With pockets stuffed with the farmer's reward of apples, potatoes, and plums for their effort, the POWs arrived back at Stalag 13. Hogan gathered the team in his quarters. Newkirk unwrapped the package. Inside was a small piece of paper, covered in a series of symbols and numbers—clearly a coded message.

Hogan whistled. "Falcon left us a present."

Carter looked at the paper. "How did you even spot that, Newkirk?"

"Hop-picking tradition," Newkirk shrugged. "The knot was all wrong. No hop farmer would tie a bine like that. It was a marker. Falcon set it up, knowing we'd be sent."

Hogan leaned against the bunk, thinking. "He made sure the request for labor came through Klink. That ensured POWs would be called up, and he figured we'd be on the alert for something out of the ordinary.

Kinch nodded. "And he figured you'd send our sticky-fingered English friend because Londoners are known to go hop-picking."

"Even lazy ones?" LeBeau ribbed.

Newkirk ignored that. "Brings back fond memories," he mused. "Fresh air, scrumping apples, singing songs, mum and all her kids gathered 'round the bonfire…" He was smiling. His friends were staring. So he forced himself to stop talking before he got any more sentimental.

He rolled his eyes, signaling his refusal to pursue the conversation any further. But the way LeBeau was grinning at him, Newkirk knew he was going to have some explaining to do when they found themselves alone.

Carter, of course, couldn't leave it there. "Jeepers, Newkirk, I thought the only thing you could pick was a lock or a pocket! It's like you've got a secret life as a farmhand! I guess we have more in common than I ever realized. Hey, have you ever sheared a sheep?"

ooo

That night, Kinch had decoded the message. The information was crucial—detailed troop movements and supply routes for an upcoming German offensive.

"Looks like we've got our next target," Hogan said. "And all thanks to a little hop-picking."

Newkirk grinned. "Guess my days hopping down in Kent weren't wasted after all."

The next morning, Klink was basking in his own satisfaction. "The hop farmer reports your men were... adequate, Hogan."

"Glad to be of service, sir," Hogan said with a straight face, hiding the smile behind his eyes.

As Klink rambled on about agricultural contributions, Hogan exchanged a glance with Newkirk. Once again, an "innocent" assignment had turned into a victory for the Allies, right under Klink's nose.

As roll call broke up, Newkirk started whistling. By the time he returned to the barracks, he was singing.

I say one, I say two

No more hopping shall I do

With a tee-I-ay, tee-I-ay, tee-I-ee-I-ay

Author's Note: Hop-picking in Kent was a longtime summer tradition of East Enders, and the closest thing poor families had to a holiday. It was remembered as hard work, but also an idyllic times spent with family far from "The Smoke." I learned the hoppers' song from an album of English roots music 30 years ago, which drove my curiosity about the tradition. It was such an important feature of working-class lives that at least three renowned authors—Somerset Maugham, Jack London, and George Orwell—wrote about it.

This topic has been on my mind for ages as part of a chapter to a story I've had in the works (also for ages.) That is, part 2 of my sequel to my Newkirk origin story, In the Name of the Father. I wrote this for the Guess Who challenge, but forgot to incorporate the prompts! Oops. Then after publishing it, I felt it was a bit thin, so I expanded it into the current three chapters.