To make up for the long delay, here's a long chapter courtesy of the spare time afforded by the holiday season. Also, this chapter has not been beta'ed, which makes all inevitable errors my sole property.

Chapter 8: Tough Decisions

In which honest and frank discussions lead to some necessary decisions.

"What's the prescription, Doctor?" Füchschen started, rounding a corner in the labyrinth of tunnels under the camp and nearly colliding with Colonel Hogan on his way back to the bunk room. He grabbed her shoulders, steadying her, and took the opportunity to look into her eyes for a response. There was nothing more telling than the speed with which she glanced away from his penetrating gaze.

"It's too early to determine anything conclusively," she responded elusively, putting on her most professional demeanor in an attempt to cover her unease. "I was able to talk with Sergeant Kinchloe and, with his consent, will continue to monitor his progress through radio communication. You may be heartened to know, Colonel, that Sergeant Kinchloe's condition appeared to improve markedly as I examined him."

If Hogan hadn't been working with his crew for the past two years, she might have pulled off the evasion. However, the Colonel had learned to read the subtle nuances of his men's expressions long ago, and he caught Newkirk's slight side-long glance at the doctor. That same twitch of the eyes had saved their lives during countless Gestapo interrogations and sticky situations when caught incognito. It told Hogan something was amiss with the German woman's words, something he was confident he could wheedle out of Newkirk later.

Despite her subterfuge, Hogan responded sincerely, "Thank you, Doctor. It's nice to know Kinch may be on the mend."

Neither Füchschen nor Newkirk acknowledged his comment. Doing so would be too close to lying. Instead, the Englander led the Doctor to the base of their outside tunnel and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Hogan followed at a suspicious, evaluative distance.

"We'll keep in touch," Newkirk promised.

She smiled, touched rather than insulted by his actions as she would have been upon her arrival. After witnessing the Englander's discussion with Kinch, she knew the unspoken words behind his farewell. 'I trust you to look after him, even if it is from afar. It is a trust not easily given. Don't let me down.'

She smiled, answering silently, 'You worries are unnecessary. If anyone can save him, we can.'

Falling back on protocol, Hogan interrupted and informed her, "Lebeau is outside waiting for you. He will put you back in contact with the Underground who will get you home." The secret communications between the two were beginning to unnerve and, if he was honest, annoy him. The sooner he could get Newkirk alone the quicker he could pump him for information about what was really going on.

"I expect to hear from you immediately if there are any changes in Padua's condition," Füchschen ordered, finally looking into Hogan's eyes. "Do not wait. If you do…."

"I understand." Hogan stepped forward and held out his hand. The doctor could see the sincere protectiveness he had for his men in his eyes. She felt her heart twinge as she thought of the crushing reality he would face as he saw one of his men die.

'No,' she thought, taking strength from the determination she saw in the prisoners' faces. 'There is time as long as he is alive. God, he has done so much for us, and has the ability to do so much more, that you cannot take him away from us. It would not be fair.'

Füchschen forced a smile onto her face and heartily shook the proffered hand. "Be careful," she said sincerely.

"You too," he took the hand still in his grasp and laid it on the ladder rung to the outside. Taking the hint, and with one last look in Newkirk's direction, she ascended.

The hatch opened and closed silently on well oiled joints. As soon as the glow from the waxing moon disappeared Hogan turned on the Corporal still standing beside him. "All right, Newkirk. Spill it. What aren't you telling me?"

"Colonel, I don't know—"

"Newkirk. Now."

The Englishman shook his head, accustomed to the cultural propensity of Americans to demand what they wanted, heedless of the consequences. As a rule, they did not take 'no' for an answer very well. Hogan especially. Playing a card he rarely did, Newkirk straightened his shoulders, stared straight ahead and said, "Sir, unless you make it a direct order, I will honor Kinch's request that you speak only to him about the situation." Unable to maintain his strict military bearing for long he added with a smirk, "Of course, if you order me to talk you'll still probably be out of luck, if we're all being honest with one another."

Hogan rubbed at his temples, complaining, "So this is what mutiny feels like."

"Not mutiny," Newkirk corrected, "Loyalty—to a friend and comrade."

"Right," Hogan acceded. "But that doesn't help the feeling in my gut."

Wisely, Newkirk stayed silent. Knowing how stubborn the Englishman could be, Hogan did not press him any further. In any case, he would have to confront Kinch eventually. He would have an advantage if he could go in having respected the black man's request to speak only to him. "I may as well get this done and over with," he mumbled, trying to motivate himself. "Then we can come up with a plan."

It was eerily silent in the common room when Hogan hauled himself over the lip of the bed frame. Cater was awake he knew, as indicated by the cadence of his breathing, but his face was turned towards the wall. The shuffling of people to and fro from the camouflage bunk, coupled with his anxiousness over Kinch, had probably awakened him. The rest of the men had learned long ago how to sleep through the comings and goings of the espionage troupe and were not disturbed. A weak light seeped out from under the door to his private quarters. Mustering the scattered confidence he usually overflowed with, Hogan knocked lightly on his office door and announced himself.

"Kinch? It's Hogan."

There was a pause he did not know how to interpret before he heard the welcome sound of Kinch's voice saying, "Come on in, Colonel."

"I don't think it's necessary for you to knock," Kinch was sitting up, propped against the plywood wall. "This is your room."

Hogan shrugged, put at ease by the playful, if weak, tone of his Sergeant's voice. "It's yours for as long as you need it," he assured and sat in the seat vacated earlier by the Doctor. Not known for procrastination, Hogan took a deep breath and plunged into the conversation hinted at by Newkirk. "What are we up against, Kinch?"

"Tuberculosis." There was no hesitation, no wavering in the Sergeant's voice.

"My God…."

Looking down at his arm, Kinch continued, "Füchschen couldn't confirm it immediately, but we'll know conclusively by tomorrow. Not that it matters. We both know it's true. All the evidence points in that direction."

Kinch approached most situations through the analysis of evidence and use of, not shying away from whatever conclusions they led to. It was his ability to dispassionately evaluate situations that Hogan valued in him. He wished, however, that this once his right-hand man didn't have to sound so certain about what he knew. "What did Dr. Füchschen suggest as a course of action?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"There is a promising rumor of a cure in France," informed him, carefully trying to keep his voice neutral. "Füchschen promised to look into it when she returned to Düsseldorf and report anything she found."

"I'll contact Tiger," Hogan hopped up from his seat any began to pace, to plot. "If it's there, she'll be able to find it. From there Dubois could deliver it here. Or Lebeau could get to Paris to bring it back. If we are incredibly lucky, some intelligencia from the medical community will have escaped to England before Dunkirk. Goldilocks may have the information we need."

Kinch watched his C.O.'s eyes bright with anticipation as his brain churned out possibilities to solve the dilemma before him. Hogan thrived on a good challenge.

"That's not the least of it," Kinch interrupted, startling Hogan out of his planning. "Tuberculosis is not only fatal if left untreated, but also highly contagious. Colonel," Kinch took a deep breath, steadying his heart, "it's not safe for me to stay here. If I do, I endanger the entire mission and the lives of every man in this camp."

His words stopped Hogan stone cold in his pacing. "What are you suggesting?"

"A transfer."

"No," Hogan shook his head definitively.

"Colonel…" Kinch could see Hogan tuning him out. "Robert," he tried again.

The use of his first name caught Hogan's attention. Kinch never called him by his first name. First names were rare in the military and unheard of between a non-com and an officer. Sitting down again, he placed a hand on his radioman's shoulder. "Kinch, we can do this. It's our job and we will finish it, but you need to be here."

"I want to be here," the Sergeant argued, holding in a cough, "but it isn't safe. You don't know how long it could take to get the vaccine to Stalag 13, if it can be found at all. Every minute risks more exposure to the men here. If you arrange for a transfer and have the truck hijacked by the Underground, I can stay in seclusion until we can come up with a more permanent solution."

Hogan looked into his subordinate's frank expression. Part of being a leader was knowing when sacrifices had to be made and facing them resolutely. He hated that part of the job. "If you go, you can never come back."

"I know."

Hogan smiled weakly, the only sign he had given in. It was all Kinch needed to know. He had learned to read Hogan's expressions effortlessly over the years. "You'd make a good officer, Kinch. You've got what it takes. You make the hard decisions and you don't second guess yourself. Men would follow you."

"Thanks, Colonel," Kinch absorbed the words and intent behind Hogan's compliments. "You once told me that part of your job as an officer was to teach us grunts a thing or two. I learned from the best. If it's all right with you, I'll always consider myself one of your men."

"I'd be honored."

They sat in companionable silence for some time, each lost in their thoughts of an uncertain future. As morning came light from the searchlights was diluted by the rising sun and the sounds of pre-roll call movement could be heard from beyond the Colonel's door.

As the zero-hour for morning formation approached, Hogan broke the silence. "Do you want to tell the others, or would you rather I did?"

"I will," Kinch assured him, though he did not relish the thought. He might not survive until the transfer if one of his friends got to him first for deserting the operation, however unwillingly. "But…I need a little time to decide on what I'm going to say. If I don't, I'm afraid they might be able to convince me to stay."

Hogan wanted to tell him how much he wished his men would be able to, but reminding Kinch of what could not be would be cruel.

Pounding on the bunks outside and tell-tale shouting from Schultz brought Hogan to his feet. He turned to the door, at a loss for words as his brain automatically began to formulate a plan to finagle Klink into granting the prisoner move he wanted. Luftstalag 9 was the best bet, with the trail to their sister camp laced with Germans sympathetic to the Allied cause. He was startled to hear a dull thump behind him.

Turning, he saw that Kinch had swung him legs onto the floor and was tightly grasping the vertical support of the bed in preparation for hauling himself onto his feet. "Kinch…?"

"I thought I might want to put in an appearance," he explained at Hogan's baffled expression. "I promise to keep my viruses to myself. I just...thought it might put some fears to rest after the Doctor's visit if I got out."

'No,' Hogan couldn't be tricked, 'You want to be with them. I understand. They'll want to be with you too.'

"Then you might want to get out there before roll call is over," Hogan joked lightly, hauling his subordinate to his feet and steadying him as he struggled to regain his equilibrium. "We'd both better move before Schultz comes and makes himself comfortable as your nursemaid."

Kinch grimaced. "I always had visions of nurses with a bit less…girth. And a lot more femininity."

Hogan laughed, opening the door. He watched the black man's hesitant steps carefully, ready to intervene if he should falter but also reluctant to do so. Kinch wanted his comrades to see him on the mend, an opinion that would not be encouraged if Hogan physically supported him. The reaction from the men was immediate and heartwarming.

"Hey Kinch! Nice to see you on your feet again!"

"Finally decided to join the ranks again? Good riddance to you, man!"

The peculiar brand of welcome came from every corner of the room and continued as men shuffled out the door. Schultz walked up to the pair, worry plain in his expression. "Are you sure you should be out of bed, Sergeant Kinchloe? You do not look very good."

"I'm fine, Schultzie, just need a little bit of fresh air. I thought I would join everybody for roll call. I was beginning to miss it."

"Miss it? Jolly joker," he scoffed, then evaluated him skeptically. "If you are sure…."

Pulling himself up to his full height and smiling disarmingly under his bushy mustache, Kinch promised the guard, "I'm sure, but thanks for the concern."

Schultz didn't look convinced, but an insistent push propelled him out of the way and out the door before he could comment further. The source of the push was Lebeau, his face beaming with an irrepressible grin despite the fact that he should have been exhausted from the reaming given to him by Hogan and his nighttime excursions leading Füchschen back to the Underground.

"Hi, Louis. You doing okay?"

"Mon ami," words seemed to fail him and, as men often do in such situations, he reverted to action. In the French fashion, he reached up and kissed Kinch on both cheeks. The movement surprised the Sergeant. "I am very happy to see you," Lebeau said with uncharacteristic understatement.

"It's good to be seen," Kinch responded, showing his own fondness by putting a hand on his French friend's shoulder and squeezing it.

Hogan didn't want to interrupt the moment, but the regimented clock of prison life beckoned. "Come on guys. Roll call. Let's get to it."

"Yes sir," Kinch kept his hand on Lebeau's shoulder. The Frenchman assumed it was his friend's way of reassuring him that he was not going anywhere. In reality, Kinch knew it was his own way of trying to remember every last detail of his life and the people in Stalag 13. Soon he would never see it again.

Roll call came and went relatively quickly with Klink walking down the line and acknowledging Kinch's return to the formation with a curt, "It's about time all of your men decided to join us."

Hogan didn't miss a beat. "Kinch was getting lonely with only Schultz to keep him company."

Klink huffed, but didn't miss the concerned glance the American Colonel threw behind him at the man in question. In sympathy, the Commandant dismissed the men after they had been counted, even though he had prepared a morale-crushing speech about the evitable failure of the Allied cause in the face of German superiority. For some reason he wasn't surprised when Hogan shadowed him into the Kommandanture and his office.

"What do you want, Hogan?" he asked, dreading the answer. His response to the Senior P.O.W officer's last request had disturbed them both and he had a feeling that his ordeals were not over.

As often as Hogan's expression was inscrutable or intentionally misleading, he was especially stonewalled as he began to speak in clipped phrases. "I warned you about the possibility of an epidemic the last time I was here. Well, I was right. Wilson checked out some possibilities and it looks like tuberculosis. Kinch needs to be moved to better medical facilities."

"Hogan," Klink buried his head in his hands, "I told you before. He cannot go to a hospital."

"Then what about Stalag 9?" Hogan argued. "It's three times larger than Stalag 13—big enough to have a medical barrack for prisoners. Kinch could be sent there and quarantined. I've heard they have a staff sergeant who was a civilian surgeon. He'd be in much better hands there."

"Sergeant Kinchloe is one of your tight-knit group," Klink paused, mulling over the prospect, "and you are willing to break that apart?"

"To help him? Without hesitation."

Considering how many times Hogan had fought to keep the residents of Barracks 2 consistent, the fact that he was promoting a change was stunning. It also impressed upon Klink the severity of the situation. Picking up a pen from his desk, he opened up a desk draw and began rummaging through it.

"Commandant…?" Hogan didn't want to press to hard.

"The transfer paperwork will take some time. Send Helga in when you leave, Hogan. She can help."

At that moment Hogan vowed he would not steal any cigars from Klink's humidor for at least a year. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

"It's not a guarantee, Hogan," Klink felt the need to remind him.

"I know, but, for once, I will leave you to your paperwork."

Klink smirked. It was a strange relationship he had with Hogan. One that he hoped he would have the opportunity to analyze and perhaps write a book about after the war when he was ensconced in a life of retired luxury in a beach house on the Riviera, or a mountain villa in the Bavarian Alps.

Returning to the barracks, Hogan entered to see an abandoned bowl of Schultz's soup teetering precariously on the corner of the table. The door to his office was open and he could hear animated voices and light, suppressed coughing from inside. Peeking in, he saw Kinch sitting on the bunk, nursing a cup of steaming coffee, with his chess board carefully set up on the cover of his trunk that had been pulled from its space under the window. Carter was studying the board carefully, with Newkirk and Lebeau behind him offering suggestions. At his raised eyebrows Kinch explained, "Carter asked me to teach him how to play. Maybe he's going to start challenging you, Colonel."

'And replace you as my sparing partner,' Hogan filled in.

Carter stared fastidiously at the board, afraid to look up. 'No, it's because I want to spend some time with you, Kinch. I want to learn from you. I want to be as strong, and as smart—no, wise—as you are. I want to grow up a little, to show you how much I've changed since I've known you. So you don't have to worry about me and…maybe you'll be okay with me doing a little of the 'looking after' you've always done around here once you're gone,' Carter thought, struggling to focus on the nuances of the game amidst his own private misery. His secret, his knowledge, was tearing his heart apart.

Leaving the majority of his men to puzzle out the impossible tactics of beating Kinch at chess, Hogan drew Newkirk aside. "I need you to get on the radio," he whispered, careful not to incur the interest of the other men. "Contact Goldilocks, Tiger, our Underground contacts, anyone who might have access to the cure we need for Kinch. I want options by the end of the day."

"You got it, Colonel," Newkirk acknowledged. Secluding himself in the radio room would give him the opportunity to escape from the strange looks Carter had been throwing his direction all day. He hated keeping a secret from his friend which made it increasingly unnerving to have Carter look at him as if he knew Newkirk was keeping something from him.

The day wore on with Hogan forbidding himself from interrupting Newkirk. He lasted four hours and twenty-seven minutes. A personal best when he had nothing to do but watch Kinch interact with the men as if nothing had changed or ever would. All of the acting skills the Sergeant had honed through their espionage activities were now turned on his comrades with devastating effectiveness.

Descending into the radio room he saw Newkirk listening to someone on the other end of the radio line. It must be a regular contact, Hogan knew, if they could talk in real-time rather than Morse. Knowing better than to interrupt, the American officer watched as a Red Cross pencil bent and then snapped in Newkirk's hand. His frustration exploded as he tore off Kinch's headset and threw it as far as the connecting wire allowed. Hogan picked it up and carefully set it on the communication table.

"I'll keep this as our little secret," he quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

"What?" Newkirk demanded, momentarily forgetting where he was and who he was talking to.

"If Kinch saw you abusing his equipment, he'd knock you into next week. And I don't think I'd stop him."

Newkirk pounded his balled up fists on the desk, his voice strained as he refused to look up at his C.O. "The French Underground said they would work on it, but it wasn't 'high priority' with the liberation of France around the bend. Tiger said her cell would do everything they could, but she's overwhelmed with missions as one of the head coordinators of German weapons cache neutralization. Between the Blitz and war effort London barely knows what it has and where it is. Goldilocks said she would scrounge for me, but not to expect anything for three weeks. Three bloody weeks! Kinch could be dead by then!"

"He might, and he might not. Dr. Füchschen didn't give us a specific date. Don't give up on him yet."

"I'm not giving up," Newkirk argued, "but I'm not going to pretend something could happen when I know it won't."

In his heart, Hogan dreaded the realization that Newkirk might be right. That no matter what they did it wouldn't change anything. 'But you still have to do something, even if it's hopeless,' his mind reminded him.

"You're right," Hogan said, surprising the Corporal. Newkirk had expected, even wanted, a good argument with Hogan to let off some steam. He did not want the Colonel agreeing with his fatalistic opinions.

"What?" he asked for the second time in as many minutes.

"Maybe there is nothing we can do," Hogan explained, "but I'll be damned if I let one of my men go without a fight."

That was the commanding officer Newkirk had come to depend on. "You're right. Sorry, Colonel."

"Don't thank me yet," Hogan warned him. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."

Newkirk looked at him quizzically, sure that there was something Hogan knew that he didn't. Realization dawned on him and he asked quietly, "Kinch told you not tell us something, didn't he? There seems to be a lot of that going around right now."

"He'll tell you when he's ready," Hogan assured him, not quite sure what else he could say.

"It's not me I'm worried about," Newkirk looked up, past the reinforced dirt ceilings, to his comrades above. "If it's what I think it is, we might lose Louis and Andrew, at least for a time."

Hogan said nothing to confirm or deny Newkirk's evaluation, aware of the confidence Lebeau had taken him into when describing the emotional fallout from the loss of his French compatriots. It seemed like ages ago that Lebeau had revealed how desperate he was not to lose another friend to the war, though in reality it had been less than 24-hours. When Kinch was transferred, he could only hope that Lebeau would see it as an opportunity to save his friend, not lose him.

Carter, he knew, would also struggle with his perceived powerlessness to stop the situation from spiraling out of their control. If there was anyone on his team most dedicated to achieving the impossible, it was the helplessly optimistic Midwesterner. Hogan would rely on Newkirk's status as best friend and big brother to coax Carter out of the depression that would surely follow Kinch's departure.

But he wouldn't die. That was what mattered. They were getting Kinch to a place where he, and they, would be safe until the vaccination could be procured. That had to count for something. It had to be enough to keep his visions of a broken, inconsolable squad of once powerfully effective men from coming true.

Desperate to find a silver lining to the entire situation, Hogan buoyed himself with the thought that he would see his right-hand man again--on liberation day. "We'll get through this," Hogan reassured himself and Newkirk.

"It does help when we don't have a choice." The comment made Hogan snort. It was as close to positive as Newkirk got.

"Colonel Hogan? Colonel Hogan! Oh! There you are," Carter's voice filtered into the radio room as he poked his head around the corner. Afraid he was interrupting something important, he cast his eyes downward shyly and said, "Kinch wants to talk to you."

"Thanks for delivering the message," Hogan walked over and patted the young man on the shoulder as he headed towards the ladder. "And Newkirk, I think we're finished here for now. Come back upstairs when everything is back in order."

"You got it, Gov'nor," Newkirk put on his best innocent face at Carter's curious gaze.

To escape from his friend's hang-dog expression, Newkirk traightened up the radio station, looking woefully at the pencil he had broken and placing the two halves back in the recycled tin can holder. As he puttered, he watched Carter carefully out of the corner of his eye. The young man was digging his boot into the dirt floor throwing guilty glances in Newkirk's direction. After de-powering the radio set and retracting the antenna he finally demanded, "What's got you all in a twist, Carter?"

"N-Nothing."

Newkirk shot him a look of insulted disbelief. "Really? Then do you mind not staring at me? It's annoying."

"Sorry, Newkirk," he turned to leave, shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'll leave you alone."

Sighing dramatically, Newkirk grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shoved him onto the radio stool. "Just tell me what is eating you up. That's an order."

"You can't order me what to do," Carter argued petulantly, automatically reverting to the playful banter he was accustomed to engaging in with Newkirk. "We're not even in the same Army."

Newkirk scoffed. "Fine. If you don't want to tell me, then leave."

Carter didn't move. A long tense silence followed. "I want to tell you," Carter admitted finally, "but you'll think less of me when I do."

It was an unlikely assumption, considering the soft spot Newkirk had in his heart for the American. Nevertheless, Newkirk admitted, "Maybe, but at least I won't be annoyed with you."

Another long pause developed as the Corporal waited patiently for Carter to break down. He knew him well enough to know it was inevitable. "I…know about Kinch."

"What do you mean?" Newkirk encouraged gently.

"I-I overheard you talking to him with Dr. Füchschen. I know he could…he might…that he's dying."

Newkirk exhaled dramatically, which Carter interpreted as a condemnation. "I didn't mean to spy on you guys! Honest! It just happened!"

"I'm not angry at you, Andrew," Newkirk assured him, using his first name to reinforce his words. "I can't be, because I know I would have done the same thing in your place. Kinch will probably be upset, and it's his right for you not telling him what you know, but he'll forgive you. In fact, it'll make things easier on him in the long run. Now all he'll have to do is tell Lebeau."

Carter winced. "That won't be easy."

"I don't envy it," Newkirk agreed, "just like I don't envy you having to tell Kinch what you did."

Carter nodded miserably, "I know I should."

"Then get to it," Newkirk moved towards the exit, expecting Carter to follow. "I'm going to go upstairs for a rest and you are going to talk to Kinch."

"You're right. I don't want…just in case Kinch doesn't make it, I don't want him leaving without telling him the truth." Newkirk swung an arm over his friend's shoulder, showing his approval and sympathy. In his mind, though, he could not help but think of happier times when kind young men like Carter were ignorant of the uglier side of death: when it wasn't a release, but a theft.

Throughout Carter and Newkirk's conversation, Hogan had exited the tunnel, re-triggering the hatch which had been lowered to ensure secrecy. One of the Watchers must have seen a nosey Kraut wandering around. When he emerged, Lebeau was waiting for him with his arms crossed over his chest. "Colonél," he began, "Schultz is in your office. He said he had something to tell you and Kinch from Commandant Klink."

"Thanks, Lebeau," Hogan interrupted quickly, hoping to stave off the questions he knew were coming. He wasn't fast enough.

"What is happening?" the Frenchman demanded, interposing himself between the Colonel and his destination. "Ever since last night, no one has told me anything. Not Dr. Füchschen, not you, and not Newkirk. What is so bad that you will not tell me?"

Hogan closed his mouth to a thin line, refraining from answering immediately. Rather than coming up with a diversion, he decided to rely on the truth. "I'd like to tell you, Louis, but Kinch wants to tell you himself. He owes you that much for your friendship."

"He owes me nothing!" Lebeau countered.

"No," Hogan corrected him, "he does. You've done more to help him than you realize. That's why he isn't willing to dilute the responsibility of telling you himself. Just give him time."

Lebeau bowed his head, allowing Hogan the opportunity to sidestep him and walk toward the door. "Yes, Colonél. Only…"

Hogan hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.

"Tell him I am concerned about him."

"I will," Hogan assured him. Without further comment, he opened the door to his quarters, entered, and firmly shut the door behind him.

Kinch and Schultz looked up at him as he entered, one still relegated to the bottom bunk and the other standing and shifting unhappily beside it. "Lebeau's worried about you. He wants to know what is going on. You should talk to him," Hogan announced without preamble.

"I know," Kinch's gaze did not waver from his commanding officer's, "but first Schultz has news."

Hogan nodded at Schultz, whose doe-like eyes were wide with sadness. He knew he shouldn't be upset to deliver his information, but he couldn't help it. "Colonel Klink wanted me to tell you that the transfer came in. Frauline Helga called Stalag 9 and explained the situation. Sergeant Kinchloe is ordered to pack whatever personal items he has, say his goodbyes, and be ready to leave tomorrow at 0930."

Though he had been expecting it, the news still hit Hogan like sledgehammer in the chest. He couldn't speak. A part of him didn't want to surrender to the fact that Kinch was leaving.

"Thank you, Schultz," Kinch acknowledged the news in the awkward silence that followed. "If you don't mind, I think you should leave."

"Jawohl, Sergeant Kinchloe. I will see you at roll call tonight?"

"I wouldn't miss it," the black man assured him.

Grateful for the dismissal, Schultz scurried from the room, desperately dodging the curious looks he elicited from the men of Barracks 2 with a whimpering, "I know nothing!"

Kinch, thinking that Hogan was still trapped in the paralysis the information had initially caused him, opened his mouth to say something when Hogan interjected with, "I need to send Newkirk back downstairs to contact Cinderella about the pick-up."

"Colonel…."

"Schultz and Langensheidt should transport you. They can be overpowered without any violence."

Kinch tried again. "Colonel."

"They can set you up with a radio. That way we can contact you as soon as we have any additional information and you can stay in contact with Dr. Füchschen."

"Colonel!" Hogan looked at his radioman in shock. Kinch had raised his voice a handful of times during their association and never to his superior officer. Along with calling his C.O. by his first name, this was a day of firsts.

"Colonel," Kinch began again, his voice calm. Then, he said the last thing Hogan expected. "Thank you, for everything."

Hogan shook his head negatively. "No, Kinch, thank you. I don't know how this operation would have gotten off the ground without you, much less survived. I don't know how it's going to go on without you."

"It will go on because you are here," Kinch told him emphatically. "Not me. You are the brains of this organization."

'And you are the heart, the deep thrumming beat that keeps the others in time and the driving force that keeps all of the disparate parts working in concert,' Hogan thought, but didn't say. It was the last thing Kinch needed to hear because it would make leaving that much harder.

"Now, go organize what needs to be organized. I want a safe trip."

"First class," Hogan assured him, "and I'd like to send in Lebeau and Carter to talk to you if you're up to it."

Hogan saw the disquiet that stole across the Sergeant's face despite Kinch's attempts to squash it. "I may as well get it done and over with," he said resignedly.

Hogan left the room, his face a careful study in neutrality. Carter was coming up from the tunnels, Newkirk behind him, and Hogan couldn't help but notice that his youngest saboteur looked a bit pale. Lebeau was sitting cross-legged on his bunk. All three were looking at him expectantly. Hogan took a deep breath to steady himself before announcing, "Carter, Lebeau--Kinch wants to talk to you."

Lebeau wasted no time in vaulting down from his bunk and rushing towards the office. Carter followed significantly more slowly with a parting look of worry towards Newkirk. The Englishman walked up to Hogan's side.

"He's going to tell them the diagnosis," Newkirk guessed, glancing to his left for confirmation from Hogan. He got it in the form of a curt nod. "And that he's leaving," he added.

When Hogan turned to look at him in unabashed surprise, Newkirk shrugged nonchalantly. "Kinch would never endanger the operation by staying. It's not in his nature. I knew from the minute he was diagnosed that he'd be leaving."

"Transferred to Stalag 9," Hogan confirmed, "tomorrow. We need to organize his pick up en route by the Underground so they can stash him in a secluded, secure place."

Newkirk turned around, obviously planning on returned to the radio room he had so recently left despite his exhaustion. Hogan's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Colonel?" he asked quietly.

"I'll take care of it," Hogan explained. "I need to. And they'll need you when they're done," he added, inclining his head towards his room.

Newkirk nodded, unaccustomed to assuming the role of the consoling friend. That was usually Carter's domain. He hoped he was up to the task of returning the favor. Pulling out his well worn deck of cards, he sat down and began shuffling them in earnest to pass the time. He had to stop almost as soon as he began when realized his hands were shaking too badly to continue.

Hogan could sympathize at the bottom of the underground ladder. As he descended, he assumed something must have been interfering with the ventilation of the shafts because the sooty air from the carbide lamps was bothering him. His eyes were stinging and wouldn't stop no matter how many times he wiped at them.

It hurt.

NOTE: I need to own up to an obvious plot hole in this chapter. Kinch makes a big 'to do' about leaving the camp ASAP to keep his TB from spreading. He then spends some quality bonding time with people. My excuses: (a) exposure does not equal contraction of a disease, even TB and (b) the story would be boring if one of the main characters was cooped up for the remainder of our tale. So…yeah. So be it.

NEXT: When the best laid plans of men often go astray. Not that it's anything new to the men of Barracks 2.