Song lyrics and TV series characters do not belong to me. See large one-part file for Author's Notes and Disclaimers.

IF TOMORROW NEVER COMES

by  

Candy Apple

If tomorrow never comes

Will he know how much I love him?

Did I try in every way

To show him every day

That he's my only one?

If my time on earth were through

And he must face this world without me

Is the love I gave him in the past

Gonna be enough to last

If tomorrow never comes?

'Cause I've lost loved ones in my life

Who never knew how much I loved them

Now I live to feel regret

That my true feelings for them never were revealed

So I made a promise to myself

To say each day how much he means to me

And avoid that circumstance

Where there's no second chance

To tell him how I feel

A light snowfall dusted the grounds and clung to the roofs of the weathered wooden buildings of the prison camp. On a night like this, even the barbed wire could glisten a bit with the dampness of the elements. From an aesthetic point of view, it was quite beautiful, in an odd sort of way. When you weighed nearly three hundred pounds and had been walking guard duty for close to twelve hours, all it meant was that the ground was slipperier, the air was damper, and the snow that had lightly settled on your shoulders like a bad case of dandruff was now starting to melt from your body heat, and seep through the fabric to make you as miserable as possible.

Add to that, nothing interesting had happened for weeks. Even Hogan and his men had been fairly quiet–which, in itself, should have made Sergeant Schultz nervous–but he was too cold and tired to speculate on what that might mean. Schultz had seen enough to know that Hogan had a veritable underground maze of tunnels, and yet no one ever escaped from Stalag 13. Whatever Hogan and his men were up to down there, Schultz was of the confirmed opinion he was better off seeing, hearing, and knowing nothing.

The silence of the night was shattered by the distant but approaching sound of bombers flying overhead, and the answering roar of the anti-aircraft guns firing into the dark sky. The whole conflict was moving closer, closer than it normally did. This was a POW camp, after all, and while the Allies might bomb anything else in Germany, this was sacred ground in deference to the safety of the Allied prisoners housed there.

It was sacred ground until tonight. A single bomber was flying straight toward them, the ominous thunder of its engine coming undeniably closer. Schultz paused by the door of Hogan's barracks as the officer himself and several of his men crowded into the doorway. Men were filling the doorways of all the barracks now, craning their necks to see what was happening. Colonel Klink, the kommandant, emerged on the porch in his nightshirt, robe, and slippers, no cap on his bald head as he struggled to get his monocle in place to watch the spectacle.

In a sense, it was like watching your own impending doom, because as the bomber drew closer, apparently undeterred by the presence of Allied prisoners, there was no good place to hide. Well, Colonel Hogan probably has a spot, but he wouldn't hide while his men were blown to bits anyway, Schultz thought.

Though Hogan was the enemy, the handsome, young-for-his-rank colonel with the dark brown hair, devilish brown eyes, and impish smile was almost always nice to the portly guard, loaning him money, sharing candy, or willing to lend a listening ear. Schultz was not so naive as to ignore the fact that he usually gave Hogan more information than he should have in exchange for his kindnesses, but he still admired Hogan's concern for his men and his strong leadership of the prisoner population. It was quite a contrast from Kommandant Klink's own leadership abilities. Schultz often found himself realizing that Hogan had far more control over the daily events than Klink did. And that honestly didn't bother Schultz a bit.

But the now deafening roar of the bomber swooping overhead did, and the expected and yet shocking impact of the bomb that landed just outside the gates sent most of them sprawling to the ground. The alarms went off, though the front searchlights did not, as the two towers were now a pile of rubble, the men in them probably dead or horribly wounded. A new private, only eighteen years old, had been assigned by Schultz, as Sergeant of the Guard, to man one of the towers. In the other tower was a guard Schultz had served with for nearly three years. The losses of war never came so close in the shelter of the prison camp, but that fragile sense of safety had just been shattered into as many pieces as the guard towers and most of the front gate and fencing.

Another crash followed, presumably the misguided pilot meeting a fiery end a few miles from the camp he'd just inadvertently bombed.

As soon as he was back on his feet, Hogan was working diligently at calming his men, making sure no one took advantage of the downed fence and towers and got himself shot by the guards that remained. He sported a bloody nose and a wound on his forehead, but he merely swiped at his nose with the back of his hand and kept moving. Many of the men who'd been knocked to the ground by the blast were temporarily stunned, or moving slowly as they assessed their own injuries or lack thereof. Hogan pulled a few of his men aside and gave them brief instructions, and before long, they were moving among the decreasingly chaotic crowd of prisoners, directing those with injuries to wait outside the infirmary.

Meanwhile, Schultz had heaved his own considerable bulk off the ground, relieved that he'd only had the wind knocked out of him. Too bad he couldn't say the same for the tower guards and a couple of guards at the front gate. Klink was bustling out to the chaos now, his coat and hat pulled on over his nightclothes, riding crop under one arm, cracked monocle back in place.

"Schultz! Call the men to attention!" Klink ordered, and Schultz did his best, blowing his whistle and barking out orders. Those guards not injured in the blast joined the effort, and before long, the men were at least orderly, if not all in their usual groups. Hogan approached Klink.

"I've ordered the men with injuries to line up at the infirmary. I assumed you'd want to have Sergeant Norton and Corporal Patterson set up shop there to start treating patients," Hogan said, using his generally fool-proof technique of letting Klink feel that the idea was his. That gave it the best chance for success.

"Yes, of course. Schultz, see to it that Corporal Berger makes himself available to treat our injured men in the guards' barracks. I've called for ambulances for the men at the gates and in the towers," Klink said, explaining his brief absence from the scene immediately following the blast. "Your people, Hogan. Barbarians, all of them, bombing their own men!"

"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose, sir. The plane was obviously malfunctioning. Probably hit by one of your people's anti-aircraft guns."

"Schultz," Klink said, before dismissing the guard, "I want you to send a search party into the woods. If that pilot bailed out, I want him found!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Schultz responded, saluting, before rushing off to follow orders.

"You men may think that this disaster is an opportunity for escape," Klink began, addressing the prisoners. "But I assure you, this camp is still under the iron grip of security that has made Stalag 13 the toughest POW camp in Germany!"

Hogan rolled his eyes at the pretentious little speech, regretting the motion as he head started to throb. Klink went on a bit longer, but he blocked it out, his thoughts with the pilot who barely missed killing all of them with his ill-placed bomb. Unfortunately, the krauts would get him before they could, if in fact he was even still alive.

Klink's diatribe was finally over, and the men ordered back to the barracks. Klink strode into his quarters as the sounds of sirens from the approaching ambulances drowned out the voices of the men as they filed back to their respective buildings. A few moments later, Klink emerged, fully dressed, to oversee the work of the emergency personnel at the gates.

Confident his men were either back undercover in their barracks or in the infirmary being treated by one of the their two resident medics, Hogan returned to his own barracks.

"Let me look at your head, Colonel," LeBeau said, setting a small pan of water on the table, a couple clean cloths next to it. "You should go to the infirmary."

"It's just a bump on the head, Louis, not brain damage," Hogan responded, smiling at the obvious concern in the face of the man he had to admit, if only to himself, was his favorite.

The 5'2", dark-haired French corporal was their resident gourmet chef, but he was also a capable saboteur, and very adept at mastering a number of skills at a moment's notice to make one of Hogan's schemes work. He was an expert tailor who could assemble a flawless German uniform or any number of civilian clothing items their operation might need.

His small stature was only physical. LeBeau backed down from very little, and his loyalty to Hogan and their cause was unshakable. Hogan's fondness for him was in large part due to all he could do, and routinely did, for the operation, but most of all it was for Louis' concern for Hogan's well-being and feelings that had brought him very close to the commanding officer. Despite Hogan's resilient demeanor and usual disdain for anyone fussing over him, LeBeau had a quiet but sure way of offering a kind word or a thoughtful gesture when Hogan needed it most.

Hogan sat at the table and relaxed as LeBeau did his work quickly and efficiently, cleaning and bandaging the small gash on Hogan's forehead. He wasn't even sure what he'd hit it on, but it was throbbing now.

"Here, hold this against it." LeBeau handed him an ice bag filled with snow. "It won't last long, but it might help."

"Thanks, Louis. This'll work great." Hogan smiled, and LeBeau returned it, lingering for a bare instant before cleaning up his supplies. "How bad is the damage to the tunnel system?" he asked, and LeBeau shook his head.

"We have a lot of digging ahead of us in some of the branch tunnels, and our supply of clothing and uniforms needs major cleaning, but the radio equipment is okay except for some minor damage. Kinch said it would take a few hours to get things back up and running. The main tunnel didn't cave in."

"That's good news. Well, subjectively speaking," Hogan added with a slightly frustrated smirk.

********

Captain James Ellison, US Army Air Corps, was still trying to figure out why his plane had gone off course, and why he'd been forced to bail out. The last thing he remembered was the roar of the bomber engines, the falling bombs, and the flashing and bombardment by the German anti-aircraft batteries. He unfastened his parachute, not thinking his chances were too good of escaping capture. Within seconds, it seemed, he was proven right. A contingent of Luftwaffe guards–a somewhat motley-looking assortment of men who didn't appear to be combat material–began shouting at him to halt. He did so, hands raised in surrender. Even though they didn't look like an efficient fighting force, he was outnumbered and had no chance of reaching his weapon.

A portly sergeant made his way to the front of the group, barking orders at the other men. In contrast to his role as the leader of this somewhat bedraggled-looking enemy contingent, he had a plump, kindly face with sparkling eyes that made Ellison think of Santa Claus without the beard.

"What are you smiling at? Are you crazy?" the big sergeant asked him, his tone holding more surprise than hostility. "Do you know you just bombed a POW camp?"

"I did what?" Ellison asked, his eyes widening, despite his resolution to give the krauts nothing but name, rank, and serial number.

"You just bombed Stalag 13! Oh, you are in a lot of trouble!" he said, shaking a pudgy finger at Ellison. "The kommandant is waiting. Raus!" The sergeant finally thought to aim his rifle at Ellison, as if it were an afterthought. With security like that, I should be stuck in this prison camp all of a few hours, Ellison thought.

"Were there any casualties?" Ellison asked, as he began the trek back to the prison camp, hands on his head, the sergeant immediately behind him with the rest of the German guards following.

"You hit the guard towers!" Schultz accused. "I don't think anyone would survive that."

"Any of the prisoners hurt?"

"Not badly, as far as I know."

Ellison was stunned that the sergeant was conversing with him. Not only was his English excellent, but he seemed to be a willing font of information, not particularly hostile even after Ellison had bombed what was supposed to be "hallowed ground," and probably killed a couple of German guards in the process.

"So there are no guard towers and no front gate now?" Ellison asked.

"You will have to talk to the kommandant. I say nothing else," he concluded.

"What's your name?" Ellison tried again, hoping to at least keep the rapport with the sergeant, even if he finally had remembered not to tell the enemy officer everything he knew.

"Sergeant Schultz. I am Sergeant of the Guard at Stalag 13. Personal aide to the kommandant," Schultz added, a bit of inflated pride in the statement.

"Captain Ellison," Ellison said, venturing a look over his shoulder.

"You are not such a good pilot for a captain," Schultz retorted, and Ellison bristled at that, but said nothing. Truthfully, if he'd dropped bombs on a POW camp, he couldn't really dispute the assessment.

********

Klink had ordered lights out roughly two hours after the bombing. The men who'd received minor bumps and bruises had been treated if necessary, and while the Germans in camp were still in a state of chaos over damage and casualties, the prisoners could be safely ushered off to their barracks. That gave Klink and his men more undivided attention to place on the challenge of maintaining security with no guard towers and no front gate.

Lurking in the dark, though, Hogan and a small group of his men clustered around a makeshift periscope they'd rigged up through the pipes in their sink, a large pipe ending in an old tomato soup can holding the lens. By tilting up the faucets and peering into the ends of them, one could watch almost anything worthwhile going on outside while restricted to the barracks. With his cap on backwards to keep the visor out of his way, Hogan was doing exactly that now, watching as General Burkhalter's car drove around the piles of rubble where the gate and towers used to be, and headed for Klink's office.

"Long night for the kommandant. Burkhalter just got here," Hogan said.

"Coffee pot?" Kinch suggested. A tall, handsome, mustached African American staff sergeant, Kinchloe was currently Hogan's second in command at the camp, and the resident radio and electronics expert. Most of the multitude of listening devices placed around the camp were Kinch's doing, and the bugs in Klink's office were no exception. He'd rigged them all up to work through a speaker installed in a very innocuous-looking coffee pot kept in Hogan's office.

"Coffee pot," Hogan confirmed, leading the small group back to his office, where Kinch plugged in the pot. The rest of Hogan's inner circle consisted of Corporal Peter Newkirk and Sergeant Andrew Carter. Newkirk, a handsome brown-haired, blue-eyed RAF corporal with a cockney accent, had a talent for cracking safes, picking pockets, doing card tricks, and donning any bizarre sort of disguise imaginable–including masquerading on occasion as an old woman with curiously hairy arms–and adopting a number of voices to make any sort of bogus telephone call or radio transmission Hogan might need.

An American, Carter's sandy hair, blue eyes, farm-boy innocence, and occasional bumbling belied his expertise. He was a bombardier before his capture, and hadn't lost his lust for explosions during his incarceration at Stalag 13. Carter came up with everything from exploding pencils to bombs disguised as centerpieces to explosive charges that brought down some of the key strategic targets for the group's sabotage activities. He also could play a variety of German characters, especially those that bordered on the psychotic, and had even had his finest moment masquerading as Hitler–visiting Stalag 13 and throwing terror into Klink's heart. Of course, that wasn't terribly hard to do. 

"How many casualties resulted from the bombing?" General Burkhalter's voice carried over the small speaker. A rotund man with close-cut gray-brown hair, a substantial dueling scar on his right cheek, and a distinct dislike for the camp's bumbling kommandant, Burkhalter had a slightly twangy voice that was unmistakable.

"Three, sir. The guards in the towers, and one of our men at the front gate. Two other guards have been taken to the hospital in Hammelburg, but I am afraid their chances are not good.

"No casualties or serious injuries among the prisoners, though?"

"No, none, sir."

"I find that interesting," Burkhalter said, exhaling. He sounded weary, no doubt rousted out of a nice, warm bed to visit the scene of the bombing as head of the prison camp administration.

"How do you mean?" Klink asked.

"When we capture this pilot, if he is alive, I intend to find out if that strike was intentional."

"But the Allies never bomb POW camps."

"The only area damaged was the front gate and the guard towers," Burkhalter snapped. "Very convenient that not a single bit of damage was done to the barracks. Being the bombing took place late at night, they could assume prisoners would be in the barracks, and the front gate and guard towers would be safe targets. If the Allies are going to strike us at our vulnerable points, we will return the favor. This is an outrage."

***

"I can't believe he's trying to pin it on that pilot, like he planned it!" Carter protested.

"The krauts aren't known for giving people the benefit of the doubt," Hogan said. "He probably got off course, or had a malfunction."

***

"My men are combing the woods as we speak, searching for the pilot."

"Good. I would like to handle this without the Gestapo, if possible," Burkhalter said. "I will remain here to interrogate the pilot."

"If he is not dead," Klink hastened to add.

"I think it would be a bit fruitless to question him if he were, wouldn't it?" Burkhalter retorted, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Of course, Herr General," Klink replied, his voice almost cheerful in its deference to Burkhalter's annoyance.

***

"Well," Hogan said, unplugging the pot, "now we watch for the search party to come back. As long as they keep the Gestapo out of it, there's a chance they'll just end up putting him in a POW camp instead of having him shot without a trial."

"Probably this one, if they really want to punish him. I mean, living with the guys you just tried to bomb might be a little awkward," Kinch stated.

"Oui, if it was intentional, he'd have an unpleasant stay, no question," LeBeau agreed.

********

It had been a long, cold walk back to the prison camp, where an emergency effort was underway to construct a makeshift gate, armed guards and guard dogs patrolling the area. Ellison shuddered as he saw how close the bombs had landed to the barracks housing the Allied prisoners. He still couldn't remember veering off course so drastically...

"Looks like they got him, Colonel," Carter reported, watching the arrival of the guards and the new prisoner through the faucet-periscope.

Hogan and the others gathered around, and Hogan took over the periscope to have a look for himself.

"American, but I can't see much else, seeing as we don't have searchlights at the moment," Hogan added, stifling a slightly evil smirk. He didn't find anything amusing about the close call of the bomber swooping down on the camp, but at the same time, any damage done to the "German war machine," as Klink sometimes called it, was good for a snicker or two. "Down periscope," Hogan said, replacing the faucets to their usual position. "You guys better pretend you're sleeping. Schultz should be coming to get me, though I suspect Burkhalter will try to keep me out of this."

"You're supposed to be there for any new prisoner being questioned, right?" Carter asked.

"Andrew, how many times do we have to tell you the krauts don't always play nice, by the rules?" Newkirk asked, nudging Carter as they sat at the table. The men had kept a silent vigil in the dark waiting for just this sort of development, but now they dispersed quietly to ease into their bunks and feign sleep. Within moments, Schultz came through the door, heading for Hogan's quarters. Hogan startled him by opening the door before he could knock.

"Couldn't sleep," Hogan explained, in answer to the puzzled, startled look on Schultz's face.

"Kommandant Klink wants to see you. We captured the pilot," Schultz confided in a whisper.

"Yeah, I wanna talk to that guy myself," Hogan responded, zipping his brown leather jacket.

********

Klink's office was brightly lit, and a sharp contrast to the shadowy nighttime compound. The kommandant himself was behind his desk, glowering at the prisoner who stood before him. Burkhalter was seated in a nearby chair, looking as disdained as he always did in Klink's presence. Hogan greeted the two officers, and exchanged wary looks with the new prisoner. He assumed the bombing had been accidental, but if not, he had a few choice words for the new man in his command.

"Colonel Hogan, this is Captain James Ellison, the pilot from your Air Corps that tried to kill all of us earlier."

"Did he admit to trying to kill anyone?" Hogan asked.

"Not in so many words, no, but it is rather hard to do that much damage by accident," Burkhalter interjected, shifting in the stiff office chair that was apparently not comfortable for him.

"He's provided you name, rank, and serial number?"

"Yes, yes, we've been over all that," Klink said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Then he's not obligated to tell you anything else."

"We have the option of turning him over to the Gestapo, which would be very unpleasant for him, I am sure," Burkhalter stated grimly. "He would be wise to cooperate."

"Captain, what possessed you to bomb a POW camp?" Hogan asked Ellison, who remained at attention. "At ease," Hogan added, watching the man's stance relax only slightly, though now he was free to have eye contact with Hogan. Hogan was of the considered opinion that it was harder to look someone in the eyes and lie effectively than it was to recite a lie to the wall.

"I was off-course. It must have been an equipment malfunction, sir. I'm well aware of the policies regarding prison camps, and the last thing I would want to do is injure or kill Allied prisoners. Or take unfair advantage of the enemy in an agreed upon safe area," he added, and Hogan had to admire his touch of diplomacy in the presence of the Germans.

"The plane is not salvageable. It exploded when it hit the ground, several miles from here. I doubt we will be able to discern whether or not he is telling the truth," Klink said.

"But the Gestapo has other ways of making that determination," Burkhalter said, rising from his chair and moving closer to the prisoner. "Very effective ways," he added. "And I find it very interesting that only the front gate and the towers were damaged in your little...accident."

"Sir, I've explained to them I was on a routine mission, with no intention of involving Stalag...13?" Hogan nodded confirmation, and Ellison continued. "I thought I was carrying out my assigned duties, not bombing a POW camp."

"The munitions supply is ten miles north of here," Burkhalter said. "Your aim is very bad, Captain."

"You told them your target?" Hogan asked.

"No, sir."

"That target was bombed tonight," Klink clarified.

"He's given you name, rank, serial number, and answers to why he was off-course. He's not obligated to give you more than that, sir," Hogan said to Klink.

"You are both dismissed, for the moment," Burkhalter stated.

"Schultz, escort Colonel Hogan back to his barracks, and put Captain Ellison in the officer's quarters in Barracks 5," Klink said. Hogan offered no objections, as he had a tunnel joining the two buildings. If Ellison proved trustworthy, Hogan would want easy access to the next highest ranking officer in camp, unbeknownst to the krauts.

Hogan didn't make any attempt to talk to Ellison on the walk to the barracks. If the tunnel between the two buildings had survived the blast, he would make his way over there underground as soon as he could safely be absent from the barracks. If not, morning would be soon enough, provided Klink didn't confine them all to the barracks, which was a danger with a downed front gate and no guard towers. It concerned Hogan that the damage might be severe enough to temporarily relocate the prisoners, and if that were the case, their tunnel system would surely be discovered–and if they were all in captivity at the time, it would be certain death, after a stint of Gestapo questioning that would make execution look like an attractive option by contrast.

With that thought weighing heavily on his mind, Hogan entered the barracks, sensing many pairs of eyes on him in the darkness. When Schultz was gone, he spoke.

"He claims the bombing was accidental, and I'm inclined to believe him. They're putting him in the officer's quarters in Barracks 5. How's the tunnel in that direction?"

"We haven't been everywhere yet, Colonel. A few of the smaller tunnels have caved in," Kinch answered.

"Do you want to go tonight, Colonel?" LeBeau asked.

"We've only got an hour or so left of darkness, before roll call. If there's anything Ellison wants to tell me, I'd like to hear it as soon as possible."

"I will go with you if like," LeBeau offered, getting out of his bunk. All the men were still fully dressed, everyone wanting to be ready. For what, no one was quite sure, but it had been an eventful night.

"Fine. Let's go," Hogan agreed, and they used the tunnel entrance beneath the bunk to climb down to the underground maze.

At its largest point, the tunnel system was at least ten feet tall, and well braced. The central chamber was their masterpiece, the area they'd spend the most time excavating and reinforcing. It held the radio and the bulk of their supplies. An adjoining area housed Carter's lab. Some of the branch tunnels were equally large and comfortable, but a number of the other branches were only large enough for a man to crawl through. The tunnel leading to Barracks 5 was slightly larger than that, but not large enough to stand in.

"Looks like it's still open," LeBeau said, peering in the end with the flashlight. He started moving swiftly along the route, on his hands and knees, Hogan close behind him. An ominous rumble froze them both in their tracks.

"The bombs have probably undermined the stability of a lot of these tunnels. Look, Louis, you go back. I'm just going to spend a few minutes with Ellison and then I'm coming right back out."

"What if there's a cave-in?" LeBeau asked, his voice rising a little.

"Then only one of us will be stuck, and you won't draw the thirty days in the cooler for missing roll call." Hogan knew such an absence could only be explained as an escape attempt, and Klink generally handed out thirty-day sentences in the jail-like building known as the cooler, sometimes putting the men in solitary, which were even less habitable cells.

"I'm going with you."

"I could order you to go back," Hogan said, and the two men held each other's gaze a moment.

"We're wasting a lot of time talking about this," LeBeau said, smiling a little.

"Okay, thanks," Hogan responded, grinning before continuing his crawl.

********

Ellison sat on the edge of the bunk, then got up and started pacing again. The room wasn't large, but he realized it was a nice privilege to have any sort of privacy and space of one's own in such a facility. There were definite advantages to being an officer, though he figured it wouldn't be long before he'd be interrogated more stringently. The krauts wouldn't give up working on a source of information like him. Even an officer with Hogan's legendary reputation would probably not be able to stave off the Gestapo if they decided to interrogate one of his men.

The rats in this place must be huge, and there must be tons of them, Ellison thought, his sensitive hearing picking up the sounds of movement beneath his quarters. The small room contained a set of bunks, a small table that functioned as a desk, and a locker.

And the biggest damn rats in history, Ellison concluded, starting to think there was something more to the sounds he was hearing than the picking of rats. The sounds drew closer, and he watched, slack-jawed, as what he thought was an innocent footlocker swung across the floor to reveal an opening. A moment later, Hogan's head popped up through the hole in the floor.

"Sorry to drop in unannounced," Hogan quipped, climbing out of the tunnel. He turned and offered a hand to his traveling companion, and a moment later, a small Frenchman climbed out, accepting the pull.

"I thought this place had the biggest rats I ever heard," Ellison said, and Hogan chuckled.

"We have a tunnel or two in progress," Hogan said, not quite ready to trust the new man with too much information. "This is Corporal LeBeau, part of my team," Hogan introduced, and the two men exchanged greetings. "This place is clean. No microphones. Anything you want to tell me you couldn't say in Klink's office?"

"Must be very crowded down there, sir."

"Excuse me?" Hogan frowned, and exchanged a puzzled look with LeBeau.

"Before I was shot down, I was part of a sabotage and intelligence team, led by Colonel Wembley in London. It was a mixed team--both American and British officers. Your operation is legendary, sir. Over 500 people have passed through your escape system over the past few years. Your code name is Papa Bear, and your main tunnel entrance from the outside is through a tree stump. I assure, you Colonel Hogan, I'm not a spy. You can check my credentials with London, which I know you can." Ellison watched the wariness in Hogan's eyes, but he knew he was close to earning the officer's trust. "I was present when they debriefed Major Bonacelli after his last spying mission here. He visited Klink to get pictures of a new gun. You sent him a note in his weiner schnitzel," he added, smiling.

"Were you really on a bombing mission after the munitions supply?" Hogan asked.

"Yes. This was a routine mission. But now that I've been shot down, and I'm here, I would consider it an honor to assist your operation any way I can."

"No idea how you got off course tonight?"

"I didn't want to say anything in front of the krauts... I think I might have blacked out, sir."

"Have you been ill?"

"No, not that I know of. Just before I ended up over the prison camp, I remember the noise and the lights from the bombing and the AA batteries were pretty overwhelming."

"Have you been flying night missions long?"

"Yes, sir. I've never had a problem with it before. Actually, I have superior night vision, so they're usually pretty much a milk run for me. You have to believe me, sir. I never would put our own people in danger by doing something crazy like this. I could have just as easily hit the barracks. I wasn't consciously aiming at the towers or the gate."

"Then we just got lucky, I guess." Hogan crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. "We have a couple medics in camp. We'll get you looked over. No need to bring this up with Klink."

"I don't figure I'll be here too long. The Gestapo will probably come for me."

"They'll question you, that's a given considering what happened. Just stick to your story that you got off course. Don't tell them any more than you told Klink and Burkhalter."

"I don't plan to, sir."

"No one ever plans to. But giving them even a shred of extra information might actually make it worse for you. If they get the feeling you know anything worthwhile, they won't give up until they get something. So don't get creative and don't give them an inch. I'd advise holding onto any decoy information you were given, and don't let them have it unless they torture you. Otherwise, they'll only think you know more than you're telling, and they'll torture you anyway."

"Right, sir."

"Roll call is in about a half hour, Colonel," LeBeau reminded, checking his watch.

"We have to get back." Hogan paused. "If they decide to take you to Gestapo headquarters for questioning, we'll do what we can to stop that."

"Thank you, sir." Ellison paused. "What about my role in the operation here? I'd like to help."

"I appreciate that, Captain. We'll talk more after roll call."

********

The trip back through the tunnel was a hasty one, and the two men emerged in their own barracks just moments before roll call. As the men gathered outside, they noticed the never-welcome presence of Gestapo guards patrolling near the fallen gates. A construction crew was already hard at work, building the platforms that would hold new guard towers while other workers repaired the fencing and worked to reinstall the front gates. Klink took his place to receive the usual report from Schultz of "All present and accounted for," and then began his own little address.

"As you can see, work is already underway to replace the guard towers and the front gate. This latest effort to derail the German war machine has, as usual, failed miserably," Klink announced, more pompous than Hogan had seen him in a long while. He was performing for the Gestapo guards. On a frigid morning like this, Klink usually accepted the report from Schultz, then turned tail and ran into his warm office for coffee spiked with a little schnapps. "Captain Ellison, if you are harboring any thoughts of escape, I warn you, it will not succeed. There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13. You are now in the toughest POW camp in Germany."

Ellison said nothing, letting the kommandant complete his speech. He felt many pairs of eyes on him, but that was to be expected. Next to Hogan, he was the highest ranking prisoner there, and he'd bombed the camp. Nothing like a splashy arrival. Stealing a glance toward where Hogan stood with the men of his barracks, his suspicions were confirmed that his superior officer was checking him out, sizing him up, and trying to decide just what to do about him. He'd obviously mentioned the right names and the right bits of information to gain Hogan's trust, but chances were good Hogan wouldn't trust him completely without confirmation from London. One thing he knew of Hogan was that he was thorough, and after stepping into one or two traps he managed to scheme his way back out of, he'd become nearly impossible to fool, and fastidious about checking and triple-checking the credentials of anyone who claimed to be a friend.

"...and so, never forget!" Klink admonished, waving an leather-gloved finger at the prisoners. "No amount of disorder or destruction will shake the iron security of this camp! Dismissed!" With that, Klink retreated to his office, and the crowd of prisoners began dispersing.

********

"What do you think, Colonel? You trust him?" Kinch asked.

"My gut tells me he's on the level, but I want to hear it from London. How long before you can send a message?"

"Well, I'll do the best I can, but I figure the job'll take about three hours. A lot of stuff was knocked around from the explosion. As long as the Gestapo doesn't bring in one of their radio detection units, we'll be all set."

"Okay. Get to work. And nobody say anything until we've talked to London. I don't care how good this guy sounds. He could be a kraut with top-notch intelligence."

"There is no such thing," LeBeau retorted. With Germany occupying his homeland of France, LeBeau had few good things to say about the German military or any of their personnel.

"If he knows all that and he's a kraut--"

"Then we're all in real trouble," Hogan said, finishing Carter's sentence.

********

James Ellison was born and raised in Cascade, Washington, a good-sized city in the US Pacific Northwest. His family was affluent, though somewhat empty as his mother had deserted them when he was a small boy. Left with Jim and his younger brother, Steven, to raise alone, Jim's father had hired a kindly housekeeper who doubled as a nanny and had thrown himself into his work. William Ellison seldom seemed like a happy man, but he was a driven one, and his drive for success and achievement did somewhat propel Jim to rise to his current rank in the army, and to land him a spot in a special intelligence operation behind enemy lines.

Jim was a police officer in civilian life. Tall, handsome, and muscular with short brown hair, cool blue eyes, and strong, chiseled features, he'd served in the army during peace time, gone home, become a cop, and risen to a detective's job just before the war broke out. Believing Hitler was a much worse mass murderer and criminal than anyone he'd bust in Cascade, he'd signed up to go to war before they could order him back into service. That was the last straw in an already shaky marriage, and his wife, Carolyn, divorced him shortly after he left for duty.

Fortunately, when he was captured, the Germans thought they'd picked up one more enemy soldier, and no more. A young officer, which was a nice find, but not a member of a spying operation. Jim knew that had saved him some unpleasant time in a Gestapo basement somewhere. He'd told Hogan the truth, though, and after Hogan checked him out, he hoped to be welcomed as part of Hogan's inner circle.

After visiting with the camp medic, who could find nothing amiss with his health, Jim Ellison wandered a bit aimlessly around the compound, shivering at the nip in the air, but reveling in a moment alone. It seemed that the environment, the close quarters, the press of other humans around him all the time, was already wearing on his nerves. There was always sound, light, scent, movement... If Hogan knew half of what plagued him, it was unlikely he'd ever gain a position of trust or purpose in the operation. There were times when Jim questioned his reliability, now that his senses seemed to be conspiring against him on occasion, but the chance to work with Hogan was one he didn't want to miss.

Colonel Robert E. Hogan had been a prisoner of war in Stalag 13 for almost three years. His antics were nothing short of legendary among the top Allied intelligence officers stationed in London, and Jim had often found himself as anxious as all of them were to find out how Hogan pulled off the latest "impossible" assignment sent his way. He'd stolen a German tank, delayed an entire SS division, obtained intelligence information that made even the most seasoned spies look unmotivated, and deftly manipulated Klink, and on occasion, other German officers, to accomplish his goals. And that wasn't even beginning to address the number of key enemy targets he'd sabotaged either directly or through some wild scheme–and what Hogan couldn't blow up himself, he talked London into blowing up for him.

Given the length of Hogan's incarceration and the lack of successful escapes, the outward impression was that either the camp security was as airtight as Klink claimed it was, or that Hogan was grossly unmotivated or incompetent to the degree that neither he nor any of his men had managed a successful escape. The truth was, security at Stalag 13 quickly proved to be almost comical in its frequent gaps, so that any prisoner with a real passion for freedom would have multiple opportunities to go over the wire. In Jim's opinion, that made Hogan a real hero--doing everything he did with little or no glory, tolerating the reputation of being either unmotivated or "soft" on the krauts.

Hogan was a man that Jim, if he'd been the enemy, would have never trusted for a second. It was obvious his mind was never completely at rest, and his face was that of a man always up to something, always waiting for another good opportunity to present itself, and always keeping his ear to the ground for any and all worthwhile activities in and around the camp.

Jim smiled as he walked over the uneven ground, wondering when the extensive maze of tunnels beneath the camp would cause the whole central yard to give way. He doubted there was a solid square foot left anywhere. A team of possessed gophers couldn't have more effectively undermined the terrain.

In those tunnels were racks of tailor-made German uniforms, civilian clothes, forgery supplies for papers for any and all occasions, a counterfeiting operation, a metal shop, Carter's chemistry lab where he conjured up all manner of explosive devices, the radio that was their pipeline to the Allied Command, food, room for hiding the many prisoners they routinely helped escape from other prison camps, and numerous other supplies. Jim didn't need Hogan to confirm or deny anything. He'd heard all the stories from Wembley and the others at headquarters. All he needed from Hogan was the chance to prove himself useful so he could become part of an operation he felt sure would be part of history someday.

That was Hogan's primary job at Stalag 13: helping other prisoners and defectors escape from

Germany to London, with the help of the German Underground. It was a job he did adeptly and in surprising volume. Well over five hundred prisoners and other deserters had passed through the Stalag 13 operation in the last few years, and more came on a routine basis.

To aid him in his cause, Hogan assembled an unlikely combination of men. Carter, Newkirk, Kinchloe, and LeBeau were drawn from America, England, and France, and each had their own unique talent. Jim was contemplating his possible niche in the operation when he noticed LeBeau approaching.

"Good morning, Capitain," LeBeau greeted, smiling. "Colonel Hogan wanted me to invite you come over to our barracks for strudel later. I have to use most of it to bribe Schultz, but I keep a little aside for the guys in our barracks."

"Strudel? That gets Schultz to turn his head to quite a few things, huh?"

"It's always good to have a way to get the guards to bend the rules a little," LeBeau replied. "The food here is not exactly gourmet quality, so we have a few extra snacks now and then, when I can get my hands on some good ingredients. During recreation period, Schultz doesn't bother us too much if we wander back into the barracks, as long as we give him a big portion of whatever we've got."

"Thanks for the invitation. I'll be there."

"You have a family back home?"

"I was married, but my wife divorced me when I re-enlisted to go to war."

"Oui, I know how that is. I was married before the war, too. Not too long after I was captured, my wife divorced me." LeBeau shrugged. "Just as well. It wasn't going to work out."

"Mine wasn't going so well, either. But then I always figured if it was, we wouldn't be getting divorced."

"I was a chef before the war. Well, I'm still a chef when I get the chance. What did you do?"

"I was a cop."

"Really? Was it exciting like it is in the American movies?" LeBeau asked, genuinely interested.

"Sometimes. But it's not all gangsters and wise-cracking dames like it is in the movies. A lot of it is just hard work. I made a few good busts in my time. I enjoy it. Busting Hitler would be the ultimate collar, so I figured the street crooks could wait until that crook was out of commission."

"He is an animal. They are all animals. Monsters."

"Sounds like first-hand experience."

"When they occupied France, they took it over, trampled it, infiltrated every corner of it. And the things they do in their Gestapo jails...to innocent people...it is not human."

"Things aren't going so great for Hitler and his goons. He's gonna fall. It just takes time."

"You seem very certain of that."

"I am. We'll nail him. He doesn't have the substance or the sanity to last for the long haul."

"I like how you think," LeBeau said, smiling as he fell into step with Jim as they walked around the compound, just stretching their legs and killing time.

"What do you guys do around here all day?" Noticing LeBeau's reluctance to answer, Jim added, "I meant, what do the goons have you doing?"

"We have work details. Sometimes we do work outside the camp, sometimes just little things around the camp. We get paid for the big projects, since under the Geneva Convention, they can't force us to work. We have recreation periods, and exercise periods, and then just some time to kill. It helps to have some good books on hand. I am lucky I can read English, because getting good French books seems a little harder--and getting the English language books isn't easy, either. The Red Cross helps with supplies. They've sent musical instruments, our volleyball net and ball, things like that."

"The krauts seem pretty tame here, or is it as tough as Klink keeps saying it is?"

"Colonel Hogan really stays on top of things. He doesn't let them get away with anything. And Klink's idea of brutality is cancelling the ping-pong tournament."

"Not a bad set-up then," Jim said, smiling.

"It could be worse."

"You know, LeBeau, I'm not a kraut, if that's what Hogan's worried about."

"I couldn't say what Colonel Hogan is worried about. If he has more to say to you, he'll let you know."

"He really is pretty legendary back at headquarters," Jim added. LeBeau smiled, and for an unguarded moment, an expression somewhere between pride and affection passed over LeBeau's features before he remembered to keep his poker face.

"Colonel Hogan is a fine officer. He deserves any recognition he gets from the men at the top."

"You've been with him a long time here?"

"I was here when he arrived." LeBeau looked away, noticing Hogan outside the door of their barracks now, watching the exchange with great interest. "I should get back."

"You didn't ask me Ty Cobbs' batting average yet," Jim quipped, and LeBeau smiled.

"I wouldn't know it either, so why would I ask you? You happen to know who was at the Follies Bergere in 1940?"

********

Hogan shivered as the wind bit through the leather of his jacket, feeling as if it were cutting through to his bones. Why it was necessary to have a God-forsaken recreation period on a day with sub-zero wind chills was beyond him, but the krauts were big on order and routine. And if this was recreation period, by God, everyone was going outside to enjoy himself. Even if he froze to death in the meantime.

Schultz looked more miserable than the men, his nose and cheeks bright red from the cold. The only thought that made Hogan smile was envisioning the affable guard as Santa Claus, rosy cheeks and all. Carter and Newkirk were putting some half-hearted effort into building a snowman, and LeBeau had slipped back into the barracks for something. The other men were engaging in a slippery football game that looked more wet and awkward than it was fun.

"Lean forward," LeBeau's voice startled him. He hadn't noticed the Frenchman's return, but now, LeBeau was tossing a blanket around Hogan's shoulders, and handed him a cup of hot cocoa.

"Ah, LeBeau, you're a lifesaver," Hogan said accepting the cup with a smile.

"You should get a jacket with wool inside, like some of the others have." LeBeau referred to the sheepskin-lined leather jackets some of the fliers wore.

"I could always pull out my old parka, I guess," replied, sipping the hot liquid and feeling it warming his chilled body. "Orange just isn't my color," he quipped, referring to the ugly orange parka with the fur-trimmed hood that was among his survival gear.

"Neither is blue. The color you turn just before you freeze to death?" LeBeau added.

"Thanks, Louis, I needed that," Hogan said, laughing. "We have a few spares of those jackets in the tunnel, but Klink might notice it and wonder where it came from."

"You give him a lot of credit for being observant, Colonel," LeBeau said, taking a drink of his own hot cocoa.

"No interest in joining in the game?" Hogan nodded toward the football game.

"Why would I do a foolish thing like that? Get colder and wetter and for what?"

"Moving around might make you feel warmer."

"The cocoa is doing just fine."

"It sure is. Thanks, LeBeau."

"You're welcome. I thought I should bring you something before icicles started forming on your cap," he added. "Schultz keeps looking over at me. He's waiting for his strudel."

"You invited Ellison to join us?"

"Oui, I did. He's planning on it. I think he's okay, Colonel."

"So do I. He knows too much of the right stuff. But I can't take a chance." Hogan had no sooner said that when Kinch slipped out the door of the barracks.

"London says Ellison's A-OK. He was part of that bombing mission, and he didn't return to base. The description matches, and the word is, we should involve him in the operation. Wembley came on the line and said if you wanted to talk to him personally, he would vouch for Ellison."

"I guess that's it, then. We show him the operation."

"He also said Ellison's good with weapons, knows explosives–he can't make them but he can identify them and work with them–and he's got the highest security clearance next to Wembley and the other higher-ranking Allied officers."

"Impressive." Hogan took another drink of his cocoa. "Would be easier if he were in our barracks, but I don't want to call too much attention to it with Klink by trying to get him moved. We'll just have to use the tunnels."

"That's another thing, Colonel. The explosions really compromised the safety of a lot of the branch tunnels. We've got a lot of reinforcement work to do before those are safe, and some of them already collapsed."

"What about the tunnel to Barracks 5? It was all right last night."

"It's still open. But until it's checked out, it's risky," Kinch said solemnly. "You and LeBeau chanced it last night."

"We'll have to keep chancing it if we're going to get Ellison involved in our operation. When he comes over for strudel, we'll take him down below as soon as we get Schultz fed and on his way."

********

Jim watched with some interest the congenial rapport between Schultz and the prisoners as they all ate from the two pans of strudel LeBeau had made. It was obvious the German sergeant had no animosity toward enemy soldiers, and was probably just trying to put in his time until the war was over. With his belly full of strudel and coffee, Schultz took his leave. Hogan, who was sitting at his usual spot at the head of the wood table in the middle of the main room of the barracks, finally spoke the words Jim was waiting to hear.

"We got word back from London on you, Captain," Hogan said. "Colonel Wembley vouched for you personally. Can't get a much better recommendation than that. We'll give you the grand tour of our headquarters underground. Welcome to the Stalag 13 operation."

"Thank you, sir. I'm honored to be a part of it," Jim replied, and Hogan smiled.

"Keep a watch out for the goons, huh?" Hogan said to Carter, who nodded and took up his post at the door. Hogan walked over to a set of bunks and pushed a hidden button on the side of the upper bunk. The lower mattress rose until it was flush with the bottom of the upper mattress, and a ladder was revealed, leading into a subterranean chamber. "After you, Captain." Hogan waited while Jim began climbing down and then followed him.

At the bottom of the ladder, Jim found himself in a large area that was comfortable for him to stand upright, with a few feet overhead to spare. There were primitive light fixtures on the walls holding flames that gave the area an almost cozy glow.

"This is the radio room," Hogan said, leading the way into an adjoining area that housed an impressive array of equipment. "Kinch is our radio man, though most of the guys on my personal team can send and receive messages. As you can see, we've got some extra supplies down here," Hogan said, pulling back a curtain to reveal a clothes rack with various German uniforms and civilian outfits hanging neatly. "LeBeau keeps his real stash of cooking supplies for the stuff he makes for us on those shelves over there," he added, gesturing toward shelves that held a myriad of jars, boxes and other items.

"This is incredible. I was picturing a bunch of little tunnels you had to crawl through. Nothing like this," Jim admitted.

"It's taken a long time to get to this point, but then, we don't have a lot of other activities cluttering up our time. The hardest part was getting enough guys down here working without being missed by the guards. That's where feeding Schultz became a pretty regular activity. As long as we have the Sergeant of the Guard on our side, it helps when other guards spot something unusual. They report it to Schultz. For a couple of candy bars, his memory fails terribly between here and Klink's office."

"Looks like another whole barracks down here," Jim said as they rounded a corner to see several cots lining the walls.

"We sometimes have to stash people down here for a few days, and they need somewhere to sleep. The ground is pretty cold and damp, and we've even helped women escape, and I'm not putting a lady on the ground for the night."

"Women, huh?" Jim asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We had a baroness go through our operation once. We sent her out in an airplane," Hogan said, smiling mischievously. Jim's eyes widened.

"An airplane?"

"It's a long story. Sometime when we have a couple hours and a bottle of schnapps handy, I'll fill you in on the details. You'll see as we move along here that there are a number of branch tunnels. Most of these are crawl-through tunnels. A few are full-sized, but there just isn't time to make them all as good as this one. As you can see, the bombing closed up a few of them," Hogan said, indicating a few piles of dirt belching forth from openings that were partially collapsed tunnels.

"Sorry about that, sir. I know that'll put a cramp in the operation until they're fixed."

"Accidents happen. It's lucky it was just the towers and the front gates. Lucky for us, anyway," he added. "This branch of the tunnel leads to our main exit, through a tree stump in the woods not far from camp. There's a branch tunnel that goes into Klink's quarters, one that goes into the guard's barracks, another into the main kitchen–at LeBeau's insistence–one that comes out under the water tower, another that comes out beneath a dog house in the kennel–"

"Excuse me, sir, but how many prisoners are going to want to go into the kennel? Isn't that a little dangerous?"

"Not when the guy who supplies the dogs works for us," Hogan responded. "Oscar Schnitzer brings a fresh supply of dogs to camp at least once a month, supposedly to keep them from getting friendly with the prisoners. These dogs do a lot of barking, but we feed them, and they're tame. They don't much care for some of the krauts, though. We also use Schnitzer's dog truck to transport people in and out of camp on occasion."

"Incredible."

"My guys volunteer for work in the motor pool fairly often, because it helps us get our hands on vehicles, or sabotage Klink's car when we need him to stay put, things like that. As you're involved in various missions, you'll get to know our contacts, and all our tricks."

"I know LeBeau is a chef, but what do the other guys do?"

"Louis does great things in the kitchen, but he's also trained with planting listening devices, setting explosive charges, and he's got a pretty impressive knack of role-playing that comes in handy. He's faked his way through being a French chemist and collaborator, a dance instructor, a dress designer–he handles anything I throw his way. Newkirk did a lot of work on the stage before the war. He can pick anybody's pocket, crack safes, forge documents. Newkirk and LeBeau are both damn fine tailors, too. They made most of the uniforms and clothing you saw on the rack back there."

"Kinch is the radio man–"

"And in charge of all our wiretaps, bugging devices, and so on. The others help, but Kinch is the expert. He's also a staff sergeant, so he's functioned as a second-in-command prior to your arrival."

"I hope he won't feel I'm trying to push him aside."

"Kinch is a good member of the team. He'll do what's best for the operation. Besides, before you function as second-in-command down here, you have a lot to learn, and my men are all good teachers."

"Yes, sir. I only meant–"

"I know, and I appreciate the concern, Captain. But I just want it clear that while you've been okayed by London, and you're part of the operation, you don't just walk in the first few days and have a leading role in a key mission. You'll be one of the team with no special authority until you learn the ropes, which I feel confident you will."

"I'll do my best, sir."

"Carter is our explosives expert. He can figure out a way to blow up most anything, and has an almost unnerving interest in doing so," Hogan added, chuckling. "His lab is right in here. I'd advise not touching anything you don't recognize. Carter, Newkirk, and Kinch are all excellent with German accents and voice impersonations. The Stalag 13 Theater of the Air has done everyone from enlisted men to Hitler. Carter even made an appearance here in camp one night, dressed up as old crazy eyes himself."

"Carter dressed up like Hitler and got away with it?"

"A little shoe polish in the hair, a fake mustache, the right uniform...it was crazy but it worked. It was dark, and Klink hadn't seen Hitler up close in years. Plus, it's not too hard to fool this bunch."

"That's nerve, sir," Jim said, snickering.

"We aren't in short supply of that around here." Hogan moved on to another chamber. "We have a metal shop and counterfeiting operation, all handled here. The guys who do metalwork make a lot of trinkets we sell to make some extra money, and they sometimes work with Carter for disguised explosive devices or bomb casings. The counterfeit work is pretty self-explanatory."

"How many of the prisoners are involved?"

"Not everyone works down here. I'd say about a fourth of the guys directly work for the operation, and the other three-fourths are aware of it and comply with it. The no-escape policy is the biggest challenge to keep on top of. Klink is the only kommandant who can claim he's never had a successful escape. It puzzles the brass to no end, since he doesn't appear to be all that competent, let alone a security genius, but as long as he can boast of that, it keeps him here, from being transferred. I doubt we'd get another easy mark like Klink, so his welfare is definitely among our top concerns."

"Is Klink really stupid enough that you can do all this right under his nose?"

"You mean is he a collaborator?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

"I know he suspects something, and he's tried to figure it out from time to time, but Klink's biggest priority in life is Klink, so whatever it is I do that keeps the men from jumping the fence is all right with him, provided I don't cause too much of a stir. He's tried getting rid of me before, but we figured a way around it."

"Getting rid of you?" Jim's eyes widened, and Hogan noticed his shocked expression.

"Not that way," Hogan responded, laughing a little. "Klink's not that ruthless, much as he'd like everyone to think he is. He's tried getting me transferred or replaced as senior POW officer. We figured ways around it. I'm still here."

"Then he's just an idiot?"

"Funny thing about Klink. Every now and then, he has a worthwhile idea about security, and if he really paid attention to what was going on here, he could probably uncover it. But Klink has an eye for the ladies and a taste for champagne, caviar, and, God help us all, the violin," Hogan added with a smile. "Despite what he likes to make people think, he's definitely not a warrior at heart. And he's vain as hell, so a little flattery will just about get me the keys to his staff car."

"I knew this was an amazing operation, and I've heard the stories, but I had no idea it was such an...industry."

"Man does not live by sabotage alone. London sends us money and materials, but sometimes we need walking around money if we're going out in disguise, so the metal shop stuff helps bring in a few marks."

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Klink is expecting company in the next week or so. A group of German generals are using Stalag 13 as a meeting place, and intelligence sources tell us that one of them will be carrying battle plans we have to get a look at. I've already got LeBeau signed up to cook them a gourmet dinner, and Newkirk's all set to borrow the briefcase long enough for us to photograph the plans. Someone will have to take that film to one of our Underground contacts to get it to London. I'll send you out with one of the others. It should be straightforward, dull mission, barring any unforseen complications. It'll give you a chance to see how our operation works, and to meet a couple of our key contacts in town. In the meantime, you'll just be drawn in as part of the team anytime we have a job to do, and just learn by watching and doing."

"Sounds good, sir."

"Good," Hogan said, smiling. "I'm sure we can put your skills to good use, Captain. Frankly, I could use some help with a lot of the day to day stuff in camp. That's one area where it's hard for Kinch to really take the reins as second in command, because he's not that far above the rest of the men in camp in terms of rank."

"Is the fact he's black ever a problem with that?"

"Not the second time. I don't tolerate that kind of behavior in my command."

"That's commendable, sir. I hope you know I wasn't suggesting it should be. I've heard of problems in POW camps between black and white prisoners."

"There have been a few incidents, but I've dealt with them severely, and Klink doesn't have much tolerance for in-fighting among the prisoners disrupting things. That's one point we agree on, so any conflicts like that are usually settled fairly fast. Luckily, these are mostly good guys and those incidents have been rare."

"That's good to hear. But I'm not really surprised. Anybody who can do an arrow formation of prisoners with their cigarette lighters to signal bombers during night roll call has things under pretty tight control."

"That was a couple years ago," Hogan responded, snorting a laugh. "We have our moments." 

********

Jim considered himself quite lucky to have been drawn into the inner circle with the possibility of participating in even a fairly routine mission on the horizon. He knew his keen senses of sight and hearing would make him a top-notch lookout man, and he was familiar with explosives and espionage tactics. But Hogan had made it clear that he would be going through some "on the job training before playing a key role in a major operation."

Still, the headaches were getting more frequent and more intense, and he'd blacked out temporarily on one or two occasions before inadvertently bombing the camp's guard towers. His first nights in the camp weren't really promising him much relief, either. The press of people on all sides, the noise, the smells, the search lights at night, the constant hum of life all night long–guards talking, dogs barking, Hogan's incessant subterranean activities–were all conspiring to make his life miserable. It seemed his comrades could tune it out and sleep. He could not, and figured he'd get his best sleep when he was simply too exhausted to keep his eyes open any longer.

Jim smiled as he watched Hogan lean against the exterior of the weather-beaten wooden barracks where their group and several other prisoners resided, a total of fifteen men in each of twenty barracks. As usual, Hogan had chosen the spot closest to LeBeau, and now stole fresh chunks of apple out of the bowl of them LeBeau was cutting. Since LeBeau had to keep a steady supply of strudel on hand to bribe the jovial, rotund Schultz, he spent a considerable amount of time cutting the fruit for it. Since fresh fruit was not abundant, most of them, including Jim, had gotten their hands slapped for stealing out of LeBeau's ingredients. Hogan's thieving, as well as his presence, seemed to be more than welcome. Before long, the two men were talking, smiling, and enjoying each other's company.

Hogan ran an orderly ship, an iron fist very definitely cushioned by a soft velvet glove. He had an innate kindness about him and a real concern for his men and their needs and feelings, but he could do a complete 180 at a moment's notice and snap into "command mode." When Hogan got to the point of barking an order, the men literally jumped. More often than not, though, he was relaxed around his men, chatting easily with them and treating them with the kind of respect he received back in return.

********

Contemplating reaching for another piece of apple, Hogan stopped to watch a Gestapo staff car driving in through the gates. Two guards, Major Hochstetter–a hyper officer who made up for his diminutive stature with an aggressive personality--who often visited the camp to shake things up a bit–and another man all got out as Klink rushed out to his porch to greet them. The black-uniformed Gestapo men were nothing remarkable or unusual, but their guest, or prisoner, depending on his identity, was another story. A tad on the short side, this man was dressed in civilian clothing topped off by a somewhat beleaguered raincoat, and sported long dark curls restrained by a band at the back of his neck. He was obviously an artist or some other Bohemian type, and that alone made it more likely he was a prisoner than an esteemed guest.

Jim wandered over to where Hogan was watching the arrival with interest.

"Coffee pot?" Jim asked, smiling. He was still amused by the bizarre locations and disguises for all the listening devices Hogan and his men had planted throughout the camp, but the coffee pot took the prize. Especially since LeBeau was still occasionally ruffled that he'd lost a perfectly good coffee pot in the process of gaining a listening device.

"Yeah, looks interesting," Hogan responded, leading the way into the barracks. In moments, Hogan, LeBeau, Ellison, Newkirk, Carter, and Kinch were gathered around the small wood table that served as a desk in Hogan's quarters, listening in to the events in Klink's office via a coffee pot that served as the speaker for their listening devices.

"...so as you can imagine, we need to house the professor in a location that is safe from Allied bombing. As long as the Fuhrer is interested in his research, he must be protected," Hochstetter said. "He will be using your VIP guest quarters until further notice."

"May I ask what is the nature of your work, Professor?" Klink asked. There was a slight pause before an unfamiliar voice, presumably the professor's, came over the small speaker. It was a medium voice with an American accent.

"I have been studying individuals with acute senses–extra sensitive touch, taste, smell, sight, hearing. I've encountered a number of subjects with one or two heightened senses, but according to an old monograph by Sir Richard Burton, in ancient tribal cultures, there were men who possessed all five heightened senses. He referred to them as Sentinels, and they functioned as watchmen for the tribes. They were born with these abilities, so it is my contention that if such men existed then, they may well exist now. Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to locate a subject that fits the profile of a Sentinel."

"Fascinating," Klink said, sounding genuinely interested. "So these Sentinels are able to detect things others can't?"

"Exactly. For example, someone with very acute vision may be able to see with the naked eye something we need binoculars to see."

"As you can imagine, this has far-reaching implications for the German war effort, and Dr. Sanders has been...convinced to work with us. So far, we've tested the Fuhrer and his top officials, and the general's staff with no positive results."

"As I explained to Herr Hitler," Sanders interjected, "it is not unusual that a supreme leader would not have these abilities. Sentinels were watchmen, not tribal chiefs. They protected the tribe, including the chief."

"Ja, the Fuhrer was not happy with the failure of the first round of tests. But if there is a Sentinel in Germany, we will find him!" Hochstetter exclaimed, punctuating the claim with a snap of the leather gloves he carried. "The Fuhrer wants Professor Sanders to operate from a safe location. His test subjects will be brought to him here. You will offer him hospitality, but the Gestapo will handle his security."

"Major Hochstetter," Klink began, a pretentious tone to his voice, "I am the kommandant of Stalag 13, and I will not have the Gestapo taking over security for my guests."

"He is not your guest. He is the Fuhrer's guest, and my responsibility. Are you sure you want to defy the orders of the Fuhrer?"

"My stalag is your stalag, Major," Klink replied, the fawning in his tone making Hogan smile and shake his head as he unplugged the coffee pot.

"You think there's anything to what this guy's talking about, Colonel?" Carter asked. "Wow, imagine being able to see long distances without binoculars. Or hear things nobody else does..."

"If that person existed, he would be an asset to his side, and the most dangerous man in the war to the other side. But this is like something out of a science fiction story, and not a very good one," Hogan added. "I think this Sanders guy is clever enough to have found something that interests old bubblehead and is keeping himself alive with it."

"Do we help him?" LeBeau asked.

"We need to know more about him before we do anything else." Hogan frowned, rubbing his chin as he thought. "If they found one of these...Sentinels, was it? If they found one of them on the other side, among us, they'd probably be out to kill him."

"Or recruit him," Jim suggested. 

"You said that your eyesight was really sharp...you had great night vision, wasn't that it?" Hogan asked Ellison, who shrugged.

"That's true. My eyesight and my hearing are pretty sharp, but not on the level that guy's talking about."

"You think you could fake it enough to meet with him and get tested?"

"Maybe, but how would we get them to test a POW? Hitler's going to want his find to be German."

"Leave that to me. We just need someone to talk to the guy, get a feeling for whether or not he's happy working with the krauts, and if he's a fraud or if he really knows what he's talking about. Meanwhile, Kinch, radio London and ask them what they know about him, if anything."

"Right, sir," Kinch replied, heading for the tunnel.

"He didn't sound particularly happy working with them," Ellison said, his voice a little softer than usual. "The way Hochstetter said he'd been convinced to work with them...they've got something on him, or they've tortured him into submission."

"You seem pretty confident of that, Ellison. Any special reason?" Hogan asked.

"Just the way Hochstetter said what he said, and something in Sanders's voice. He was scared. I could hear it."

"Well, if you're right, we'll do all we can to help him. But don't go into this with your mind made up," Hogan cautioned. "I need you in there with an open mind and prepared for him to sell you a soapy story. Trusting someone like him, if he's not really on our side, could be the end of our whole operation, and put us in front of a firing squad."

********

Blair "Sanders" sat on the side of the bed in the guest quarters. It was a comfortable room, with a double bed, dark wood dresser and mirror, a small overstuffed chair, a desk and chair, and a wardrobe. It was spotlessly clean, and the mattress seemed like it might even be comfortable. Unable to relax, he stood again and walked to the window, looking out at the compound. The prisoners milling around, engaged now in some kind of recreation period, were a million times freer than he was.

Of all the times he'd cursed the nomadic lifestyle he'd led with his flighty, heiress mother whose lust for world travel had taken them to every corner of the universe, this was the worst. She'd met and become the mistress of a German count just before the war, and Blair had secured a teaching assistantship at a prestigious university not far from Berlin. Nadine Sanders was no more worried about the war that she was about anything else more substantial than how to spend her next trust fund check. With phony passports that hid their real surname, Sandburg, and with it, the fact they were Jewish, she had seen no reason to flee what was an overindulged lifestyle as the count's consort. In addition to his aristocratic status, the count also happened to be an SS general.

Blair prayed the count would never learn he wasn't sleeping with Nadine Sanders, but rather, Naomi Sandburg, a nice Jewish girl from a rich Jewish family in the States. His mother's reddish hair, fair complexion, and clear blue eyes set her apart from the Jewish physical stereotypes. Blair's rich, brown curls were his legacy from a father he never knew, but he didn't "look Jewish" exactly, so without the name to give him away, he could pass for just another American student in a German university.

He knew his mother had a knack for sticking her head in the sand when it came to politics. Blair, however, had seen a good friend of his rounded up and carted off to some unknown destination with a truck load of other Jews. People were being moved out of their homes, packed into trains like cattle, and sent somewhere. There were nights Blair woke screaming, images of the hopelessness on his friend's face that day flashing through his mind, and the haunting realization that but for a fake passport, he would have faced the same fate.

So now he was playing an even more dangerous game, keeping himself alive by dangling the carrot before Hitler of finding some kind of biological, living, breathing proof of a superior human being, who would, of course, be German. Part of the Master Race. Some tiny part of him took pride in keeping the madman to some extent at the end of a leash, jerking on it occasionally when he found a general with a heightened sense of smell or unusually acute hearing.

Another part of him felt as if he'd made a deal with the devil to save his own life. That he should have been courageous enough to die horribly rather than play this kind of charade. He had every faith the Allies would win, good would triumph, but would he be able to stay one step ahead of Hitler and his Gestapo that long with all these tests, many of which were contrived?

Blair went to his suitcase and opened it on the bed, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and pulling its tail free of his pants. He'd been in these clothes for hours, and hopefully Hochstetter and his goon squad would leave him alone for a while. They couldn't possibly have test subjects here for him this quickly, and it was getting late to start setting up his laboratory. It was almost dinner time, and the kommandant had said something about leaving him to rest up from his journey before sending for him for the evening meal.

He was startled by the door opening just as he'd tossed his shirt on the bed and stood there naked from the waist up. Blushing profusely, the portly German sergeant he'd met in Klink's office started backing out the door, babbling apologies as he left Blair's briefcase just inside the door.

"I thought you were with the major in the barracks where your laboratory is being set up. Please forgive me," he said, pulling the door shut. Blair sighed. He knew the marks on his back, shoulders, and chest had sent the guard fleeing so nervously. They had faded in the last few days, but it would take time for them to disappear.

Suddenly, he felt much more tired that before, and pulling his shirt back on, stretched out on the bed in hopes of a few stolen moments of sleep.

********

"You sent for me, sir?" Hogan asked, entering Klink's office.

"Yes, Hogan. As you probably observed, we have guests, and I would like LeBeau to prepare a special meal for them tonight."

"You want LeBeau to cook for the Gestapo? I don't know if you've got enough extra bread rations in your bag of tricks to make that happen," Hogan concluded, sitting in the chair across from Klink's desk.

"I'm prepared to offer an extra ration of meat per man per day for two weeks." Klink waited while Hogan mulled that offer. Meat was at a premium, and Klink was loathe to part with extra unless he was really motivated.

"What's so special about this guest, anyway?"

"That's classified, Hogan. Now will LeBeau prepare the meal or not?"

"Throw in an extra hour of electricity every night, and you've got yourself a deal."

"Thirty minutes," Klink responded.

"Forty-five."

"Forty, and that is my final offer."

"Sold, to the man with the monocle!" Hogan replied, imitating an auctioneer.

"Very funny, Hogan. We would like dinner at seven o'clock sharp, in my quarters."

"I'll tell LeBeau." Hogan rose and headed for the door.

"Oh and, Hogan, Dr. Sanders, our guest, is an American. He asked for you to join us tonight."

"An American collaborator? No, thanks, Kommandant."

"You are hereby ordered to join us for dinner," Klink snapped back.

"This Sanders guy must have a lot of clout for a civilian. A doctor, huh? Did he discover something big?"

"That will be all, Hogan. I will expect to see you in my quarters at six-thirty for cocktails. Dismissed."

********

"You expect me to cook dinner for an animal like Hochstetter?" LeBeau protested, his voice rising.

"If Klink hadn't called me over there to ask, I would have volunteered you. We need to get close to this Sanders guy and find out if he's really on their side. I'm going to send Ellison with you."

"But he's an officer. Won't Klink suspect something if he's serving?"

"I thought of that. Can you teach him the basics of making something we can say is his speciality?"

"What about strawberry shortcake? Carter showed me how his mother always made it, and it's a popular American dessert. It would be logical that I might not make it, but an American could."

"Great. Have Ellison do something, even if it's just cutting up strawberries. I'll tell Klink we wanted to do something extra for the American guest. He'll buy that. I've got an idea on how to make Ellison look like one of these Sentinels Sanders is looking for." Hogan sat on his lower bunk, and LeBeau leaned against the closed door of Hogan's office.

"I hate cooking for the Gestapo. Unless I can poison them," he added, bitterly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Look, I know how you feel, but there's no other way." Hogan stood up and walked closer to LeBeau, resting his hands on LeBeau's shoulders. "You're the key to this whole operation. We need a chance to get close to Sanders, and this gives me a chance to talk to him, maybe one on one if we play our cards right."

"Oui, I know. I better get over to Klink's quarters and start cooking."

"Schultz is waiting there for you."

"I bet he is, ready to lick the bowls before I even start!" LeBeau chuckled, shaking his head. Hogan's hands felt warm on his shoulders, and his eyes lingered a moment, taking in the fond expression Hogan usually bestowed on him.

"Thanks, Louis." Hogan broke the contact and opened his office door, sending LeBeau on his way to the kitchen.

********

"You want me to make strawberry shortcake?" Ellison asked, raising his eyebrows as Hogan unfolded the evening's plan.

"LeBeau'll do all the real cooking, but we're telling the krauts it's your specialty, a traditional American dessert in honor of the American guest. Now Kinch is rigging up a microphone under the dinner table, and you'll be wearing this receiver."

"Okay. What am I supposed to do?"

"Listen in on the conversation. Once in a while, if they mention wanting more of something, or needing something--anything, a napkin, more wine, extra whipped cream on their shortcake--just show up with it. If they ask how you knew, say you overheard someone mention it."

"You think this'll convince them that Sanders ought to test me?"

"I hope it does. This is big stuff. This guy has been working directly with Hitler. We have no way of knowing which side he's on, and just asking is a bit risky. Somebody has to infiltrate the project, and spend some time with him. Klink knows me well enough to know that I don't have any superhuman sensory abilities. You've got enough natural ability in a couple areas to keep Sanders busy testing you for a few days."

"I'll do my best, sir."

"A lot's riding on this, Ellison. If this Sanders character isn't a nut of some kind, we've got to get him on our side, or neutralize him somehow."

"Neutralize? You mean kill?"

"We've captured other high-profile collaborators and sent them off to prison in England. I'd prefer that to an outright assassination. That's not my style, and not the way we usually operate. But I'll do that before I'll let him identify anyone with that kind of natural surveillance ability for the krauts."

"Understood, sir. LeBeau does realize that I don't know the first thing about making strawberry shortcake, right?"

"He's ready for you," Hogan said, smiling.

"I do make a mean spaghetti sauce, though."

"Next time Major Bonacelli visits, you'll be at the top of my list."

********

A soft knock on the door startled Blair out of his nap. In the time he'd slept, sunlight had given way to shadows, and it was nearly time for him to go to dinner. He rubbed his eyes and called out to the person who knocked to enter.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Herr Doctor, but you are wanted in the kommandant's quarters." The same sergeant who had brought his briefcase earlier now stood in the doorway, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Thank you, Sergeant. Oh, about earlier," he said, stopping the man from leaving. "No harm done. It was a mistake." Blair smiled, and the guard returned it. "Blair Sanders," he said, extending his hand. The sergeant seemed a bit surprised by that at first, but then he shook Blair's hand, his jovial face breaking into a smile.

"Sergeant Schultz, Herr Doctor," he replied.

"If you want to have a seat, Sergeant, I'll be ready in just a couple minutes."

"I will be in the sitting room, sir," Schultz said, taking his leave. Blair smiled as he watched him go. Schultz was the first German military man he'd met since his capture who seemed genuinely kind. He seemed to Blair like a man who was dragged into the war the way so many men had been, on both sides, with little passion for the cause of a mad man.

He washed up quickly, shaved, splashed on a bit of aftershave, tugged his long hair back into a pony tail, and secured it with a hair band. Slipping into a clean shirt, he eyed the one tie he had with him with disdain, figuring it was probably expected of him for a dinner in the kommandant's quarters. His suit had seen better days, that much was obvious, but at the university, he'd managed to side-step most of the upscale occasions where it would not be adequate. Still, at least he looked presentable now, if not fashionable.

"Ready, Sergeant," Blair said, emerging from the bedroom to be escorted to Klink's quarters. Apparently Hochstetter didn't think he'd try to escape from this place, as this was the first time he'd been allowed to go anywhere with anything but a Gestapo escort. "What do you do in civilian life?" he asked Schultz, who seemed to tower over his own 5'7" frame.

"I run a toy company," Schultz said, smiling. "The Schotzy Toy Company."

"Really?" Blair asked, surprised. "That's the biggest toy company in Germany, isn't it?"

"One of them," Schultz said with obvious pride. "They seized the factory when the war started." He sighed. "I would like to make toys again."

"I have a feeling you will. All this can't last forever. The war, I mean."

"Ja, it has been a long one," Schultz agreed.

"I haven't been in the middle of it as long as you have, and it's already too long for me," Blair said, feeling the truth of those words wash over him. Even one day in Gestapo custody was one day too many, and he'd lived through far more than one.

"Right this way, sir," Schultz directed, leading Blair up two steps and opening the door for him to Klink's quarters, closing it behind him.

The kommandant was out of his chair immediately, moving toward the door to welcome his guest, always the perfect host. Klink appeared to be a man of some breeding, very courteous and refined in his demeanor, appearing quite fit and trim in his dark green Luftwaffe uniform. The rest of the group included Hochstetter, Burkhalter, and Hogan. The general's early arrival to join them for dinner was a surprise to all, though given the fact he himself had been tested by Sanders for his level of sensory ability, it should not have come as a shock that he would be interested in visiting while the scientist was at work at Stalag 13. Plus, he was scheduled to arrive with the group of generals meeting at the camp the next day.

The combination sitting room and dining room was brightly lit and pleasant, with modest but attractive furnishings and a table set with obviously expensive crystal and china. The other guests were seated in the sitting area, and rose when Blair entered.

"Ah, Dr. Sanders, allow me to introduce--"

"We've met, Klink," Burkhalter interrupted, then smiled in Blair's direction, though the expression seemed to hold a hint of something sinister. "Dr. Sanders, nice to see you again."

"My pleasure, General," Blair responded, shaking hands with Burkhalter. "As I recall, you had an acute taste for fine wine," he added, and Burkhalter chuckled, obviously amused.

"I prefer the finer things in life, yes."

"Dr. Sanders, this is Colonel Hogan of the US Army Air Corps. He is our Senior POW Officer."

"Always good to meet another American in the middle of Germany," Hogan said pleasantly, shaking hands with Blair. The dark-haired officer, dressed in his formal brown uniform, adorned with the medals and markings of his rank, seemed a bit young for a colonel. Most of the men of that rank Blair had met were already stodgy old men.

"Likewise, Colonel," Blair responded, returning the officer's smile. Something in the man's demeanor put him at ease, but at the same time, he couldn't help feeling Hogan's gaze right into the pit of his soul. The American officer was sizing him up, trying to determine if he was really a collaborator. Blair looked away, glancing at Hochstetter. The major smiled a little evilly.

"Good evening, Dr. Sanders. I trust you had a good rest before dinner?" he asked. Hochstetter had not overseen his torture or participated in it directly, but Blair had the uneasy feeling he wouldn't be opposed to inflicting a little if need be. Hochstetter had been in charge of his security once his work for the Germans began. Or, at least, once he'd begun playing along.

"Yes, I did, thank you."

"Shall we sit down? We have a wonderful meal planned," Klink said as Blair sat in a chair near Hogan's spot on the end of the couch, a good distance from the German officers in the room. "Carter, some wine for our guest," he ordered, and Carter, also an American prisoner, wearing a white serving jacket over his uniform shirt, handed Blair a glass and filled it from a chilled bottle he then returned to an ice bucket. Though the Americans in the room probably harbored more ill will toward him than the Germans, given his reputation as a collaborator, their presence made him feel less outnumbered.

"Dr. Sanders, Colonel Klink hasn't really told me what the nature of your research is," Hogan said, taking a sip of his wine. Blair glanced at Burkhalter, who smiled benevolently at the scientist's hesitation to blurt out the nature of his work. Blair had been "punished" more than once for saying more than he should without permission, and he didn't look forward to repeating the experience.

"I don't see any harm in sharing your theory with Hogan. It has yet to be proven," Burkhalter said, a distinct note of disdain in his voice.

"Are you familiar at all with the work of Sir Richard Burton?"

"Slightly. He was an explorer, right?" Hogan responded. Pleasantly surprised, Blair smiled, and continued.

"Yes, and among his works was a monograph about tribal watchmen--men who had heightened senses, and protected the tribe by watching for signs of danger, changes in the weather...even when it was a good time to hunt. My theory is that these watchmen had a genetic advantage. All five of their senses were heightened beyond the normal range. There is nothing to indicate that such people don't still exist today. We know some people have one or two acute senses--food tasters, for example--but I have yet to find a man with all five senses heightened."

"The Fuhrer believes that man will be found in the German armed forces," Burkhalter said. "Tests have been done on a number of officers, and Dr. Sanders will continue his work here, at Stalag 13."

"Safe from enemy bombing," Hogan added.

"That is true, until last week, of course," Burkhalter added under his breath.

"That was an accident, General. My man explained that," Hogan countered, barely veiling his annoyance in the courtesy of his tone.

"You were bombed here?" Blair asked, surprised. That was the primary reason for stashing him in a prison camp, and now, it, too, had been a target.

"An American bomber got off course, and accidentally destroyed the guard towers and the front gate. The construction's coming along nicely now, but it was a mess at the time," Hogan explained.

"The pilot claimed it was accidental," Burkhalter emphasized, letting out a long sigh.

"Actually, the pilot who flew that plane is making dessert for us tonight," Klink said, and Hochstetter merely rolled his eyes. Just then, LeBeau emerged, waiting to announce that dinner was served. "You see, strawberry shortcake is his speciality, and since we have a distinguished American guest..."

"Two," LeBeau muttered under his breath. Hogan caught the word, and he was sure the Germans had as well.

"You have something to say, Corporal?" Hochstetter challenged. Before LeBeau could open his mouth, Hogan stepped in

"To the table, dinner is served," Hogan said. "Right, LeBeau?"

"Oui, dinner is served," LeBeau said grudgingly. The guests moved to the dining table while LeBeau returned to the kitchen for the serving cart, which he wheeled in a moment later. Hogan stifled a smile as the beef stroganoff was served. It was a personal favorite of Hogan's, and its Russian origins gave LeBeau something to smile about as he served it to their captors.

When Klink wasn't looking, LeBeau managed to pilfer his napkin from the table, creating an opportunity for Ellison to "overhear" a request from the kitchen.

"The meal looks delicious," Blair said, feeling his appetite make a fleeting appearance.

"Merci, Monsieur," LeBeau responded before taking his leave.

"I seem to have misplaced my napkin," Klink complained, looking around his place at the table for the missing cloth. A moment later, Ellison emerged from the kitchen, also clad in one of the white serving jackets, and laid a rolled napkin at Klink's place.

"Your napkin, Kommandant," he said.

"But how did you know I needed a napkin?" Klink asked, frowning.

"I overheard you mention it, sir."

"From the kitchen?"

"LeBeau asked me to help him be attentive to the guests to be sure they had what they needed while he was busy with the cooking, sir."

"You heard the kommandant mention his napkin while you were still in the kitchen?" Blair asked, looking up at the handsome American who stood only a few feet away.

"Yes, I suppose I must have," Ellison responded, shrugging.

"Klink, it is obvious your quarters must be bugged," Hochstetter stated. Hogan's hand slipped under the table where he felt the small knob that was the listening device. He removed it and held it in his closed hand. He was relieved to see that Ellison had remembered to remove the small earplug he'd been wearing to listen in. He only hoped LeBeau found a good way to conceal it in the kitchen.

"I assure you, Major Hochstetter, my quarters are as secure as Gestapo Headquarters!" Klink asserted.

"If they are not, you may have the opportunity to explore that for yourself," Hochstetter warned. "I will have my men go over this room with a fine-tooth comb!"

"Major, relax and eat your dinner," Burkhalter said, annoyed. "If the enemy were bugging this room, I hardly think they would expose their activities by bringing Klink an extra napkin."

"If it isn't a listening device, then...you must have truly remarkable hearing, Mr.--?"

"Ellison, sir. Captain James Ellison, US Army Air Corps."

"You're an officer?"

"Yes, with a very bad sense of direction," Hochstetter observed. "Captain Ellison, I would very much like to have a talk with you before I return to headquarters. I will send for you tomorrow."

"And for me. If you're interrogating one of my prisoners, under the Geneva Convention--" Hogan's protest was cut off by a wave of Hochstetter's hand and a tone of feigned friendliness.

"Interrogation is too strong a word, Colonel Hogan. Just a discussion."

"You're the flier who bombed the guard towers," Blair guessed, and Ellison looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Yes, I was, but it was accidental."

"How did it happen?" Blair asked, genuinely curious. He wondered if perhaps one or more of Ellison's other senses were dulled in compensation for his superior hearing. Blair had tested men with inferior eyesight who had extremely sharp hearing, or perhaps these men had merely learned to maximize the use of their hearing as compensation. He was still going over some of his old data to make that determination.

"I'm not sure. There was heavy bombing, return fire from the AA batteries, it was a night mission...I apparently got off course."

"But you're not sure?"

"Excuse me, Dr. Sanders, but Captain Ellison has already been questioned by Colonel Klink and General Burkhalter," Hogan interjected. "If this isn't an official interrogation, I prefer that he not be questioned about it in this setting."

"Don't be rude to our guest, Hogan," Burkhalter retorted. "And the captain can take care of himself, I'm sure."

"If I were certain of why I bombed the guard towers, Dr. Sanders, it wouldn't have been an accident," Ellison responded flatly. "May I be excused, Kommandant?" he asked Klink, who nodded.

"Yes, you are dismissed."

"I must apologize for the lapse of courtesy, Doctor," Burkhalter said, smiling ingratiatingly at Blair, who did his best not to visibly recoil from the expression. It was only because he was the Fuhrer's weird project of the month that the German brass were treating him like a guest. That, and the fact he was finally cooperating--at least, in their eyes he was. As long as he could maintain that charade, men like Burkhalter would be smiling at him instead of shoving him in front of a firing squad or onto the back of one of the trucks carrying Jews to God-knows-what destination.

"Not at all. Actually, he was right. It was an inane question," Blair said, chuckling. He hoped the American officer would return to the room. Not only was he easy on the eyes, but his acute hearing definitely piqued Blair's interest. Still, revealing him as a Sentinel would be no favor to him under the circumstances, even if he happened to be one.

"Actually, Captain Ellison was telling me that he has superior night vision," Hogan said, eyeing Blair for a reaction.

"Really?" Blair replied, stalling. He was trying to read Hogan's expression, to figure out why he would want to expose a fellow American to prolonged study and testing by a collaborator. Worse yet, if Ellison turned out to be a Sentinel, Hitler would want him eliminated quietly and swiftly. No way would he allow an American to be the one discovered with superior sensory abilities.

"Yes, that's why he said it was so unusual he should have such difficulty staying on course," Hogan added.

"That is interesting," Blair responded, confused. What are you up to, Colonel? You want me to study this guy? "Perhaps we should test Captain Ellison."

"Ridiculous!" Hochstetter snapped. "The Fuhrer was very clear on that point. You are here to test German officers!"

"Actually, Major, I'm here to look for a Sentinel in Germany. That's my assignment from the Fuhrer. I realize he believes that person will be German, but I hardly think he would want me to ignore evidence of one's existence. After all, wouldn't he want to know if the other side had a resource like that?" Blair argued. He was terrified, wondering if contradicting Hochstetter would have dire consequences like those he had suffered at the hands of the Gestapo colonel who'd been in charge of him while he was held at Gestapo headquarters.

"He has a point," Burkhalter said, nodding. "I think he should test Ellison."

"Bah," Hochstetter dismissed. "The Fuhrer was very clear on that point–if one of these 'Sentinels' is found, he will be German."

"I said he should be tested, Major. I believe I have a better grasp of the Fuhrer's feelings about this project than you do."

"I have my orders. He is to test German officers!"

"Dr. Sanders, you said someone has to have all five of their senses unusually acute to be one of these 'Sentinels,' didn't you?" Klink clarified.

"Yes, that's true."

"Then it's obvious Captain Ellison is not a good subject. He only has two acute senses, even if what Hogan says is true about his night vision."

"Touch, taste, and smell are all very individual experiences. We can only know how something feels to our touch, tastes in our own mouth, or smells when we breathe in. It's conceivable one or more of those senses could be acute without him knowing by comparison that they are. With sight and hearing, you're more likely to hear something someone else doesn't, or be offended by light, for example, that wouldn't be bright enough to bother someone else. With the other senses, you could go through life preferring blander food, wearing softer fabrics, and avoiding fumes without attributing that to abnormally heightened senses. I would very much like to test the captain, if that's agreeable to Colonel Hogan."

"It isn't his decision," Burkhalter said.

"I have no objections, provided he isn't subjected to abuse of any kind, and that his abilities, if he has any, aren't exploited."

Blair stared at Hogan, nonplused. No one could be that naive about the Germans and their intentions for Ellison should he turn out to be a Sentinel. Blair was already trying to construct in his mind ways to help Ellison escape should the tests come out positive.

"I'm sure Dr. Sanders will merely run a few harmless tests and discover the captain simply has sharp eyesight and hearing," Klink said.

"I assure you, Colonel Hogan, none of my tests are substantially painful and I maintain the highest ethics in terms of working with human test subjects."

"Provided Captain Ellison is agreeable, I won't object to it."

"That's all settled, then," Klink announced, relieved the tension seemed to be easing among his guests.

"Where in the US are you from, Doctor?" Hogan asked.

"Actually, I've lived in several places, mostly on the West Coast."

"Captain Ellison is from Washington State."

"I studied briefly at Rainier University in Cascade, before taking the fellowship in Berlin."

"Quite a coincidence. Captain Ellison's hometown," Hogan said.

"Really? That's great. It'll give us a bit of common ground to break the ice. It's always easier to work through the tests if the subject is relaxed, and you can build a bit of a rapport." Blair found himself enjoying the meal a bit now, visiting with another American, and savoring the prospect of running tests on someone who wasn't one of Hitler's favorite windbag generals. "You haven't said where you're from, Colonel Hogan. I'm guessing East Coast."

"Really?" Hogan smiled.

"Your dialect. New England, probably."

"Connecticut," Hogan responded. "That's pretty impressive. I guess I never thought much about having an accent or dialect that was noticeable."

"People generally don't. Especially about themselves. I've studied linguistics as part of my anthropology course work, and it's a fascinating field."

"Taking a fellowship in Berlin was a little risky with a war going on," Hogan said.

"True, it was. But I had an opportunity to work with Dr. Eli Stoddard. You probably haven't heard of him–"

"Did he write something about tribes in Borneo?" Hogan asked. Blair knew his shock was plain on his face.

"Yes, actually, he did. I did some of the research with him for that book. I'm curious...how did you happen to read it?"

"One of the men had it. It looked interesting, so I borrowed it. Books are at a premium around here, and I like to read."

"You'll probably have a pretty eclectic background by the time you leave here," Blair commented, and Hogan laughed.

"That's an understatement. If I recall correctly, he had a pretty impressive background."

"He does. He's a Ph.D. in Anthropology and also in Sociology, and he's written several books. It was just too outstanding an opportunity to pass up. I worked as a teaching fellow for a while, and when I got my doctorate, I stayed on as a professor."

"How did Hitler get interested in your research?"

"He read one of my early articles on the subject, and he wanted to learn more."

LeBeau emerged then, and with Carter's help, began removing the empty plates.

"The meal was excellent," Burkhalter commented, and LeBeau managed a polite smile.

"Merci, General."

"It really was outstanding. They're lucky to have a gourmet chef in-house here," Blair said, and LeBeau smiled genuinely this time, pleased by the comment.

"Merci, Doctor. I'm glad you enjoyed the meal. Captain Ellison has prepared an outstanding American dessert I'm sure you'll enjoy as well."

As LeBeau and Carter left with the dirty dishes, Ellison entered with a serving tray bearing the five desserts, which he served to each of the guests, and then left again.

"I haven't had strawberry shortcake in years," Hogan said, eagerly sampling the dessert.

"I never had this before," Klink said, tasting it, and smiling. "Oh, that's delicious. Is this very popular in the United States, Hogan?"

"It's a classic. Kind of like apple strudel is for Germans."

"It was very thoughtful of you to serve an American dessert, Kommandant," Blair said. "I appreciate it."

"It is not every day we have a distinguished scientist conducting experiments here at the Fuhrer's direction. I hope you know we will do all we can to help you with your very important assignment," Klink concluded.

"You needn't concern yourself with his work, Klink," Hochstetter snapped. "That is a matter for the Gestapo to supervise."

Blair went back to eating his dessert, wondering why it was necessary for the Gestapo goons to be so sour all the time. Klink seemed like a harmless sort, and he didn't appear to harbor any true disdain for people from other countries or cultures. There was a comfort in his rapport with Hogan that didn't really indicate hatred or animosity on any level.

Though he had actually enjoyed the food, Blair was relieved when dinner was over, and he was finally able to retreat to his quarters. And a part of him actually looked forward to the next day's work, for the first time since the nightmare of pretending to work for Hitler had begun. Mostly, he looked forward to the chance to talk to the dashing, reserved Captain Ellison.

********

"Nice work, gentlemen," Hogan announced as he gathered his inner circle around the table in the barracks. Ellison had crawled through the tunnel between the barracks and joined their meeting. "So how much of that dessert did you actually make, Ellison?"

"I cut up strawberries. That was about it, sir."

"We've got our 'in' with Sanders."

"He's on our side, sir," Ellison said, as if there was no room for doubt.

"And you determined that from what, exactly?" Hogan asked, frowning. Truth be told, he had the same impression from the American scientist, but it was purely gut instinct, and there was too much at stake to trust that alone.

"It's a hunch, Colonel. I can't prove it, but–"

"I know," Hogan interrupted, then sighed. "I got that impression, too, but we have to be careful. There's too much riding on this to go on our instincts. Even if he tries to approach you, don't let him know anything about our operation. Tell him you'll let me know he wants to talk, and I'll handle it."

"Right, sir," Ellison agreed readily, in deference to Hogan's rank. Still, in his heart, he knew it would be hard if Blair Sanders turned those big blue eyes his way and asked for help. He'd felt something almost palpable between them even in the instant he'd been in the room with Sanders. It made him uneasy then, and yet made him look forward with some interest to seeing the man the next day.

"While Sanders is doing his experiments, remember as much of it as you can. I want to know everything he's up to. We don't have a bug in that empty barracks where they're setting up his lab, but we'll try to remedy that tomorrow. Kinch, what do you think the chances are of planting a microphone?"

"Not good, the way the krauts are guarding that place. A guy could get shot for just looking at it, let alone trying to get in."

"He's right, sir," Newkirk chimed in, "the ruddy Gestapo have tighter security around that building than the Bank of England."

"I've planted listening devices before, Colonel," Ellison volunteered. "I'm not as experienced as Sergeant Kinchloe, but maybe he could tell me where he thinks it should go, and I could plant it while I'm there."

"Okay, do it. Kinch, we need the best you've got. If you get caught, Ellison, it's the firing squad for everybody."

"With all due respect, Colonel, I won't get caught."

"Good. Because if you do, you'll be better off with the krauts than you will be with me." Hogan seemed a bit rankled by the arrogance of Jim's answer, but he didn't address it directly.

"Understood, sir. I'll be careful."

"He's doing work for Hitler," LeBeau said, noticing Hogan's cup was empty, and getting up to refill it from the coffee pot that was kept warm by its place on the wood-burning stove near the table. "Do you think they'd ever get complacent?" he asked as he filled Hogan's cup.

"Probably not–although we could try a diversion." Hogan's evil little grin both intrigued and unnerved his men. As the group dispersed, Hogan took LeBeau aside. "I want to talk to you."

"I know what you're going to say–"

"Humor me," Hogan replied, motioning toward his office. Once LeBeau was inside, he closed the door. "What were you thinking?"

"Burkhalter was just being rude. I couldn't help it. It just came out."

"I'm not working for the krauts, so they're not going to consider me a 'distinguished American guest.'"

"But you are. You're more distinguished than that...collaborator!"

"Look, I appreciate the thought, Louis, but you could have gotten yourself in some real trouble tonight if we hadn't talked fast."

"I know you're right," LeBeau admitted. He was impulsive and passionate by nature, and as much as Hogan admired that in him, and found himself drawn to it, truth be told, he recognized the potential danger in it.

"I'm always right. I'm an officer," Hogan responded, smiling. After the predictable French mumbling, LeBeau returned the smile.

********

Immediately following morning roll call, Ellison was summoned to the empty barracks that had been set up as Dr. Sanders' laboratory. When he arrived there, he found Sanders sitting on a stool behind a table strewn with books and notes, small glasses in place, his long curls tied back. After the guard closed the door behind him, Sanders started and looked up, as if this were the first time he'd realized anyone had entered.

"Good morning, Captain. Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing to a straight chair on the other side of the table. "I'll be finished here in just a moment."

Sanders fumbled a little with the book he'd been holding, and he seemed a bit nervous. Ellison sat in the chair without saying a word, quietly studying the strange man Hogan wanted investigated. The deep blue eyes behind the glasses flicked up, then back to the book. Ellison stifled a smile. There was a scent hanging heavy in the air between them, and it had nothing to do with the sauerbraten cooking in the sergeant's mess. All his life, Ellison had found it curious that his friends spent so long agonizing over whether a certain girl liked them or not. He'd always known, without question, whether she did or not just by walking past her in the hall. The scent of desire was unmistakable, and now he was picking it up from Sanders.

Guess that explains the hair. I wonder if he's got a slinky evening gown and heels in his suitcase?

Ellison found the whole concept of homosexuality more amusing than repulsive. The image of doing those things with any of his male friends usually just made him laugh. It seemed so ridiculous and unnecessarily difficult when everything with women was so easy. Still, he occasionally caught a slight whiff of desire from another man, and it was rather surprising just how many men had those thoughts about other men.

If only I could figure a way to prove it, I could retire on the blackmail proceeds alone, Ellison thought, smiling.

"What is it?" Sanders' voice cut the silence as he set his book aside.

"I was just wondering if I should take my clothes off," Ellison said, deadpan. Sanders actually flushed crimson at that and suddenly seemed to have swallowed down the wrong throat, coughing several times before responding. Taking advantage of Sanders' flustered state, Jim reached under the table and planted the small bug.

"They aren't those kinds of tests," he said finally.

"Oh," Ellison replied, nodding and smiling. Sanders actually returned the smile, seeming to forget himself a moment before he opened a beleaguered leather portfolio that held an ominous stack of handwritten notes.

"Yes, well, we'll start with some simple exercises to begin evaluating the level of your heightened sensory perception."

"Sounds like fun, Chief. What do you want me to do?"

"Let's try these eye exam charts." Sanders took the charts from the table and hung them on the wall behind his makeshift desk. "Can you read this series of numbers?" he asked, using a pointer to indicate the middle row. Even without heightened senses, Jim imagined he could read those. So he did, and smiling a little, moved on to the next level down, and the next, until he was at the smallest print size. Each time, Jim read the line effortlessly.

Sanders stopped to scribble something in his notepad.

"Did I pass?" Ellison asked, and Sanders actually laughed a little.

"With flying colors, Captain."

"Am I one of these...Sentinels you're looking for?"

"Whoa, slow down a little. We've only done one test. Making a determination like that could take weeks of testing."

"Have you done weeks of testing on all the krauts?"

"It takes weeks of testing if the subject shows promise. So far, no one has had more than one or two slightly elevated levels of sensory perception. No one has had all five, and none have been extraordinary. It's just not that statistically common."

"So now that I passed the eye exam, what's next?"

"A little taste-testing. Nothing unusual, and I promise I won't make you eat worms or anything, but you have to be blindfolded."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you looking at what you're tasting."

"I'm supposed to close my eyes and let you feed me things? I don't think so, Chief."

"Look, I know the kommandant can force you to submit to certain tests, but if you don't trust me and won't cooperate with me, I won't get very far. So why would I do something to betray your trust on the first day?"

"Okay. I survived a crash landing and capture by the krauts...I guess I can chance this."

"That's the spirit."

********

"What's going on with the great experiments?" Hogan asked Carter, who had been posted in Hogan's office, listening in on the morning's work via the little coffee pot speaker while Hogan and the others had been watching the arriving generals and keeping tabs on their meetings via another listening device placed in the Recreation Hall, where they were meeting.

"So far, he's read an eye chart and tasted three cups of water with seasonings in them."

"That's Sanders' idea of top secret experiments?"

"That's all they did," Carter replied, shrugging. "Gosh, I was worried it was going to be some kind of weird medical experiment or something."

"Yeah, so was I. I guess that's a break for the good guys. Keep with it, and if anything unusual happens, come and get me. I'll send Newkirk in to relieve you in a while. No one can take this kind of excitement without a break," Hogan added, smiling as he left Carter there in the office, chuckling.

Hogan was just leaving the office when Schultz walked in.

"Colonel Hogan, the kommandant wants to see you."

"What does he want?" Hogan asked, pulling a chocolate bar out of his jacket pocket and opening it, suppressing a grin as Schultz eyed the candy bar with the kind of lust Hogan usually reserved for a well-endowed blonde.

"He doesn't tell me everything, you know."

"He tells you more than you're telling me, Schultz. Does it have something to do with the visiting brass?"

"I don't think so. It is a letter. He read it, and then he told me to send for you." Schultz looked at him pleadingly, and Hogan handed over the candy bar.

"That's it?"

"That is all I know. And that is the truth." Schultz began devouring the chocolate bar as he escorted Hogan to Klink's office.

"You wanted to see me, sir," Hogan said as he entered Klink's office.

"That will be all, Schultz," Klink said, dismissing the sergeant, who closed the door on his way out. "Have a seat, Hogan." Klink's voice was a little softer than usual, which puzzled Hogan but he followed the direction and sat in a chair across from the kommandant's desk.

"Is there a problem, sir?" Hogan asked, noticing that Klink was now looking back at the letter, troubled.

"As you know, the mail coming into the camp is screened."

"I thought something was going on when my mother's last letter looked like cut-out paper dolls," Hogan said, sarcasm in his tone. German intelligence always censored letters, and if Klink was bored, he'd read through them himself, priding himself that he would find something intelligence missed. Given Klink's present mood, Hogan wondered if he'd actually found something.

"There was nothing in this letter that troubled the censors," Klink said. "I was going to give it to Schultz to put with the rest of the mail, but I thought... I thought perhaps I should give it to you in person." Klink handed Hogan the letter. Frowning, Hogan took it, looking at the familiar, shaky script.

"It's from my grandmother–but you probably know that," Hogan added. He began reading the letter, and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach about midway through it. In her usual gentle way, she'd been trying to prepare him for the actual words that she would finally have to write on the page. Hogan finished the letter and took in a deep breath, folding it and tucking it in his jacket.

"You have my sympathies, Hogan."

"Thank you, sir." The part of Hogan's mind that was not consumed with what he'd read, and with the images it evoked, acknowledged that Klink had shown him not only a great courtesy, but compassion in delivering the news personally instead of allowing Schultz to simply hand it out at the next mail call. He fought the lump in his throat, not trusting himself to say anything else. For a moment, he didn't trust himself to move, his grip on his emotions seemed so tenuous.

"The delay in getting the news to you was unfortunate, but if you would like to send a reply, I will mail it personally from Hammelburg."

"You trust me not to slip some secrets into it?" Hogan asked, forcing a smile that wasn't quite successful.

"I would consider it a courtesy between officers. Your word would suffice."

"Thank you, Kommandant. I would like to send a reply." Hogan rose, moving toward the door.

"I am sorry, Hogan," Klink said, and Hogan paused by the door, the genuine statement making him smile a bit when he felt the least like doing so.

"I know you are," Hogan responded. "Thank you." He left the office, the horrible letter feeling like a live snake lurking inside his jacket. As he entered the barracks, it registered that LeBeau was cooking something, but the smell turned his stomach rather than enticing him over to the pan the way it usually did.

Walking into his office, he found Carter still there, loyally listening to the experiments taking place in Sanders' lab.

"You can take a break, Carter. I need my office for a while. I'll keep an ear on things."

"Thanks. Nothing much has happened, Colonel. It sounds like they're getting ready to knock off for the day anyway," he added, leaving the office. Hogan closed the door behind him.

********

LeBeau cast another furtive look in Hogan's direction as they sat around the table in the barracks, eating their evening meal. He'd served the visiting generals a feast suitable for a fine French restaurant, and Newkirk had managed to photograph the battle plans. Hogan's praise had been conservative, to say the least, and his reaction to the successful mission considerably flatter than usual. He'd instructed Kinch to send the message off to London that they had accomplished phase one of the mission, and then retreated to his quarters, where he'd spent most of the day behind the closed the door. It was very unlike him to stay in that kind of seclusion with a mission going on, but then he didn't seem like himself in any other significant way, either.

Hogan had been mostly silent once he'd emerged from his quarters in time for dinner, and now he was moving the food around on his plate with the fork, staring at it as if his mind were a million miles away. A few of the others had grunted brief words of praise for the leftover coq au vin, which LeBeau had smuggled out for their dinner from the generals' repast. It was one of Hogan's favorites, and yet he was barely eating more than a bite or two, chasing it with his coffee.

"London sends their congratulations to everyone for getting the film of those plans, Colonel," Kinch said. "They're anxious for us to get that roll of film to our contact in town. Intelligence is waiting for it, and they were pretty insistent that we get it there right away."

"What do they think we're running here? A courier service?" Hogan snapped. "I thought you told them about the heightened security since Ellison's little adventure with the guard towers."

"Yes, sir, I did, but they still insisted it was vital we get it to them as soon as possible."

"If they think they can find someone to move this stuff through faster, they're welcome to send him from headquarters. He can have the job with my blessing." Hogan threw his napkin on the table and stormed back to his office, slamming the door.

"Something's wrong," LeBeau said, shaking his head, looking at Hogan's nearly full plate.

"Officers," Newkirk grumbled, appropriating Hogan's unfinished portion, only to be challenged by Carter, who demanded a share.

"Leave it," LeBeau said, taking the plate from Newkirk in a move so swift it left even the resident pickpocket and safecracker gaping at him in surprise. "He might be hungry later, and I don't have anything worthwhile left to fix."

"Then he should have eaten his dinner," Newkirk made another reach, which LeBeau successfully dodged.

"I mean it. Leave it, or I'll really put the head of an eel in my next bouillabaisse," LeBeau countered.

"Never a good idea to get the cook mad at you, Newkirk," Kinch advised, chuckling, then becoming serious again. "Colonel Hogan's been under a lot of pressure. This situation with Ellison hitting the guard towers hasn't exactly made things more relaxed around here. I tried to tell that to London, but you know how those guys are when they want something. They want it yesterday."

********

In a prison camp barracks, where good food was at a premium and fifteen men, who were always just a bit hungry, even after dinner, were in easy reach of the stove, guarding the leftovers of Hogan's meal was no small task. LeBeau proved up to it, however, and what he lacked in stature, he made up for in determination. Finally, shortly before lights out, he went to Hogan's door with a tray bearing the small pan of warm food and a cup of coffee, and knocked. There was a long pause, then an abrupt "Come in."

"Sorry to bother you, Colonel, but I thought you might be hungry now." LeBeau entered the office and closed the door behind him, setting the tray on the desk. Hogan was sitting on the lower bunk, elbows on knees, staring straight ahead.

"Thanks, Louis. Maybe later."

"Do you feel ill?"

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Coq au vin is your favorite. I've never seen you leave even a drop of the sauce–"

"I said, maybe later," Hogan retorted sharply.

"Oui, Mon Colonel. Later. Goodnight." LeBeau headed for the door.

"Wait," Hogan said, stopping him. "I'm sorry. It's not you or the food."

"I was concerned when you didn't eat. I thought you might be sick."

"I, uh, got some news from home. It's just taking me a while to..." Hogan gestured, searching for the right word. "Get on with things," he finally concluded. He looked more tired and drawn than LeBeau could ever remember seeing him look before.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He pulled up a stool not far from where Hogan sat on the bunk, then frowned. "We haven't had a mail delivery in weeks."

"Klink called me into his office, gave it to me personally." Hogan swallowed almost audibly, his throat working visibly. "My, uh...my brother is dead."

"Oh, no," LeBeau muttered, covering his mouth briefly. "I am so sorry, Colonel."

"Thanks," Hogan responded, his voice a little husky. "At the time my grandmother wrote the letter, my mother was sedated. She collapsed when they told her, and she's been...the doctor's been looking after her. The letter is almost a month old."

"Have you thought about going home? Even temporarily?"

"Of course, I thought about it. But I wouldn't do it. I guess that's why I blew up at Kinch earlier." Hogan sighed. "I get a letter like this and I want to go home and then I get a message from London that things aren't getting done fast enough...just hit me the wrong way."

"If they knew what happened--"

"This isn't their problem, and it can't impact the operation, either."

"How can something like this not impact the operation? You are only human."

"This is larger than any one person and his family troubles. I won't hold up the Allied war effort so I can...think about this."

"You mean so you can grieve? You must allow yourself to do that, Colonel."

"When? When would you suggest I do that?" Hogan snapped, standing and starting to pace. Before or after we figure out if Sanders is on the up and up or if we have to knock him off? Before or after we get that film to the Underground? Before or after we take care of that bridge job we had to put off because of the heightened security? When would I do it?" Hogan demanded, visibly frustrated at the crack in his voice and the tears that filled his eyes.

"There is no good time to lose someone you love, but death doesn't wait for us. It doesn't let us choose the best time. It just...it just is, and then we have to cope with that." LeBeau rose, moving a bit closer to where Hogan stood, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Hogan reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"It's my fault."

"What is?"

"What happened to John," he said. "He's a few years older than me, he's got a wife and kids. Never could really afford much by way of extras for himself." Hogan moved his hand to brush it under his eyes quickly, blinking rapidly to dispel any lingering moisture. "He always liked my motorcycle. He's kind of a klutz–you know, accident-prone--has been ever since we were kids, so I never was too glad to let him ride it. About six months ago, I got this letter from him, and he was depressed about money, bored, the new baby crying all the time was getting on his nerves. He'd asked me before if he could use the motorcycle while I was in the service."

Hogan sat on the stool near his desk, and took a drink of the coffee LeBeau had brought to him. "It wasn't until I answered that last letter that I told him to go ahead and take it out of storage and enjoy it. I figured I'd have enough back pay to buy myself a new one if he messed it up." Hogan snorted an ugly laugh. "I didn't figure out how I was gonna replace him if he killed himself on it." The words were followed by a choking sound, before Hogan put his head down on his folded arms on the desk and his whole body began shaking.

LeBeau stood there, frozen for a moment. He'd touched Hogan in friendship before, and Hogan touched him all the time–he was probably the warmest person LeBeau had ever met. But Hogan was a colonel, a commander. And this was so personal. Part of him felt he should leave the room, but the part of him that loved and valued Hogan's friendship moved him to stand close by, and then venture a hand out to rest between Hogan's shoulders. There was nothing wise he could say in the face of such grief, but one thing did stand out clearly in his mind.

"It wasn't your fault, Mon Colonel," he said gently, his hand rubbing back and forth over Hogan's shoulders now. "You were trying to make him happy. You don't like seeing people unhappy. You never have. You have one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know. You would never hurt your brother."

"Tell that to my sister-in-law and my niece and nephews," he said bitterly, straightening on the stool. "Tell it to my mother if she's not too sedated to understand it!"

"Are they blaming you?"

"I don't know. They should. I knew putting him together with that motorcycle was a bad idea, but the only thing that stood out in my mind was how much damage he'd do to the motorcycle. What does that say about me?"

"That your brother tended to be clumsy and you were used to him breaking things. He probably did it all the time when you were kids."

"But when you break a motorcycle it can kill you in the process. I never even thought about that."

"He was a grown man. Whether or not he could handle a motorcycle was his decision, not yours. You were just generous enough to let him use yours."

"If I hadn't done it, he'd still be alive. He can't afford to buy one." Hogan pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his nose and eyes. "Thanks for listening, Louis. I'll have a little of the coq au vin later."

LeBeau smiled at Hogan's perfect pronunciation of the French dish, and at the way he had of making LeBeau feel that his latest culinary masterpiece was truly nectar. And the way he always made his men feel good about themselves and all their accomplishments. And how little time he was allowing himself to cope with something so horrible.

"I don't think I should go yet," LeBeau said, venturing to slide his arm around Hogan's shoulders.

"When I was little, he taught me how to ride a bike. If the bullies bothered me, he'd go clean their clocks. He was the best big brother, and I never thanked him for that. For any of it. All I did was hold out on him so my motorcycle wouldn't get damaged."

"A moment ago you blamed yourself for letting him use it, and now you're punishing yourself for not letting him use it sooner. You did nothing to feel guilty for. You loved your brother and you eventually did what you thought would make him happy, even if it was against your better judgment."

"I know you're right." Hogan was quiet a moment. "I just can't talk myself into feeling that way about it."

"It's too soon," LeBeau said gently. "You should rest."

"My grandmother is almost 90. I thought for sure that one of these days, I would get a letter about her...and instead, she wrote me the letter about my brother. I wish there was something I could do for Jenny and the kids. I feel so damned...useless here."

"Could we contact your family through headquarters? We got in touch with Garlotti's father for that pizza recipe–"

"That was for a mission. I'm not asking London to get involved in my family problems." Hogan sighed. "I should explain to the men. That little outburst of mine at dinner was uncalled for."

"Relax, Mon Colonel. I will explain to the others."

"He's already buried, Louis. He's been dead almost a month. All these days I've been going on about my life like nothing happened, and he was dead and buried in the family plot back home." That thought seemed to send a new wave of pain through Hogan.

Ignoring his inhibitions and following his heart, which was something that occasionally got him in trouble, LeBeau moved closer and pulled Hogan toward him, encouraging Hogan to rest his head on LeBeau's shoulder. To his surprise, Hogan's arms wound around him, and he relaxed into the embrace, his body shaking slightly with the tremor of new tears. LeBeau rested his cheek against Hogan's hair, wishing there was some way he could make him feel better, lift some of the burden of unwarranted guilt off his shoulders. They were shoulders that bore too much burden alone as it was.

"If your brother were here, right now, what would he say to you?" LeBeau asked.

"Quit your sniveling and be a man," Hogan said through a watery chuckle. "I remember him saying that to me when I was little. I think I fell off my bike or something. He thought I was carrying on way too much."

"Besides that," LeBeau persisted, a smile in his voice. "What would he say about you taking all this guilt on yourself? Would he blame you?"

"No, no, he wouldn't."

"You were halfway around the world. You weren't even there. Mourn for your brother, but don't punish yourself this way. I won't allow it."

"You won't, huh?" Hogan seemed amused by that, and he pulled away, swallowing, looking as if he had a firmer hold on his emotions now.

"I would not let anyone else insult you, and I won't stand by and let you do it to yourself."

"Maybe you're right. I just can't forget that if I hadn't let him use the motorcycle, he'd be alive."

"And the thousands of people who die in car accidents would still be alive if they'd never ridden in a car. People who die in plane crashes would still be alive if they hadn't decided to take a trip when they did. Does that mean the people who sold the cars or the plane tickets are to blame for those deaths?"

"No, of course not, and what you're saying makes sense. In here," Hogan said, pointing at his head.

"In here will follow," LeBeau said, forgetting any boundaries between them and laying his hand over Hogan's heart. "Give it time."

Their eyes locked for a long moment, then Hogan stood and LeBeau withdrew his hand. The barriers were back, and LeBeau found himself feeling very alone on his side.

"It's almost time for lights out," Hogan said, his voice still sounding rough with emotion.

"I should go, then. If you need anything..."

"I know who to call on," Hogan said, smiling and looking at LeBeau with a love and warmth in his eyes that went straight to LeBeau's heart.

********

Blair took a bite of the sauerbraten he'd been served for dinner and continued to pore over his notes from his session with Captain Ellison. For the first time since he'd entered into this hellish false bargain with the Nazis, he forgot about his circumstances and concentrated more on his research. He couldn't confirm yet that Ellison had heightened senses at the level to be considered a Sentinel, or even that all five were equally heightened. But it was obvious the American captain was above average in all the test categories.

Way above average, Blair thought, smiling as he sipped his wine. Good thing he can't read my mind. Good thing I can't read my mind...I should be paying more attention to the kommandant's curvaceous secretary than to male Air Corps officer.

"Excuse the interruption of your dinner, Doctor," Hochstetter's voice startled Blair as the Gestapo major approached the table where he was eating. Somehow, the officer had slipped into his quarters and simply appeared there.

"I was just going over my notes from my tests on Captain Ellison," Blair explained, having found Hochstetter was not nearly as sadistic or given to bouts of violence as some of the other Gestapo men if he felt his prisoner was staying in line and faithful to the Fuhrer.

"Ja, I thought you might be doing that now. What do you think?"

"It's too soon to tell," Blair said honestly. He knew if Ellison was the elusive Sentinel he was searching for, he would have to protect him. Exposing him to Hochstetter was out of the question. How he would cover it up, or help Ellison, he had no idea.

"Dr. Sanders, you realize we cannot go the Fuhrer with news that you have found one of these Sentinels as you call them, among Allied POWs."

"I am aware that Herr Hitler expects it to be someone of German descent. I can't control the research, though."

"Yes, Doctor, you can. You must. If Ellison turns out to be one of these Sentinels, I expect you to turn your notes over to me and let the Gestapo deal with it. It will not be reported to the Fuhrer. Is that clear?"

"Deal with it? How?"

"That is none of your concern."

"If he's the proof of my theory, it most certainly is my concern." Some part of Blair's brain told him he was insane to antagonize a Gestapo officer over the finer principles of his research, but he persevered anyway.

"May I remind you, Doctor, that you are sitting in V.I.P. quarters and dining on fine food only at the Fuhrer's orders. You can find yourself in a Gestapo jail on the same orders. Treason is not a crime taken lightly by the Third Reich."

"I'm not talking about treason. I'm talking about the truth."

"There are times it is the same thing. You would do well to remember that. When you have finished your testing of this prisoner, you will turn over your findings to me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, it's clear," Blair said, defeat clear in his voice.

"Did you expect me to report back to Himmler that you'd found someone with all of these...special talents, and he is an American? You, Doctor, may want to die for the truth. I prefer to live just a bit longer."

"There's really no point in all this worry anyway, Major. Captain Ellison has slightly elevated readings on these preliminary tests. So did some of the other subjects who ultimately tested negative."

"Good, good. And make this as efficient as you can. I want you to get back to testing German officers."

"I could start with the kommandant," Blair stated. Hochstetter raised an eyebrow and laughed.

"Klink? Most of the time, he has taken leave of his senses. I seriously doubt they are especially acute."

********

Jim paced in the darkness of his quarters. His vision easily adjusted to the lack of light after lights out, and his hearing seemed to pick up each movement of the guards in the compound and every snore, sigh, and whispered conversation of the men in his barracks. He was tired, but his mind was working overtime, going over his day of tests with the American scientist.

Blair Sanders was hard to figure. He was working for the Nazis, but nothing about him supported the notion he was a true collaborator. It was inconceivable to Jim that someone as seemingly gentle, pleasant, and ethical could possibly support Hitler and his sick notions.

But then, Blair Sanders was just plain hard to figure, period. Jim had never seen a man with hair that long–at least, not in person. He'd seen pictures of men in history with long hair, but in the modern day? A part of him thought it was strange, but at the same time, he found himself compelled to look at it, to study the highlights in the long curls as the sunshine streamed in the windows of the building that was housing the temporary laboratory.

All in all, he spent entirely too much time looking at the good doctor and not enough time analyzing what his intentions were. Already he didn't feel objective. He wondered what he'd tell Hogan, who would expect a detached, analytical assessment of Sanders. Honestly, he'd been surprised not to see or hear from Hogan via the tunnel that evening. Though Sanders' lab was bugged, he expected Hogan would want a first-hand account, complete with Ellison's impressions of the man.

If Sanders was truly in league with the Nazis, and there was anything to his theories, it would be his death warrant. Hogan's operation was remarkably powerful and well-organized, and Jim knew that if he believed Sanders was a collaborator, the young scientist would probably find himself imprisoned in England at best, executed and buried in some unnamed place at worst.

Such was war, and Jim didn't understand why the mere thought of harm coming to Blair should trouble him so much. Or why he found himself thinking of Blair's face, his smile, his laugh, or the amazing blueness of his eyes.

"You've been away from home way too long, Ellison," he chided himself, stretching out on his bunk and trying to muster a dirty fantasy about Klink's beautiful secretary. He abandoned fantasy when the image kept shifting to Blair, and thoughts Ellison had never had about another man in his life.

********

LeBeau spent two long hours staring at the ceiling of the barracks before slipping out of his bunk and making his way stealthily to Hogan's door. Carefully, he pushed the door open a crack and peered inside. In the darkness, the most he could discern was that Hogan was in the upper bunk, where he usually slept.

"Who's there?" came the whispered question from the shadowed form on the bunk.

"Just me, Colonel. I..."

"You were checking on me," Hogan whispered.

"Oui, I was. You are still awake."

"Come in," Hogan invited, and LeBeau did, closing the door behind him. He heard Hogan moving about, and in a moment, one of the shutters was open to let in a bit of moonlight.

"I didn't mean to disturb you if you could get some sleep."

"I can't sleep. God knows I could use it, but it's not happening. What's your excuse?"

"I was...worried. I thought you could use the company, maybe."

"Thanks, Louis. It's an even longer night that I expected," Hogan admitted. "I tried writing a letter home, and the words just aren't coming together right. Klink offered to mail it for me so it would get there sooner."

"That was decent of him," LeBeau said, a little surprised by Klink's gesture.

"I appreciated it." Hogan sat on the lower bunk. LeBeau sat next to him, and both men were silent for a few moments. "I keep thinking about growing up, things John and I did together, plans we made. None of them really panned out. Well, except for me ending up in the Air Corps. I always wanted to fly planes. He wanted to be a Major League Baseball player. He tried out for it, but it didn't happen. I feel like I left him behind in so many ways. Like everything went my way and nothing went his way."

"Fate, Colonel."

"Yeah, I guess. I left home, and my family, and never really looked back. I never regretted that until now. I thought I'd have a chance, you know? The war would be over and I'd spend some time back home, playing with my brother's kids, eating my mother's cooking, going fishing on Saturday morning, just John and me, the way we used to. I thought they'd be safe there, and I'd be the one who'd be killed, if anyone was. I was totally unprepared for it to be John, back there in civilian life."

"I worry about my family a lot. Ever since the occupation. I know what the Bosch pigs do in their Gestapo jails. I wouldn't be surprised if they did it just for laughs, to innocent people."

"If your family aren't involved in politics or the Resistance, they'll probably be okay."

"I hope so." LeBeau sighed.

"You should get some shut-eye before roll call."

"I'm all right. I can take a nap later if I'm tired. Unless you'd like to be alone for a while."

"I was alone for a while, and it was overrated. I'm trying to figure out what to say to my mother. What I could possibly write in a letter that would make a difference. It's been a month."

"Tell her you love her and you're going to be as careful as you can, and that the war will be over soon."

"All but the first is kind of a stretch, Louis. We're not exactly in a cautious business, and I have no clue when the war'll be over."

"It's what she needs to hear, don't you think? With your brother gone, she is going to be even more worried about you."

"You're right."

"How about you? What do you need to hear?" LeBeau asked.

"That the letter was some kind of cruel Nazi joke to undermine my morale, and John's fine."

"Is there any danger of that? Klink did give it to you personally and there are no cuts from the censors."

"It's my grandmother's handwriting. I've been reading letters from her most of my life. Notes on greeting cards, letters since I've been away from home...it's not a phony." Hogan swallowed, then added, "Besides, for all his bluster, Klink's not that sadistic."

"He really offered to mail a letter for you? I still can't believe it."

"Klink's got a mother and a brother back home. Maybe it just struck a chord with him. I don't know. I tried to start the letter a couple of times...the words just didn't come." Hogan rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Maybe you should lie down and rest." LeBeau laid a hand on the back of Hogan's shoulder. "You seem exhausted, Colonel."

"I feel exhausted, but I can't sleep."

"Come on, lie down." LeBeau stood and Hogan did the same, but was surprised to see LeBeau turn back the lower bunk. "We can still talk a while, but if you feel tired, you can doze off this way." Hogan nodded a response and slid under the thin blanket, releasing a tired sigh. LeBeau sat on the edge of the bunk, and seeing how truly worn out Hogan looked, decided against engaging him in conversation. Hogan's eyes were drifting shut against his will. "Go to sleep." He laid his hand on Hogan's wrist where his arm lay on top of the covers. "I will stay." When Hogan opened his eyes and mouth to object, LeBeau held a finger up to his own lips to shush him. "Just rest. If you want to talk, I will be here. But you need sleep now."

"Thanks, Louis," Hogan said quietly, his mouth turning up slightly at the corners before he drifted off to sleep.

********

Before roll call the next morning, LeBeau quietly gathered the men of their barracks together and told them the news that Hogan's brother had been killed in an accident, and the colonel only now received word of it.

"That's rough," Carter said, shaking his head. "You just don't think about the folks back home being in danger," he added, echoing Hogan's sentiment of the previous night.

"How's he taking it?" Kinch asked, concerned.

"The way he usually takes things–not letting himself have any time to deal with it. He doesn't want it to affect the operation in any way, and he won't use the contact with London to get in touch with his family."

"At least Klink offered to mail a letter for him," Newkirk said. "Gotta hand it to old Klink. That's decent of him."

"He could get in some trouble for it, that's for sure. Especially if Hochstetter gets wind of it," Carter said.

"Morning, men," Hogan greeted, coming out of his quarters, donning his cap. He looked a bit paler than usual, and tired, but otherwise, Hogan had pulled himself together well, and seemed prepared to go on with business as usual.

"LeBeau told us about your brother, Colonel," Kinch spoke up. "We're all real sorry."

"Thanks," Hogan said sincerely, but crisply. "We better get out there for roll call before Schultz comes in looking for us."

"Oui, and eating our breakfast while he's at it," LeBeau agreed. If Hogan wanted to keep talk of his loss to a minimum, that's what they would do. LeBeau thrust his hands in his coat pockets to keep from reaching out and touching Hogan, even in some small way.

********

Immediately following roll call, Ellison was escorted back to the barracks where Dr. Sanders was doing his testing. Hogan knew he should have met with Ellison to talk about the previous day's tests, but his mind wouldn't have been on it anyway. Returning to his office, he plugged in the coffee pot, planning to eavesdrop on the morning's experiments while he wracked his brain for the right words to write to his family.

He worked on the letter, occasionally using the experiments as an escape. He assessed early on that Sanders wasn't conducting any unethical medical tests on Ellison, and it seemed they had settled in for another day of eye charts and funny little tones to test range of hearing. It was almost as fascinating as the taste and scent tests of the previous day. Hogan shrugged to himself, figuring that just might be proof Sanders truly did work for Hitler–only old scramble brains himself would bankroll this kind of nonsense for months on end while Germany was losing the war against the Allies. Instead of buying more weapons, Hitler was paying for this guy to travel around Germany testing people's smellers.

********

"You're awfully quiet today, Chief," Jim said, watching Blair take notes on the results of his latest vision test, which , to him, seemed like a repeat of the test they had done the previous day, just using a different chart.

"We have a lot of tests to get through," Blair responded, not looking up.

"Where are all these tests going? Call me crazy, but I feel like we just repeated yesterday's tests again today, only with some different stuff." That got Blair's attention, and his head snapped up.

"They're not the same," he said defensively.

"Could've fooled me, but you're the scientist."

"In any kind of research, you can't take one set of results from a certain type of test and consider it solid. You have to repeat the tests, using different tools, to verify your results."

"Okay, don't get so defensive, Doc. Just an observation."

"I'm sorry," Blair said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "I have to justify the purpose of my work every day to people like Klink and Hochstetter, and I guess it just makes me edgy when I have to explain it to someone on my...someone else."

"Someone on your side?" Jim ventured.

***

"I don't believe this," Hogan muttered, throwing down his pen and abandoning his letter. "Smooth, Ellison, really smooth."

***

"I didn't say that," Blair responded, the color draining from his face.

"You didn't have to," Jim countered. "You're not really doing anything meaningful for them, are you?"

"You're mistaken, Captain. I am attempting to locate a Sentinel among the German officers. Testing you is merely a diversion. The Fuhrer believes if Sentinels exist, they must exist among the Master Race."

"You can't even carry it off well. You aren't a good liar, Chief."

"My name is Dr. Sanders. I would appreciate it if you would remember that. This is strictly professional."

"Oh?" Jim smiled. "That's not what I'm picking up on."

***

"What the hell?" Hogan rose from his chair and opened his office door. Most of the others were outside during the recreation period, but Newkirk was at the table in the main room of the barracks, repairing a torn garment with his usual tailoring expertise. "Newkirk," he said, motioning to the other man to join him in the office. "Listen to this and keep track of what they're saying. I'm going over there."

"Something happening, Colonel?"

"Something's happening, all right. Damned if I know what it is." He hurried out the door, leaving Newkirk baffled as he began to listen in to the conversation.

***

"I don't know what you're talking about," Blair felt his heart pounding, and it made talking in a steady voice almost impossible. "I hardly know you. You're a test subject. Why would it be anything personal?"

"You tell me, Blair," Jim said, purposely using the other man's first name, dropping his voice a bit, watching as Blair's face flushed a bit and his Adam's apple bobbed visibly. Just then, they heard voices outside, and a moment later, Klink and Hogan entered.

"Excuse the interruption of your work, Dr. Sanders, but we hoped you might give us an overview of the tests you've been running with Captain Ellison," Klink said, smiling politely.

"And I would like to know what you're asking one of my men to do. I don't have a clear idea of what types of tests you're running on him," Hogan added.

"Nothing sinister, I assure you," Blair said, relieved in one way for the interruption, but unnerved in another that his tests were being scrutinized. "We've really only begun the most preliminary level of testing–routine eye charts, hearing tests, simple stimuli for the other senses, to determine if any of Captain Ellison's responses fall outside the normal range."

"Do they?" Hogan asked. Blair hoped he wasn't shaking visibly.

"Not to an exceptional degree, no," he responded. "As I said, these are only basic tests, and many people will display results slightly outside the normal range. Which is why they are just the beginning of a very long process of testing. One test builds on the other."

"The tests have been quick and painless, sir," Jim spoke up. "Just reading eye charts and listening to tones and tasting a few things. Easier than work details or calisthenics," he added, obviously hoping to break the tension. Hogan didn't seem to have his usual sense of humor as he nodded, still straight-faced.

"Good. Thanks for your time, Doctor Sanders."

"Yes, Dr. Sanders, please carry on," Klink said, smiling and clicking his heels together before turning to leave. Hogan followed him, his gait a bit slower than usual.

"Something's not right," Jim said, still frowning after the door had closed behind the two men.

"How do you mean?" Blair asked, knowing he looked panicked but unable to hide it.

"I'm talking about Hogan," Jim said, looking at Blair. "You're not looking so hot yourself, Chief. What's the matter with you today, anyway?"

"There's nothing the matter with me. I don't know what you're talking about." Blair hoped the demeanor of the brusque scientist would put Ellison off his trail, or at least discourage him from questioning him or his motives further. "Why do you think something's wrong with Colonel Hogan? He looked all right to me. Seemed a little on the quiet side, but everybody has their off days."

"It's more than that, but I don't know what it is. But I'll figure it out. Just like I'll figure you out eventually."

"There's nothing to figure out. Now, I'd like you to put this earplug in and tell me what you hear." Blair handed Jim a small white earplug connected by a cord to radio-like box. "I promise you I'm not going to turn anything up loud. It's just more harmless tones. I want to check each ear individually."

"I don't know if I can stand the excitement." With an exasperated look, Jim put the plug in his ear.

********

"Hogan," Klink said, stopping Hogan from returning to the barracks. "I'm going into Hammelburg for a doctor's appointment this afternoon. I can take that letter if you like."

"I'm working on it right now. I'll have it finished by the time you're ready to leave."

"Fine." Klink turned to head back toward his office, then paused. "Do you think they're really accomplishing anything in there?" he asked, looking back at the barracks being used for Sanders' lab.

"I'm not exactly a research scientist, but I guess what he's saying makes sense," Hogan responded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Besides, all I'm worried about is whether or not he's abusing one of my men. Figuring out whether he's doing anything worthwhile is Hochstetter's problem."

"True, true," Klink agreed, nodding. "You seemed quite anxious to break in on their testing this morning when you asked me to accompany you to the lab."

"It's the second day of tests, and the guards won't let me in unless you're with me. I just wanted to pay a surprise visit. Be sure Ellison was all right."

"As you can see, he appears fine." Klink paused, as if he wanted to say something else but couldn't quite figure out how to do it.

"Was there something else, Kommandant?"

"How are you, Hogan?" The question was rapidly spoken, and Klink looked uneasy asking it, but at the same time, he seemed to badly want to address the subject of Hogan's loss.

"It was hard news to get, but I'm all right. I appreciate being able to send the letter home without waiting for it to go through the Red Cross or the censors. I know there's an element of risk in that for you."

"It's an innocent letter about a family tragedy. If the Gestapo should ask, you must tell them you gave it to me unsealed."

"I can do that if you prefer. I don't have anything to hide."

"Do as you wish, Hogan, but I don't feel the need to read it." Klink paused. "I telephoned my brother last night," he added.

"Does he have a job yet?" Hogan asked, and Klink actually smiled a little.

"Yes, he finally did get another job, much to my mother's relief. I haven't spoken to him in over a year."

"And then you get to thinking how it would be if you couldn't ever speak to him again, and you remember all the stuff you did together when you were kids, and all you want to do is pick up the phone?" Hogan said, the sadness audible in his voice.

"I didn't mean to make this more difficult, Hogan."

"It's just kind of a fresh wound, I guess. But I'm glad you called your brother."

"I know this probably sounds bizarre, but I wanted to thank you, but yet, you didn't really do anything...and I'm sure it doesn't make your loss easier to know I called my brother...maybe it was insensitive of me to mention it..."

"No, it's not. I understand," Hogan said, swallowing. "I should finish my letter."

"Of course. I'm leaving about one o'clock."

"I'll bring it to your office before that."

Hogan watched as Klink crossed the compound, then shivered at a particularly cold gust of wind. He'd felt colder since getting word of John's death, and the gray winter sky and black, rattling bones of leafless trees in the woods around the camp seemed even more desolate and hopeless than they ever had before. Suddenly the whole operation seemed more than he could handle, and the war seemed as if it would last forever. He found himself angry and frustrated with his lack of freedom in a way he never had been before. Though he was a prisoner of the Germans, he was one of the most powerful men in the Allied war effort. That thought had always kept him from feeling confined, from feeling defeated and captive. He had never truly felt like a prisoner. This was his assigned base of operations. He could escape any time he felt like it. He had that power.

And yet, he couldn't even be there for his brother's funeral, or to console his mother who, according to his grandmother, was inconsolable. In the end, he was a prisoner of both sides. The Germans had him behind barbed wire in a prison, and the Allies had him in charge of one of the biggest sabotage and intelligence operations in Germany and were not about to let him go anywhere.

"Colonel?" LeBeau's voice startled him out of his morose thoughts, and he realized it was snowing now, and the wind still blowing, and he was just standing in the middle of the compound, staring into space. "It's freezing out here. You should come inside."

"I was just thinking."

"Newkirk said you went to check on Ellison. What was happening?"

"Nothing I can put my finger on. But Ellison was moving too far too fast with probing Sanders. We don't know enough about the guy to trust him even if he claims to be on our side. Ellison could blow the whole operation. And there was something in the tone of their conversation I just didn't like. I need to talk to him tonight, find out what's going on in his head."

"You should have worn your gloves. Your hands look almost blue," LeBeau said, resting a hand in the middle of Hogan's back. "You're shivering."

"It's cold," Hogan said dismally, finally walking back to the barracks with LeBeau. "I have a letter to finish," he said quietly, and LeBeau nodded.

He closed the door to his office and sat at the desk, looking at the letter he'd started earlier. As he read over the first few lines, the emotions were back, and he couldn't stop a few tears from escaping. His body, his heart, and his soul felt frozen through. He didn't hear the door open, but somehow it didn't startle him to feel the blanket around his shoulders or to see the hot coffee in front of him, his letter moved carefully out of harm's way.

"Thanks."

"When my aunt died, my uncle shivered so hard at night that my father put three blankets on him to keep him warm. I think when you feel cold in your heart, your body feels it, too." LeBeau rubbed his hands briskly over Hogan's shoulders, trying to create a little more warmth.

"It's a hard letter to write," Hogan admitted, taking a drink of the coffee, and not objecting to the motion of LeBeau's hands over his shoulders and back. The attention felt as good as the warmth.

"Are you writing to your mother?"

"Yeah. Or trying," Hogan added with a slight smile.

"What would you say if you were there?"

"That I was sorry about the motorcycle," Hogan responded honestly, spontaneously.

"Anything you say to her will make her feel better. Just knowing you're safe, and alive. Share your grief with her. Tell her you love her. It doesn't have to be a long letter. You can write her a long one anytime."

"I guess you're right. Thanks for the coffee and the blanket."

"Call me if you need anything. I'll be in the other room, making lunch. Maybe you will want to eat a little something today?"

"I'll give it a shot."

********

Jim had left the laboratory feeling oddly depressed. Before Hogan and Klink walked in, it seemed as if Blair was about to say something, to reveal his real motives. Whatever was going on, Blair was afraid, no question about that. And try as he did, Jim just couldn't picture him as truly being a Nazi collaborator. Now, staring at the water-stained ceiling of the barracks as he lay on his bunk, the hours couldn't pass fast enough until morning, until he could see Blair again and try to talk to him. After all, his mission was to get to the bottom of what Blair was up to, how worthwhile it was, and whether or not he was on their side.

And if he's not on your side, can you turn that information over to Hogan? Can you sign Blair's death warrant, if it comes to that?

Resigned to not sleeping, Jim realized he had to face the answer that was as unsettling as it was inexplicable. He knew he could never turn Blair over to a certain death, whether it be at the hands of the Nazis or at the hands of the Allies. He knew the network of tunnels now, and a part of him pondered the possibility of using them to get to Blair late at night, offer him a means of escape, and try to get him out of Germany. But doing that without Hogan and his men would be suicide. Their operation was top-notch, but an independent mad dash into the woods was too risky.

********

Blair turned off the shower and dried himself, looking in the mirror at his reflection. He'd lost weight in the last few months, and he looked tired, even to himself. The mirror was small, and even when he turned around, he could only see a few of the red marks that reached his shoulders. It was just as well; dwelling on the angry-looking welts only made them seem worse than they were. They would fade in time.

He put on his pajamas and climbed into bed, releasing his hair from the knot he'd tied it in to keep it out of the water. The bed was comfortable, and the big sergeant, Schultz, was on guard duty outside his quarters. While he didn't imagine Schultz was a very efficient guard, he was more humane than the Gestapo, and it was much easier to doze off knowing one of the Luftwaffe men was patrolling, and not one of the black-uniformed monsters who were likely to inflict any manner of injury on him for the slightest transgression.

Sleep was elusive, though, even under the best conditions, and thoughts of the handsome Captain Ellison plagued him. Before they were interrupted, Blair had almost blurted everything to him. Begged for his help. And yet, how could he trust Jim, even if they were building a good rapport as researcher and subject? A clumsy attempt to get him out of Germany would end in both their deaths. Unpleasant deaths, at that. And who's to say Jim would believe him anyway? Or want to lay his life on the line to help him?

And if he escaped, he'd be wanted by Hitler himself. Maybe no one could help him. Maybe he'd dug himself a hole too deep to get out of this time.

********

"I'm going over to have a talk with Ellison tonight," Hogan told his men, gathered at the table in their longjohns and nightshirts. Hogan was fully dressed, and ready to make a nocturnal journey through the tunnels to Barracks 5.

"The branch tunnels aren't guaranteed safe yet, Colonel," Kinch said. "Ever since Ellison hit the guard towers, security's been tighter, and we just haven't had the time we need to spend down there fixing things up again."

"I can't help that. He almost blew the ball game today. We don't know anything about this Sanders guy–not enough to start talking to him about what we have to offer by way of escape services."

"Ellison didn't tell him anything, did he?" Newkirk asked. "After you had me listen in, he didn't say anything."

"No, he didn't say anything specific, but he's moving too fast with Sanders. A lot of collaborators play both sides. We don't know enough yet to trust him. Before he gets in there for another day of testing, I need to see him."

"One of us should go, Colonel," Carter spoke up. "If anything goes wrong, we're going to be in a real pickle trying to cover it up with Klink."

"Carter's right," LeBeau agreed. "If you get stuck in the tunnel, we can't cover for you. Klink would notice you're missing right away."

"I don't want to send one of you through the tunnel when we're not sure it's safe. I'll go myself."

"I will go. I'm smaller, and lighter, so I won't disturb things so much, and you can cover for me at roll call if you have to dig me out," LeBeau offered.

"I appreciate the offers, guys, but I'm going." Hogan checked his watch. "Langenscheidt just did a bed check about half an hour ago, so the coast should be clear for a while."

********

Jim knew that someone was on the way to his quarters via the tunnels long before the footlocker moved to reveal the opening in the floor. Hogan made his way up into the room, and Jim got off his bunk, standing to salute the senior officer.

"At ease, Ellison," Hogan said, saluting almost as an afterthought. "You want to tell me why you were moving so fast with Sanders? Do you know something we don't know? Because unless you do, you could have blown the whole operation."

"I didn't tell him anything, sir."

"You were pushing him way too far, too fast. Do you know how easy it would have been for him to tell you what you wanted to hear and ask for your help? And as soon as you confirmed you could help him, he'd have had a ticket right through our front door? Possibly bringing Hochstetter and his goons with him?"

"Blair's not a collaborator, sir."

"I see. And just how did you determine this in a day and a half–and you're calling him by his first name now? Not to mention the fact that most of the time you were looking at eye charts or listening to tones or drinking cups of water blindfolded!" Hogan's voice rose an octave, but he kept it barely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry if I did something to compromise the operation, but I didn't tell Sanders anything about it, and if you've been listening in, you know that."

"What I know is that if Sanders had given you any indication today that he wasn't on their side, you'd have been offering him safe passage to England. I don't know what's going on here, but I do know you're getting too friendly, too fast. He may look like this innocent young scientist, but just remember that Hitler started out as an innocent young painter, too, to all outward appearances, and look where he ended up."

"I wouldn't have said anything to breach security, sir. But with all due respect, you did ask me to get to know this guy and figure out if he was for real. If I don't build a rapport with him, how am I supposed to do that? And beyond that, I'm telling you what I think of him. It's not an exact science, but I'm a pretty good judge of people. I know when they're lying."

"You do? And this is some foolproof system?"

"Truthfully, sir? Nearly foolproof." Jim was silent a moment, trying to figure out if he should tell Hogan the whole truth. "I can hear people's heartbeats, and I know that when they change in certain ways, they're lying."

"Excuse me?" Hogan stared at him, incredulous.

"When I first came here, I told you I had acute senses of hearing and sight, and that's one of the reasons you put me in this position to be tested by Sanders. The scary part is, I think I might just be the kind of...person he's looking for. I can hear heartbeats from across a room. I can hear yours. I could hear you in the tunnel before you ever got near the entrance. And if I want to know if someone's lying, all I have to do is listen–not to their words, but to their heartbeat."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Look, I've been holding back on Sanders, on what I give him. I didn't want him to know how far off his charts my senses go. Even if he wasn't a collaborator, I didn't know that he'd die to protect me. That he'd have the nerve to defy the Gestapo. You and I both know an Allied Sentinel isn't what they want, and if they find one–"

"They'll execute him." Hogan sighed, and began pacing. "Assuming this is all true, and you really are one of these Sentinels Sanders is looking for, I need proof. Forgive me if I'm skeptical, but a lot of lives ride on my decisions, and I can't take your word for it."

"I know it's a risk, but I want to work honestly with Sanders. The night I hit those towers, dropped bombs on the camp, something happened. I blacked out. Sometimes when lights and sounds are too much, that happens."

"You realize it could cost you your life? We'd do all we could to get you out, but there's a point at which I have to pull back in situations like this. We can't let the krauts know how much we can do, how powerful this organization is. I might not be able to bail you out if you get in too deep with him and his experiments. You said yourself that you didn't want to let him know what you could really do."

"I have to take a risk here, Colonel. I have to give him something more to build a bond between us. I think we've already got a sort of friendship forming, but I have to give him something more. He has to know there's a reason to protect me, to choose sides. I think he's scared and he's playing a game to stay alive, and something has to happen to move him one way or the other."

"And you admitting how strong your senses are is that thing?"

"I believe so, yes. Because whatever Blair's politics turn out to be, he's a scientist. He loves what he does, and that's obvious. His whole face lights up when he talks about finding a Sentinel. It's what he wants most."

"If he's a Nazi at heart, I don't want to help him get out of Germany just so he can play with his new toy–a real live Sentinel who happens to be on our side. If what you're telling me is true, the implications for what you can do for the Allies is...staggering. London would have my head if they knew I was playing with a commodity like that."

"To London, I'm a commodity. To Blair, I..."

"You're what? A research subject? Look, none of my men are commodities to me. I don't think that way. But London does. And if I discover a man with an exceptional talent, I have to make sure he uses that talent to do the greatest good for our side."

"I don't even know that I'm really one of these Sentinels. And even if I am, there are times when I can't channel it. It's like a raw power that has no real direction. Yes, I can listen to heartbeats, and yes, my night vision is very acute. I've learned a few tricks by accident. But I don't think I can do it alone."

"Well, they didn't cover this one in officer's training." Hogan sat on the stool near Ellison's desk, looking more tired and worn out that he'd looked when Ellison first met him.

"Forgive my asking this, but are you all right, sir?"

"Me? I'm fine. You're the one hearing heartbeats across the room," Hogan added, smiling. "I got some bad news from home, that's all," he said, then continued, rising. "Take it to the next level with Sanders. Throw him a couple bones, do a couple tricks for him. See what happens. Don't give him all you've got. I want you to tread carefully here. Understood?"

"Understood, sir. Thank you."

"Just be sure, no matter how much of a sob story he gives you, that you check with me before you offer him anything tangible."

"Right, Colonel." Jim paused. "I'm sorry about your bad news. I hope it wasn't too serious."

"My brother was killed in a motorcycle accident about a month ago."

"I'm sorry," Jim said, thinking of his own younger brother, Steven, and wondering where he was, and if he was all right. Steven was a damn good pilot, up for a promotion to lieutenant any day now.

"Thanks. We'll talk soon about how we can put your built-in radar to work for the operation."

"I'll look forward to that, sir." As Hogan was about to climb down into the tunnel, Jim added, "About that proof you wanted, sir?"

"Yeah?" Hogan paused.

"LeBeau is the closest to you of the prisoners, and he cares about you very much."

"What would make you say that?"

"Because his heartbeat gets more rapid whenever he's near you."

"I'm an officer, and my rank has that effect on enlisted men sometimes," Hogan said, appearing distinctly uncomfortable.

"He's not afraid of you, and he's not nervous. I'm not trying to pry, Colonel, and I certainly am not asking for confirmation or comment one way or the other. I just thought it might serve as the proof you're looking for."

"It's been a long day, Ellison. Just proceed with Sanders, and don't worry about analyzing me and the men." With that, Hogan retreated into the tunnel, closing the entrance behind him.

"Guess I hit a nerve," Jim muttered to himself, smiling.

********

LeBeau put the finishing touches on the breakfast tray he was to take to Dr. Sanders' quarters. Colonel Hogan had asked him to volunteer for the task of making and delivering breakfast so he could spend a few moments in Sanders' company. Hogan seemed disinclined to rely solely on Ellison's judgment of the man, so he was now going to start exposing a few more of his men to Sanders to see what they thought of him, too.

"Breakfast ready yet?" Schultz asked, looking hopeful. LeBeau was using the camp kitchen to prepare this meal, and since it was on Klink's nickel anyway, he'd prepared plenty extra to make the portly guard happy.

"You better test it, Schultzie," he joked, handing Schultz his own plate. As he sampled the omelet, Schultz made the appropriate expression of ecstasy, rolling his eyes and savoring every morsel.

"Wunderbar! You made, perhaps, some potato pancakes to go with it?"

"Oui, I made potato pancakes," LeBeau replied, chuckling. He added one to Schultz's plate. "You see much of the scientist?" LeBeau asked conversationally. Schultz knew if he got a large handout of food that it came with a price tag of information, but he was usually only too happy to oblige.

"Not a lot. Sometimes I have guard duty around his quarters at night."

"You haven't talked to him at all?"

"Only a little, when I accidentally entered his room when he was dressing. He was very gracious about it, but I don't think he wanted anyone to see the marks."

"Marks?"

"I think I should not say any more."

"I'm making strudel tonight."

"It looked like he'd taken a whipping, and a bad one."

"Really?"

"Ja. His back and his shoulders had all these red marks that looked very sore."

"Interesting. You think Hochstetter and his men are doing that to him?"

"Nein. The major hasn't even been here that much, and I don't think his guards have gone inside the quarters for more than a few minutes to be sure Sanders is where he's supposed to be." Schultz smiled. "You said something about strudel tonight?"

"Come by after night roll call. I will have a little treat for you."

"Make it not-so-little?"

"Oui, I know," LeBeau replied, smiling.

Still pondering what Schultz had told him, LeBeau made his way to the guest quarters with a covered tray which would hopefully keep the food warm against the elements outdoors. The Gestapo guard let him pass after checking under the lid, and he could hear Sanders in the suite's bedroom, opening and closing a drawer.

"Your breakfast is here, Monsieur," LeBeau announced, leaving it on the dining table. A moment later, the American hurried out of the bedroom, long hair loose on his shoulders.

"LeBeau, right?"

"Oui. I brought your breakfast."

"Merci," Sanders said, smiling. "I hope you prepared it. The meal the other night was spectacular. I've been hoping for another chance to eat some of your cooking."

"You are most kind. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'm afraid this is just a simple omelet, but if Schultz doesn't eat it all, I'll save you some of the strudel I'm making tonight."

"That's very thoughtful of you. Thanks." Sanders sat down and removed the lid from the tray. "Looks delicious."

"I will let you enjoy your breakfast."

"Could you join me for coffee?"

"What will your guard think?" LeBeau wasn't sure why he asked, since the chance to probe Sanders a bit was just what Hogan wanted him to do. At the same time, knowing the other man had obviously suffered some abuse at the hands of the Gestapo, he didn't want to be responsible for causing him more pain or punishment.

"I suppose you're right. To some of them, sharing coffee is akin to treason."

"So, is Ellison one of those...Sentinels you're looking for?"

"It's too soon to tell," Sanders responded, trying the omelet. "This is excellent."

"Merci. What kinds of tests do you do on him?"

"Nothing sinister, I promise. Just vision and hearing tests, a few simple taste tests. We haven't worked on scent and touch yet, but we'll get to it. I have to do a minimum of two sets of each test to be sure that if I get an unusual result, it's not just a fluke."

"Fluke?" LeBeau asked, the odd English word not sounding familiar.

"To be sure it's not just a one-time thing, or a mistake."

"I see. Sounds like a lot of work."

"It is, but it would be worth it if I found someone with all five senses heightened. It would validate years of research for me."

"I hope you find one, then. What happens if he's on our side?"

"I don't know. I guess that'll be up to Hitler to decide."

"You would turn him over to Hitler?"

"LeBeau, my orders are to locate a Sentinel for the Fuhrer. That's my assignment."

"I cannot believe you would work for that animal."

"Look, you were worried about my being accused of treason for having coffee with you, and in the next breath, you expect me to call Hitler names? You must think I'm nuts."

"If you are working for him, I have to wonder," LeBeau shot back.

"That's your prerogative. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to finish my breakfast before I have to get to work in the lab."

"With pleasure," LeBeau said, thoroughly disgusted. Part of his mind told him that it could be fear talking, and Sanders would have no reason to trust him. But the other part, the part that reacted on a visceral, gut level to the insanity and tyranny of Hitler, cringed.

********

"That was quick," Hogan said as LeBeau stormed back to where he was sitting on a crate outside the barracks. It was cold outside, but at least it was sunny, and Hogan was taking the rare opportunity to soak up a few of the rays.

"He's planning to turn Ellison over to Hitler if he tests positive!"

"That's been the party line all along, Louis. What else did you find out?" Hogan tried not to think of what Ellison had told him the night before as LeBeau hovered close by.

"Schultz walked in on him when he was dressing, and he said Sanders had marks all over his back and shoulders, like he was whipped recently."

"That's interesting. Not very surprising, but interesting. Any ideas who did it to him?"

"Schultz didn't think it was Hochstetter or his guards, because they haven't been alone with Sanders long enough to do that much damage. Might have happened when he was still in Berlin."

"Ellison seems to think he's on our side."

"How does he figure that?"

"He claims he can listen to heartbeats and tell if someone's lying." Hogan let the statement hang there, wondering if it would sound as absurd to LeBeau as it did to him.

"He listened to Sanders' heart? Didn't he find that a little suspicious?"

"He said he can hear it across the room."

"A heartbeat?"

"Yup." Hogan nodded.

"That's ridiculous. No one could hear that."

"Unless they were a Sentinel."

"You don't believe in all that, do you? Don't you think that's something Sanders invented to keep Hitler from killing him? To keep him interested?"

"He's been doing the research for a few years now, according to him, anyway. He was living independently, studying in Germany before the war. He chose what to study before pleasing Hitler ever entered into it."

"He could still be as big a crackpot as one of Hitler's gypsy fortunetellers."

"True. You had to know he wasn't going to just trust you immediately because you made a good omelet."

"Well, it works on Schultz," LeBeau said, smiling.

"I'll tell Ellison tonight about the marks. Maybe he can pry a little more out of Sanders, earn his trust."

"Can't London find anything out about him?"

"All they know is that he's an American student who was studying in Berlin, and that he dropped out of sight about three months ago after the Gestapo picked him up at the university. They're having some difficulties tracing him back to the US, though. He has an American passport, but so far, they haven't been able to come up with information on a Blair Sanders who fits his description."

"You think he's using a fake name?"

"Maybe he's playing both sides."

"And Ellison thinks he knows this guy is on the up and up because he listened to his heartbeat from across the room?"

"Mm-hm," Hogan confirmed. "We should probably catch the morning show on the coffee pot."

"Good. We can listen while I give you a shave and a trim."

"Damn. Can't believe I forgot to shave this morning."

"You've had a few other things on your mind. Besides, the shave and hot towels will relax you."

"I don't have time–"

"Sure you do. We have to listen in to Ellison and Sanders anyway."

"That's true."

********

Jim watched Blair setting up a strange-looking apparatus that looked something like the machine eye doctors have patients look through to read eye charts. Yet this machine had a light bulb and some colored transparencies designed to pass in front of the bulb with the flick of a switch.

"What is that thing?" Jim finally asked, bored with just watching Blair tinker with seemingly endless adjustments to it.

"It's just another test we're going to do in a little while. Nothing to worry about."

"You're awfully quiet today," Jim commented, the absence of Blair's usual chatter and step-by-step descriptions of everything he was doing hanging heavy in the air like a fog. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just need to keep my mind on what I'm doing, that's all."

"Yeah, it looks pretty complicated there, Chief." Jim finally walked over for a closer look at the machine. As he leaned forward, he rested a hand in the middle of Blair's back. He was surprised when the other man flinched and moved away from him. "What is it?"

"Nothing. You just startled me."

"How could I startle you? You knew I was right next to you."

"Just drop it, Jim. Leave it alone." Blair looked away, trying to busy himself with testing the machine. Jim reached over and turned it off.

"Take off your shirt," he said, keeping his tone gentle.

"Are you insane? Why?" Blair countered, his expression a combination of panic and annoyance.

"Just do it."

"I'm not undressing in the middle of the day for no good reason."

"I want to see your back."

"You don't need to see any more of me than you're seeing now."

"Yes, I do. I think you know why."

"Because you've got some weird idea about me getting undressed."

"If you take your shirt off, I'm going to see marks of some kind. Bruises or welts or burns or something, isn't that right?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Because the Gestapo aren't known the world over for being great hosts," Jim retorted. Seeing the anguish in Blair's eyes, he softened his approach. "I know we haven't known each other very long, but...this is strange, since I don't usually make friends all that quickly...I feel like I know you better than I do. I want to help."

********

The razor glided over Hogan's cheek with a deft, gentle precision. Reclined in the barber's chair, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation. LeBeau was quietly going about his task, letting Hogan relax. His barber back home didn't do a job like this. He would definitely miss LeBeau's light, precise touch with the razor when he was back home under the blade of some ham-handed street corner barber whose only real interest in his comfort was the payment he'd receive for his services.

With a stab of sadness, he realized it would be more than LeBeau's shaving technique he would miss back home. In that moment, it seemed unthinkable to say goodbye at the gates someday when the camp was liberated and the war was over. To say goodbye and know that you wouldn't be seeing each other again. Probably never. It wasn't as if he didn't know that was the reality they would face someday–dismantling the operation, going their separate ways, back to their own lives in their own hometowns–it was just that when he allowed himself to travel there in his mind, it was becoming less and less bearable to wave Louis off to France and head back to England and then the U.S., knowing it would be unlikely he'd ever see his friend again.

He opened his eyes, as if to banish those thoughts, and his gaze locked with LeBeau's. The other man smiled, going on with his shaving task. The affection in the expression made Hogan smile back, despite his dark thoughts. The whole process of the shave and hot towels was utter luxury, a complete non-necessity that LeBeau happily did for Hogan any time he wanted, and he usually sought it out on days when he was most exhausted or worried about an operation. Times when he needed to relax.

"Ready for the towel?" LeBeau asked, setting his shaving gear aside.

"Anytime," Hogan said, closing his eyes again. The moist warmth surrounded his face, and he sighed audibly. Opening his eyes again, he saw LeBeau was smiling, though he hadn't noticed Hogan was looking at him.

"LeBeau is the closest to you of the prisoners, and he cares about you very much."

"...his heartbeat gets more rapid whenever he's near you."

Ellison's words came back to him, but he dismissed them again. LeBeau was no fairy. He was as passionate about beautiful women as he was about his love for France. He was small and he loved to cook, but he was all man. He had enormous courage and tenacity, and was brave enough–or fool enough–to defy men who outclassed him in size and strength without backing down.

And all this sob-sister thinking about the pain of parting at the end of the war was just a weird off-shoot of his grief over John's sudden death, a forced separation that would eat at his soul the rest of his life. It certainly wasn't a sign he was having odd thoughts about one of his men. He was no more light on his feet than LeBeau was. He closed his eyes again and thought of Hilda, all blonde hair and curves, and the possibility of a little messing around in the back of Klink's staff car. There was bound to be an evening when the sergeant in the motor pool could be bribed to look the other way. God knows he'd done it enough times before.

That's what he needed. A little rendezvous with Hilda to take his mind off things. To take his mind off this weird course of waxing sentimental over LeBeau, and of the feeling he had of wanting to lean into LeBeau's touch as he moved the warm towel over Hogan's face.

********

Blair looked at Jim for a long moment, then reached down to unbutton the front of the white shirt he wore. He had no t-shirt under it, since the tight-fitting garment seemed to irritate the welts more than the looser fitting shirt. He swallowed, then hesitantly removed the shirt.

"Which son of a bitch did this to you? Hochstetter?" Jim asked, his voice strained.

"It happened just before we left to come here. It wasn't Hochstetter. It was one of the guards at Gestapo headquarters in Berlin. I don't remember his name, and I don't know who ordered it for sure, but I know it was because I told one of the officers there that I didn't want to do this anymore, that I wanted to return to the U.S., and that I thought the chances of really finding a Sentinel were slim to none. I was still fool enough to think I could ever get away from them, or that they wanted to hear the truth about my work."

"Some of these broke the skin. Did they treat you, do anything for it?"

"I took care of it myself, the best I could. It'll heal." Blair pulled his shirt back around himself, starting to button it. Jim covered his hand, stopping the motion.

"Are you in danger of that happening again?"

"I don't know," Blair responded, fighting the lump in his throat. He'd been so alone for so long, and so afraid of every word he said, every move he made. "I think as long as I say what they want to hear, and I can come up with tests to run, they'll be happy. If you turn out to really be a Sentinel, they'll probably kill us both."

"Maybe you better tell them I'm not, then. Right now. Stop these tests."

"I have to know, Jim. I need to know if they exist, and if you have those gifts, I just...I have to know it. I have to see it. I promise you I won't compromise you or tell them the truth if you are. But please, give me the chance to find out. I think you could be the living embodiment of my thesis."

Jim paused, then took a piece of Blair's note paper and wrote a few words, handing it to Blair.

The good guys are listening. I need to talk to you somewhere else.

Blair nodded, then wrote a reply.

We'll do some tests outdoors this afternoon. Distance vision.

He handed it back to Jim with a slight smile. Jim smiled back, then wrote one last message.

I won't let them hurt you again.

Blair nodded, reading the words, keeping the slip of paper clutched in his hand as if it were a precious commodity. To him, it was better than gold.

Jim made a tearing motion with his hands, and Blair nodded, tearing up the paper into several pieces before tossing it into the wood burning stove that heated the room.

********

"Ellison's got some problems following orders," Hogan said, annoyed, as he unplugged the coffee pot. The early part of the morning had progressed uneventfully, but now things were getting interesting again, and Ellison seemed to be following his own agenda.

"You told him to hold back with Sanders, didn't you?" Kinch asked. The two of them had been listening to the interaction between the two men, and Hogan was not pleased.

"For all the good it did. He also wrote him something. They got too quiet for too long. Ellison's taking this into his own hands, and I don't like it. It's too soon."

"If Sanders really was whipped that way, maybe it's safe to figure he'd be on our side if he could get away."

"Or he's scared enough for his own hide to sell us all out, or the whole thing is some elaborate plot to bring down this operation. You know Hochstetter's been suspicious of me, of Stalag 13, for years now. The Gestapo wouldn't mind whipping the stuffings out of somebody and then using them for bait. Sanders could be a Gestapo agent for all we know who's just willing to really get into his role."

"I guess we can't really figure those nuts would stop at anything to set a trap. Even beating one of their own men bloody to be convincing," Kinch said, shaking his head.

"Give London an update on where we are with this. See what their orders are, if they've changed from 'play it by ear.'"

"That wasn't very helpful, was it?" Kinch asked, chuckling, thinking back of his last radio contact with London regarding how to proceed with the Sanders situation.

"There are times I wish they'd interfere just a little more," Hogan said, smiling.

As Kinch left, Carter entered Hogan's office, approaching him with a hesitant smile.

"I got together with the woodworking group this week," Carter said, referring to a group of prisoners who had learned some of the basics of woodworking and over the past few years had made various small items with scraps they either scavenged or that Klink allowed them to have when he felt benevolent. Ever since they'd built him a bookcase for his office, he'd been a reasonably willing benefactor to their wood supply.

"You guys get started building our getaway car yet?" Hogan joked.

"We were just making some little things. I thought maybe you could use this." He set a wooden letter tray on Hogan's desk. It was nicely made and finished, a plain wood tray for papers with a single, thin piece of wood with a small handle affixed to the top side to be used to cover the papers in the tray. On the underside of the lid, the initials "REH" had been burned into the finish.

"This is really a nice piece of workmanship, Carter. Thank you."

"I thought it might, you know, cheer you up," Carter said self-consciously.

"It did, and it'll be really useful," Hogan said, smiling at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. Since they'd learned of his brother's death, his men had tried little things to cheer him up or show their support. Despite the fact he was a sergeant and a demolition expert, Carter had the sweet shyness of a little boy bringing a present to his favorite teacher. "I really appreciate it, Carter. Thanks again."

"You're welcome, Colonel. We wanted to make you a bookcase like we made for Klink, but we didn't have enough wood."

"This'll be great. Besides, better to let Klink feel his is one of a kind," Hogan added, and Carter laughed.

"Yeah, I guess he likes to feel special. But then, everybody does once in a while, I s'pose."

"I s'pose you're right," Hogan agreed.

********

Jim and Blair walked through the compound, looking more as if they were on an afternoon stroll than evading listening devices. It was a pleasant afternoon for winter, and Jim found himself watching the play of sunlight on the bronze and red highlights in Blair's hair. He couldn't recall spending that kind of time watching the sunlight dance on another man's hair before, but then, he'd never seen another man with hair quite like Blair's, either.

Blair seemed to sense the scrutiny, because he looked up at Jim and smiled. How he could smile in the midst of the horror of his circumstances, Jim wasn't sure, but he did, and there was a look in his eyes that spoke of more than just the enjoyment of the weather.

He's scared to death, and you're offering him help. That's why he's looking up at you with this...adoring expression on his face. That's all there is to it.

"Let's stop here," Blair said, slowing down a few feet before they would have had to stop anyway, as they were approaching the fencing around the perimeter of the camp. "Look out into the woods and tell me what you see."

"Excuse me?"

"I said we were going to do some distance vision testing, didn't I?"

"I thought that was an excuse to get outside where we could talk."

"Well, it is, partly. But I also want to know what you can see."

"We should talk while we have the chance."

"If I were a kraut, you'd both be on your way to Gestapo headquarters." Hogan's voice startled them from behind. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Ellison?"

"You haven't seen his back, sir."

"I've seen a lot of things in this war. And I've seen plenty when it comes to the Gestapo. Nothing surprises me anymore."

"He's on our side," Jim said.

"I'm not having this argument with you now, but I think you remember my orders."

"Colonel Hogan, if there's any way you can help me, I would be so grateful for it." Blair took a deep breath. "My name isn't Sanders, it's Sandburg, and I'm Jewish. If they find that out, they'll probably kill me. The passport I'm using now is a forgery I got from a guy...well, it's a long story, but it's a phony. I mainly kept the cover for my mother, because she's having an affair with a count. I don't want her to be arrested or hurt. I can't leave Germany without her."

"What's your mother's name, and who is the count?" Hogan asked. At Blair's hesitation, he added, "If we're going to help you, I need more information."

"Then you can help me?"

"I might know of a tunnel we could use."

"A tunnel? We'd need more than that to get out of Germany. They'd kill me before I got five miles from this camp."

"Look, if you really want out, you're going to have to trust Colonel Hogan, and me. I wouldn't lead you into a trap, Blair. I think you know that," Jim added, and though the smile was absent, the look he'd seen before was there again in Blair's eyes.

"My mother's name is Naomi, and she's using the name of 'Nadine Sanders.' She's...seeing Count Heydrich."

"Do you think you're in any immediate danger from the krauts?" Hogan asked, repeating Jim's question of earlier.

"Not unless they suspect me. So far, Hochstetter and his men haven't done anything more than threaten me a couple times."

"Good. Go on with your tests. We'll be in touch later. Meanwhile, Ellison, topic of conversation is your testing project, and that's it, understood?"

"Understood, sir," Jim replied. Hogan nodded and then headed back across the compound toward the barracks.

"You weren't supposed to talk to me about a way out of here, is that it?"

"I have my orders, Chief. So what did you want me to look at?"

"That's it? He's not listening, Jim. You don't have to clam up on me."

"I have my orders. Hogan knows what he's doing, so we'll play it his way. Now tell me what you want me to do out here."

********