more of us to help," Jager went on.
Hogan frowned. "I don't want to endanger you; you're civilians, and typically this is our kind of job-"
"Colonel, you and your men have endangered yourselves time and time again for our sakes," said Jager. "Now one of them has gotten himself captured while trying to protect one of us."
And because one of you abandoned 'im, Newkirk thought rebelliously.
"It's only fair that we return the favor this time." After a moment, he went on, "If you wish you or one of your men may come with us-"
"I volunteer," Newkirk said without hesitating.
After a long pause in which he worried that someone would try to stop him from going, Hogan and Jager both nodded.
Newkirk gave an inward sigh of relief; having their permission saved him the trouble of acquiring a Gestapo uniform from their stash and going out on his own anyway.
"We will need at least two of you to actually go to Hammelburg," Hogan went on. "The rest of you need to set up a series of roadblocks, accidents, or whatever else we might require on the main road there."
At the number of confused looks he received, he said, "If I know Hochstetter the way I think I do, he's going to be headed towards camp soon. We need to stop him from arriving here before we're back."
A splash of cold water had Carter sitting up and spluttering; the jerking against the cuffs which provoked a sudden, searing pain in his right hand nearly had him losing consciousness again. He started to look down at it to see what was the matter-and quickly looked away again, so he wouldn't have to see his swollen, bloodied, broken fingers and thumb. So he wouldn't have to wonder if he'd ever be able to use his hand again.
"Is Colonel Hogan Papa Bear?" Hochstetter demanded without preamble, drawing his attention back to the irate major.
If he had red mustaches, he could be a German version of Yosemite Sam. Neither of them has any concept of indoor voice.
"Do you ever get tired of asking the same questions over and over?" Carter asked, looking at him curiously.
"Stop speaking in whatever made-up language that is!"
"The language of my people is very real, you overgrown wolverine. It's been around since long before you were born."
The riding crop lashed across his cheek; Carter felt a new cut opening, and wondered if there could possibly be any blood left in his face to leak out.
The brute stood at attention next to Hochstetter, staring straight ahead, not even looking bored, just...expressionless. His hands hung at his sides, fingers slightly curled inwards, still a little bloody around the knuckles.
You'd probably be a good boxer, Carter thought dazedly, looking him over. But Kinch could still take you any day of the week.
It took him a moment to realize that Hochstetter had said something, when a gloved hand grabbed his chin and jerked his face over in the other man's direction.
"Do we have to see if you can stay quiet while we take the fingers of your other hand?!" he demanded.
Behind him, the soldier (Carter decided to call him Fritz) drew a large hunting knife from his boot.
Carter blanched; he couldn't help it (and not just because he was suffering from severe blood loss and extreme emotional and physical stress).
He loved his hands.
They were what allowed him to create explosives, to doodle on whatever spare pieces of paper he could find lying around, to play with Felix-they were essential to his way of life.
But there were his friends to consider.
They were essential to his way of life too.
Besides, Hochstetter (or more likely Fritz acting on his orders) was going to kill him anyway.
So the US tech sergeant was able to look up at him with frightened, yet determined, blue eyes.
Do your worst.
*Sniff* Carter's so brave!