The warmth of a mid-September day had put Colonel Klink in an unusually good mood as Colonel Hogan entered his office.

"Ah, Hogan," Klink said, smugly adjusting his monocle. "I need volunteers for hop picking!"

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "Hop picking, sir? What's that exactly?"

"Hogan, Hogan. Hops are the key ingredient in beer," Klink lectured. "The finest hops in our region grow on a farm near this camp, and the POWs have been granted the honor of assisting with the harvest."

"Gee, Sir, I'm overwhelmed. It's not every day my men are granted the honor of being poorly paid farmhands. Should I send a thank you note directly to Hitler, or is hopping around the fields thanks enough?"

Klink ignored the sarcasm, mostly. "There is no hopping in hop picking, Hogan. Herr Rüther, the farm labor bureau chief for our district, personally put out the call for a few strong POWs to give the regular workers a day off."

"A day off," Hogan said with a withering look.

"Yes, a day off to attend a Strength through Joy rally," Klink said, starting to quiver under Hogan's gaze. "Don't look at me like that. Consider it your contribution to the Reich's agricultural needs." He shuffled through some papers on his desk. "Ah. Let's see. Herr Rüther said there'll be something in it for the prisoners." He put down the paper. "Ah, some 'bright red apples,' he said."

Hogan feigned boredom but now he was on high alert. Rüther was better known to him as Falcon, a leader of the Hammelburg underground cell. Klink might think this was innocent labor, but now Hogan knew better.

"All right, Sir. Always happy to help with the harvest, especially the beer harvest."

Klink beamed, oblivious as ever. "Good! Select three strong men. They'll be under guard, of course."

Later, back in the barracks, Hogan gathered his team. "Looks like we're going hop picking—at the special request of Falcon."

LeBeau's eyes widened. "The underground leader?"

"Exactly," Hogan said. "Falcon's calling us in for a reason, and I need a couple of volunteers to find out what."

Newkirk immediately stepped forward with a grin on his face. "I'll go, Guv'nor."

Kinch, Carter and LeBeau stared at him in surprise. "The Colonel said hop picking, not pocket picking, Newkirk," LeBeau pointed out. "This is farm labor, and you're a Londoner."

Newkirk waved a hand airily. "Did it as a lad, didn't I? Every year, we spent September hopping down in Kent. I've a feeling my old skills might come in handy."

Hogan studied him. "You're that eager?"

"I can strip a bine faster than you can say 'blimey.' I've got a feeling about this one."

Hogan smiled. "All right, Newkirk. Take Carter and LeBeau with you. And keep your eyes open for whatever Rüther's sending us."

"Did he send us any clues, Colonel?" Newkirk asked.

"Not really. The only thing that stands out from what Klink said is 'bright red apples.' He read that from some notes."

LeBeau, Kinch, and Newkirk all nodded. Carter, however, was lost in thought.

"Carter? Something on your mind?" Hogan prodded him.

"Um, yes, Sir." He looked around in confusion. "What's a bine? And what are hops?"