Once Is Enough

by Abracadebra

Newkirk and Marya have never been on a mission together until now. There's a good reason why once is enough. Written for the 2023 SSSWC. Links to episode The Klink Commandos.

"Me? Why me? She's LeBeau's bird! Send him!"

The news that Newkirk would have to accompany Marya in carrying out her latest scheme was not going over well, at least not with him. As he buttoned up his German uniform, he had the distinct impression no one else really cared what he thought.

"It's a good choice, Colonel Hogan," Kinch said to the man who, having just issued the command from his sickbed, was now blowing his nose loudly. "She doesn't like him, and a little dramatic tension will give him an excuse to go off and sulk about it."

"He's a natural for that," Carter piped in. Hogan laughed nasally but agreeably.

"Hang about! What's wrong with me?" Newkirk protested, but the team was busy conferring among themselves and seemed oblivious to his presence. Except LeBeau, who snorted and busied himself with petting the sleeve of Marya's fur coat.

Marya, who was perched on Hogan's desk, came to Newkirk's defense. "Engländer, darling, I could not be more fond of you if you were my brother," she said, approaching him to stroke his cheek. "And you look so handsome in your black suit of death," she added, running her hands over the skull insignia on his SS uniform.

Newkirk pulled back like he'd been scalded, but Marya didn't notice because by then she had shifted her gaze to LeBeau, who had moved across the room in step with her and was still petting her.

"What is his name, again, small one?" Marya asked him.

LeBeau shrugged indifferently. "I have trouble remembering." He was in a snit. He considered himself the obvious choice to accompany his princess, his goddess, his transcendent beauty, on the mission to a suave affair at the grandest hotel this side of Düsseldorf.

"Not Newkirk's name," Marya corrected LeBeau. "My brother's name. I haven't seen him in years. I simply cannot abide that man," she said, thrusting her arm out so dramatically that she clipped Newkirk's ear.

Newkirk scowled, and scowled some more when he noticed LeBeau suppressing a laugh.

"You ruddy frog! You know my name!" He dialed down his rage as he turned to Marya, but barely. "Do me a favor and stick with calling me 'Engländer'," he told her. In the company of most women, Newkirk punctuated his sentences with "Love," but Marya wasn't most women.

"Knock it off, all of you," Hogan rasped. "Marya, tonight he's Sturmbannführer Schneider and you can call him whatever it is you usually call your … dates. Newkirk, you're elected because you're closest to my size, and you sound almost like a German officer when you bellow. And LeBeau, just… stop, would you? I gave you a job to do." He punctuated his sentence with a sneeze.

"All right, I'll get a dog," the Frenchman grumbled as he made his way to the door.

"Carter, go with him," Kinch instructed. "Make sure he chooses one Newkirk can handle."

With Carter and LeBeau thus dispatched, Hogan turned his rheumy eyes to his reluctant substitute. He considered reasoning with the man, but rejected that tactic as hopeless. Hogan was already aching from influenza. He didn't need a Newkirk-induced migraine on top of that misery.

So he laid out his plan, which he'd begun hatching 20 minutes earlier, just before Marya breezed into camp in a fire engine red Mercedes 540K roadster, demanding to see Klink, as the Underground had warned she would. He'd perfected it in the 15 minutes since Schultz admitted her to the barracks to give Klink time to flee into town. And in the 10 minutes it had taken Newkirk to fetch the SS uniform they'd both previously worn, Hogan had reconciled himself to the fact that he was too sick to go anywhere.

"OK, Newkirk," Hogan said through congestion. "You're an SS major, just back from the Russian Front, and you lost most of your sight in an explosion, which is why you need a guide dog and dark glasses. Naturally, you lost your heart to this one," he added, cocking a thumb at Marya.

"Naturally," she cooed, running a hand over Newkirk's back. "I can't resist a wounded warrior, so brave, so vulnerable!"

Newkirk squirmed away from her and glared.

Hogan hacked, then continued. "A Kraut general who's the guest of honor at the party has documents with locations of new German aviation fuel depots along the Eastern Front. Your assignment is to locate them with the help of Marya's contact. Then you grab them, snap some pictures, and put them back where you found them. The dog will stand guard for you while Marya and the agent keep the general busy."

"Charming. And what if someone stumbles on what I'm doing? What am I supposed to do if I'm caught red-handed—pretend I'm practicing my Braille?"

"If anyone manages to get too close, play on their sympathy for your blindness or tell your dog to sic 'em," Kinch said. "That's why you have the dog."

"And if all else fails, scream like a crazed, angry, war-wounded SS man," Hogan counseled. "Just pretend you're telling Carter off." He flopped back down, weary with fever and the burden of commanding this crazy crew.

"Fine. So I might be looking for a locked briefcase inside a locked room or, worse yet, a safe," Newkirk groused. "Or I might not be. Because you have no clue."

"Correct," Hogan and Kinch said together.

"Look, Newkirk, I would have had to take you along anyway in case there's a safe to crack," Hogan said from his prone position. "You can pull this off."

"The perfect job for a blind man," Newkirk replied, sounding like a convict headed for the gallows.

"I have confidence in you," Hogan said. "Marya has a good network and she has this under control. Don't you Marya?" Newkirk was pretty sure he could detect a wince and an undertone of doubt.

He wasn't wrong. Hogan was nine kinds of nervous about sending Newkirk out alone with Marya. Deep down, he worried that even his sneakiest, stealthiest, most resourceful operative would wilt under her intoxicating spell of flirtation and deceit. But he was too sick to handle the job himself, and Newkirk was the only sensible choice, since Kinch couldn't possibly go.

To Hogan's immense relief, LeBeau and Carter slipped back in the room just in time to derail both Marya's response and Newkirk's grumbling.

"Blitz is waiting in Marya's car," Carter said. "I hope that's OK, ma'am," he added. "We talked to him to make sure, you know, no accidents, because it sure is a pretty car."

Marya looked at him in amusement.

"Blitz knows you're coming," LeBeau told Newkirk. "Here. Take these."

"What are they?" Newkirk asked, accepting a small brown paper packet about the size of a sandwich. He peeked inside.

"Dog biscuits. In case you need to encourage Blitz at any time. He's a good dog, but all dogs need a reward now and then. And Newkirk?"

"Yes?"

"Look after Marya for me, mon pote."

Newkirk nodded and tucked the biscuits in the pocket of his ugly SS uniform. He had a bad feeling about this whole affair, but at least he knew that dog; he was a clever one. He wasn't sure how LeBeau communicated detailed plans to an Alsatian, but he'd seen the results, and he wasn't one to argue with success.

As for Marya, well, he was pretty sure she could look after herself.

OoOoOoO

Blind men don't drive, so Marya took the wheel. Newkirk, not known as a cautious driver himself, held on in terror as Marya attacked the road with the same odd blend of verve and ennui that she brought to conversation, and the same disregard for what anyone else was saying or doing.

"Engländer, darling, tell me about London! Tell me all about it! The quaint little streets, the tidy little shops." Marya spoke breathlessly as she swerved her red roadster back and forth across the road to navigate obstacles. She didn't wait for him to answer as she swept around rubble from air attacks and dodged a boy who was herding a half-dozen startled cattle in from the pasture for the night. "Please tell me you have met Grand Duchess Xenia and her darling son, Prince Andrei Aleksandrovich," she went on. "They live in a horrible little English dacha called Frogmore."

"I'm afraid Grand Duchesses and Princes are out of my league," Newkirk grunted. With the convertible top down, he clutched at the door panel for safety. He grimaced as motorists shook their fists at them and horses and mules reared, and he hoped Blitz wouldn't leap out of the back seat in a panic.

En route, Marya informed Newkirk that he, like all her beaux, would require a nickname, and that she had decided on a typically manly Russian one: Luchik. Then she told him what it meant: Sunbeam.

He darkened. She radiated joy at his response.

By the time Marya swanned into the Hotel Fürstenhoff early that evening, Newkirk was already sick of her voice and exhausted by her seemingly inexhaustible capacity for small talk, and so, he believed, was his dog. She, on the other hand, was energized.

"Luchik, darling." Marya's voice rang out as she took center stage in the marble foyer and spun around once. "Let the party begin! Let's dance!"

Standing by as Marya twirled, Newkirk tried not to focus on how she looked, but he could not deny that this exasperating spy was lovely in her white satin gown with clusters of lace at the square neckline. As she handed him her fur and slinked into the ballroom, the sight of her bare back made his heart do a little flip. He scolded himself to concentrate on appreciating the workmanship, not the model. The tailor in him took note of how the bias-cut accentuated the fabric's flow, and how beautifully it caressed her form, and …

Ugh. This was the wrong moment to start channeling LeBeau. Even Blitz seemed to be mesmerized by Marya as he thumped his tail and gave a soft whimper.

Newkirk tugged the leash and softly muttered, "Down, boy." Whether he was instructing himself or the dog was anyone's guess.

He forced himself into character. "Marya, please," Newkirk replied loudly for the benefit of arriving guests and the waitstaff. He strode after her with Blitz, tapping his stick while rolling his eyes behind the safety of dark glasses. "The party is well underway. I can hear the string quartet playing." Not to mention the din of voices. That was good; a noisy party would be easier to exit.

As Newkirk and his dog caught up to Marya, she slipped her fur coat back on, linked arms with him, and leaned in to whisper. "My contact will be able to point us to the general. But we must proceed carefully. These Russian agents – they are not to be trusted," she trilled.

"Righto. Have your man show us the general's whereabouts; me and Blitz will take it from there," Newkirk responded in hushed tones.

The towering ballroom of the hotel was awhirl with guests. The elite of Hammelburg society was out in force: landlords and nobles; the Burgermeister and the chief of police; teachers, doctors, and lawyers; and an assortment of military officials, some from Berlin, but mostly locals, including Kommandant Klink.

The Kommandant saw Marya waving at him from across the room, blanched, and disappeared into the thronging masses. The presence of Newkirk in the company of a large, Stalag-appropriate Alsatian apparently didn't register.

Newkirk grasped Marya's elbow as she plunged into the crowd and began introducing them both to Hammelburg's high society. She was at her most charming, and he did his best to exude graciousness and military correctness. But Newkirk could feel Marya stiffen as her eyes turned to one of the more striking guests.

Not even a blind man could miss him. He had foppishly long, thick red hair, and was dressed in a royal blue velvet suit with a rabbit-fur collar. Tall and slightly pot-bellied, he had the Byronesque features and bearing of an aging dandy who had been very handsome not long ago. He exuded the aimless gaiety of the idle class as he regaled party-goers with a story in Russian-accented German, his hands fluttering as he spoke. With his flamboyant gestures and exuberant chatter, it was a safe bet that half the room was staring at him.

Newkirk loathed him instantly.

"Who is that bloke?" he asked Marya.

"I could not say," she replied. "But he is very annoying."

For the first time in, well, ever, Newkirk found himself thinking Marya was correct and perceptive.

Marya avoided the man until she found herself beside him at the dessert table. They reached for the same slice of Kirschtorte. Marya got there first and passed the plate to Newkirk, who hadn't seen sweets in eons and tucked right into it.

"Aleksandr Ivanovich," Marya said, nodding imperiously, her chin high.

"Marya Ivanova," the gentleman replied evenly, offering the barest tip of the head.

She threw her arms wide open and gave him a dazzling smile. "Sasha!"

He reciprocated, and his smile was equally bright, and nearly identical. "Maryushka!"

They broke into rapid chatter, talking over one another, laughing uproariously, and generally making a scene. Between bites of torte, Newkirk vacillated between mortified and astonished as the two enveloped one another in perfumed fur and affectionate murmurs.

Eventually, they detached from one another, but only long enough for Marya to sweep Newkirk into the embrace and send his plate clattering to the floor. "Luchik!" she shouted. "Meet my bratishka, Sasha!"

Newkirk managed to wriggle out of Marya and Sasha's clutch, only to have a ferocious grip take hold of his right arm and rattle it so vigorously that his shoulder ached. Apparently this was how Russian bears said hello.

"How do you know my sestrichka, tovarich?"

"Don't answer that, Luchik," Marya interjected. "Please, Sasha, he has suffered. Don't strain him with your questions."

Newkirk didn't attempt to answer, since he understood next to no Russian and spoke even less.

Sasha looked him over skeptically and snickered. "Luchik, eh? He scowls a lot for a sunbeam. Is he Russian? That would explain the gloom."

"Of course he is Russian. Look at him. He has eyes like a Tatar! Show him your eyes, Luchik," she commanded.

Newkirk hesitated, galled by the idea. He was supposed to keep his glasses on, didn't she remember that? Apparently not, as she yanked them off and shoved his head toward Sasha's so that all three of them were nose to nose.

"Sasha, Newkirk is an Allied operative and he is an Engländer." Several heads turned at her buoyant delivery.

"Seriously?" Newkirk hissed at Marya.

"Don't worry!" Marya responded. "Just laugh! They'll think we're telling jokes!"

Sasha protested: "You said he was Russian!"

Marya could only shrug. "I lied," she said carelessly.

"You couldn't get the American? Or the Frenchman?"

Marya managed to laugh at and scold Sasha simultaneously. "Nonsense, bratishka! My Hogan is sick. My small one, LeBeau, is too trusting and pure of heart for this work. But Newkirk here—he is a genius of deceit." She smiled tantalizingly at Newkirk.

Newkirk inhaled her scent—which seemed to consist of winter, raspberries, and birch bark—and once again almost understood the power she held over Hogan and LeBeau. Almost. By the time it registered that he had been insulted, Marya was explaining who this strange man was.

She whispered in Newkirk's ear like a lover with a fresh idea for a frolic. "Sasha is my brother and he will show us to the general's quarters."

Bratishka. Sestrichka. Oy gevalt. Of course, Newkirk realized. It made perfect sense that they were related. And it was as annoying as hell.

Everything in Newkirk's training—both military and streetwise—taught him the value of subtlety, elusiveness, and subterfuge. In what world, Newkirk asked himself, does a Russian spy sashay into a crowded party, make a scene, blow her partner's cover, and then introduce him to the most outrageous individual under the entire roof so everyone can look at them?

In Marya's world, obviously, Newkirk recognized as Sasha took the dog's leash and Newkirk's other elbow and led them out of the ballroom and into a central courtyard.

OoOoOoO

The sound of yapping greeted Sasha and Newkirk as they entered the courtyard.

"There is the general," Sasha informed Newkirk as he led him along. "The guest rooms are through that archway," he added, waving.

If that's the general, you're both barking mad, Newkirk grumbled in silence.

Marya had already sped ahead of them to greet the general. Newkirk and Sasha waited by the archway, which was framed by potted palm trees.

"Waffy, darling!" Marya said, sweeping her arms wide open. The general—tall, thin, blond, and severe—grunted in response and turned to whisper to the aide at his side, who had three Pomeranians on a leash.

Newkirk watched, aghast, as the man turned back to Marya and smiled coldly. He turned to Sasha.

"I'm not stealing another attaché case from that bloke! He nearly got us all killed and sent to the Russian Front last time we tried that."

Sasha looked startled. "You know the general?"

"Yes, I know him—it's Count von Waffenschmidt. Listen, Ginger, get Marya over here right now. I need to have a word with her."

Newkirk watched, his anxiety building, as Sasha slipped across the room, whispered to Marya, and then escorted her over.

Newkirk grabbed her forearm, gripping it hard.

"What are you playing at? That's bleeding Waffenschmidt! Why is he still speaking to you? And what's he doing here? He defected!"

"Luchik, please," she laughed. "Don't be foolish! This is a different von Waffenschmidt."

"WHAT?"

"Da, da. It is his identical twin cousin. Our von Waffenschmidt is in England—don't you recall? He's probably a shopkeeper by now, maybe running a little teashop. After the war, darling, you will take me there, yes?"

"First of all, I'm not taking you anywhere," Newkirk snapped. "Secondly, there is no 'our' Waffenschmidt. There is no 'our' anything except for our funeral, if you keep this up."

"Stop worrying! This Waffy is a pussycat. Nothing at all like that other monster."

"Look here, miss, this here is madness. Nobody has an identical twin cousin except in ridiculous, outrageous stories! I'm a betting man, and coincidences like that defy all odds." He peered over at the general. "And what's with all the fluffy little dogs?"

"Waffy is devoted to them. There are three more, in fact, including one female, who wears a beautiful, sparkling collar. I will make him take them for a stroll while you and Sasha find the papers. Go!"

Then she roughly pulled Newkirk toward her by his shirt collar, and pushed him away just as abruptly, slapping his face with a sharp crack. She shouted, "You brute! Don't speak to me like that! I don't care how much you suffered on the Eastern Front! Fiend! You wound my heart!"

Newkirk looked at her through his dark glasses, feeling stunned as a tear trickled from her eye, then another and another. What had he done to make her cry? He realized it was all an act, but still, his heart melted. He had no power against a crying woman; never had, never would.

The entire room turned to stare, flinging darts at Newkirk with their eyes. The chief of police came right up to him, looking reproachful. But once he and other party-goers realized a blind man couldn't see their disapproving glares, they changed tactics. They all surrounded Marya to pat her hand and reassure her. She lapped it up. While she held the crowd in thrall by sobbing her regrets, desires, humiliations, fears, and sufferings, Newkirk and Sasha quietly slipped off to get to work.

OoOoOoO

Up a flight of stairs and to the right, Newkirk, Blitz, and Sasha found themselves at the door to the general's suite. Newkirk had one look at the lock and snickered. This old hotel still had skeleton keys.

"What are you laughing at, tovarich?" Sasha asked nervously. He would have preferred to be downstairs entertaining guests than up here breaking and entering. "Don't you need a special key for that lock?"

"Talk about child's play. I could open one of these when I was 10," Newkirk said, inserting a wire from his set of lockpicks and jiggling it. "All you need to do with a warded lock is get to the back of it. There's nothing obstructing the plug to stop it turning." He popped it open.

"Master race," Newkirk sneered. "Ridiculous. Go watch the stairs and leave Blitz here outside the door. Blitz, you let me know if you see anyone you don't like or trust."

Sasha did as he was told, and so did Blitz. He kept vigil at the door as Newkirk slipped inside.

Newkirk sized up the room. It was a spacious chamber with a balcony. The night was mild, and the French doors leading to the balcony were ajar, admitting a pleasant breeze. That told him immediately that anything of value had already been secured.

Or so the general must have thought, because Newkirk found the papers quickly. He flicked on a light long enough to see that one corner of carpet showed signs of unusual wear. Lifting it, he saw the floorboards beneath it were mismatched. Switching on his penlight, he nudged one board and found the in-floor safe. He laughed again; it was nothing but a metal cylinder, locked in place with a single-bitted key. He unlocked it easily, pulled the cylinder out, and was nearly finished photographing a 10-page document under the penlight's illumination when he heard Blitz growling.

Bloody hell, he was almost done. He finished snapping pictures, then rolled up the document, slipped it back into the cylinder and slid it back into the floor, locking it as easily as he had opened it. He quickly rearranged the carpet, then hid at the balcony door behind its floor-length drapes.

The barking intensified, accompanied by yelps of pain. Suddenly, the door flung open and a man fell to the ground. "Get off me, you cur," a familiar whiny voice cried. Newkirk peeped around the curtain.

It was Colonel Klink, and Blitz had him by the ankle.

"Get off! Agggh!"

Out in the hallway, another voice joined the din. "What are you doing here? This is my room!"

He knew that voice, too, so he knew it was a lie, because that was Sasha.

"I don't know what I'm doing here! I was looking for the men's room, and as I passed down the hallway, this mongrel attacked me! Agggh! Stop biting!"

I'd bite too if you called me a mongrel, Newkirk smirked. But from behind the curtain, he called out gruffly, "Blitz! Release!"

The dog let go instantly. "Who said that?" Klink asked, looking around the dark room, entirely baffled.

Newkirk stepped out from behind the curtain, confident that Klink would not recognize him in a dark room. "I said it. Sturmbannführer Schneider. And why shouldn't I? You're in my room!"

Klink rubbed his bleeding ankle. "But your dog attacked me! And that man said it was his room!" He gestured to the door. "Where did he go?"

By now, the ruckus had drawn a crowd. The Burgermeister and the chief of police were on the scene, along with hotel security. Sasha, wisely, had bolted.

"I'm in here—it's my room!" Newkirk ranted. "And what do you expect? My dog is trained to attack intruders. I am a blind man, thanks to my service on the Eastern Front! I cannot protect myself any longer! Get out! All of you, get out! Can't you leave a wounded warrior alone in peace, with his dog and his thoughts?" The hysterical outburst was coming fairly easily to him.

The Burgermeister helped Klink to his feet and led him away. The chief of police took Newkirk by the arm. "Are you sure you're all right? Why were you standing by the balcony?"

"Why do you think?" Newkirk roared. "I wanted to end it all!"

The chief of police looked down. "It's a short drop. I don't think it would work."

"No. Of course it would not. Even in gloom I am doomed. Please, leave me. I am all right now, but I need to be alone with my dog."

"I understand," the police chief said. "I have dogs too. There is no better companion when one's heart is troubled."

My heart's going to be more troubled if you lot don't clear off before Waffenschmidt gets back, Newkirk muttered silently.

The police chief left, and Blitz came into the room, wagging his tail. "Good boy," Newkirk told him. "Excellent choice of victim." He reached in his pocket and produced a biscuit, which Blitz gobbled. Then the dog's ears perked up and he started barking again.

Outside the balcony below von Waffenschmidt's room, six frisky Pomerians were yipping. Newkirk would have to distract them long enough to get away. He reached into his pocket, pulled out more biscuits, and tossed them over the balcony.

"Who threw those? They came from my room!" But the dogs were going wild over the treats, and they drowned out von Waffenschmidt's suspicious words as Newkirk and Blitz raced to the stairs.

At the bottom, Newkirk crashed into Marya.

"Where's your mate Waffenschmidt?"

"Outside, calming down his dogs," Marya said. She dangled a shiny object in front of Newkirk.

"What have you got there?" he asked. In the dim light he could see that it was a dog collar, spangled with dozens of small diamonds.

"Cor," Newkirk said, whistling his appreciation. "It's a beauty. That's got to be worth a bleeding fortune."

"The diamonds have some value," Marya said. "But here," she added, "is its real worth." She pried the leather collar apart to reveal a slip of paper with a row of tiny numbers.

"Don't tell me. It's the code for the plans. You slipped it off the girl dog."

"So, I will not tell you. But you figured it out. And you have the documents. Hogan told me you were a clever one." She fondled his face seductively. "You may kiss me."

"It's tempting," Newkirk said with a warm smile, seeing Marya now in a new light as a coequal sneak. "But you have admirers, and one of them is my mate. It wouldn't be right for me to break his trust. We should be friends like you and that other Waffy of yours – like brother and sister. Speaking of which—where has your brother gone?"

"What brother?"

"Sasha?"

Marya waved a hand dismissively. "Him? Who knows? He comes, he goes, he breaks hearts and leaves such a mess behind."

Newkirk didn't say what he was thinking, which was, It must run in the family.

OoOoOoO

In the hotel foyer, Klink sat in an armchair nursing his wounded ankle as the chief of police hovered. Newkirk, holding Marya's elbow, froze at the edge of the room, stopping them both in their tracks. Then he decided that the dark glasses and SS uniform would shield him from recognition, so he continued—and Marya steered them both over to Klink.

"Klinky, my darling, you are hurt!"

"Attacked by a dog, much like that one your gentleman friend is leading," Klink said sorrowfully. Newkirk hid his face from Klink by leaning down to talk to the dog.

"Ah, but there are so many Alsatians around. It's hard to know one from the other," Marya replied. "Can you drive yourself back to Stalag XIII?"

"No," Klink said. "Not with my foot like this. I'm waiting for a ride."

"Nonsense! I will drive you there, and my gentleman friend will take your car back. Luchik! Klink's car!" She plucked the keys from Klink's hand and tossed them to Newkirk, who caught them with a surge of gratitude that he would be driving.

"He looks like that blind man," the chief of police said suspiciously.

"A blind man, driving a car?" Marya scoffed. "You Germans are funny people!"

OoOoOoO

"Hogan, he was magnificent! Picking locks, cracking safes, and like Tsar Aleksandr, tossing biscuits from the balcony to all the peasants! You must let me work with him again!"

Back in Hogan's quarters in the wee hours, Marya was regaling the team with their adventure. Hogan was smirking; Kinch was quirking an eyebrow; Carter was grinning; LeBeau was turning green.

"Let's not rush into anything," Newkirk replied solemnly. He was doing his best to look annoyed, but it was harder than it had been only a few hours earlier. Marya was standing close, her hands draped around his arm, and she smelled tantalizingly wild and wicked, just his type.

Newkirk suppressed the impulse to say "would you take your hands off me before I lose my mind?" Instead, while Marya was telling her story, he lifted her fingers from his upper arm and shifted them to LeBeau's shoulder. LeBeau nestled his head against her and sighed.

After Marya had departed, LeBeau sidled up to Newkirk. "So tell me. Did she change your mind? Surely you can see she is marvelous!"

Newkirk made himself scoff. "Sometimes in war you're forced into strange positions, and being on a mission with Marya certainly qualifies. She's a marvel, all right, and you can keep her."

But his eyes softened as he watched LeBeau head to his bunk. "She's beautiful, tovarich," Newkirk whispered.

OoOoOoO

Von Waffenschmidt appeared in The Klink Commandos, s5e3. Tsar Aleksandr throws biscuits to peasants in War and Peace. The details about Russian emigres at Frogmore are historic.