As promised, here's the aftermath of the Great Laundry Basket Flambe incident from Colonel Crittendon's viewpoint. Just as an aside, even though, in the show, he's always referred to as a Colonel, I'm going to restore his rank of Group Captain. I'm caught between the devil and the deep blue sea on this one; either I can go with the show's internal continuity, or I can be historically and culturally accurate, but not both. And since neither of those things were the show's strong suit, there's really no right answer. So history wins, at least for today.

OoOoOoOoO

The Group Captain swept out the door, the very picture of smug self-assurance, at least until the door swung shut and the men inside could no longer see him. At which point he curled his hand into a fist and bit down on it, hard. Stupid, stupid, stupid… how could he have cocked it up so very badly, so very quickly?

He'd made sure that the orders were safe in his secret pocket at least a dozen times. That was the problem. He'd sewn so many secret pockets, in so many places, and switched the orders from one to the other, trying to be certain that they would remain safe and undetected, so many times, that he'd clean forgotten which one he'd ended up using. But he'd found them, eventually, and the whole thing could have been laughed off, passed over, if he hadn't then decided to be clever and burn the orders.

In a laundry hamper.

A wicker laundry hamper.

He hadn't meant to set the whole bally thing on fire. It had been an accident. Just an accident. The sort of accident that might have happened to anyone.

Except that it never did happen to anyone besides him, did it? No, if something was going to go completely pear-shaped, it was always a safe bet that Group Captain Rodney Crittendon was to blame, somehow. Every time. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he cared, it always ended up the same way. In shame, failure, and disgrace, with the sour smell of plans going up in smoke in his nostrils.

From inside the hut, he heard that unmistakable Cockney drawl. "Now ask me why I don't have much use for bloody officers, why don't you? Blimey, I'm not sure if I should apologize on behalf on the RAF, the British Empire, or just 'umanity as a whole."

Crittendon's eyes widened in shock. And hurt. You're British! You're supposed to be on my side!

He'd expected a little bit of resistance from the others. Only natural, in the case of the two sergeants. Hogan was a Yank, after all, one of theirs, and it was only natural that a man liked to be commanded by one of his own countrymen. And who could ever fathom the mind of a Frenchman? But Newkirk… Newkirk was British. A son of old England. Like him. And Crittendon had expected more from him, somehow.

Although, looking back, and getting angrier by the moment, he wasn't sure why. He conjured up the memory of the man, that insolent grin on his face, refusing to leave the boundaries of the camp. Refusing a direct order to follow him, Crittendon, a group captain and the man's rightful commander. Tossing off a salute so disrespectful that he might as well have flipped the bird and been done with it, and all but laughing out loud as he flouted Crittendon's authority. Citing Hogan, who 'preferred that they stay' in the stalag.

Hogan. Crittendon set off across the compound, because it was that or stand outside the door of Barracks Two with his hat in his hand, begging for whatever scraps of respect they cared to toss him, like a stray cat on the doorstep. Always Hogan. Hogan had everything Crittendon had ever wanted, and it wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair. Hogan had an impeccable record and a flawless success rate. Hogan had quick wits and a gift for strategy. Hogan had the confidence of everyone who had ever so much as brushed shoulders with him in a busy corridor. Hogan had men who would follow him into Hell.

Crittendon had none of those things. Crittendon had never had any of those things. And he wanted them. Good God, how he wanted them! Especially the last. More than he wanted life itself, he wanted men who would look to him the way Hogan's did. He wanted their respect. Their fidelity. Their willingness to give their all. Their confidence that he would take care of them, would bring them safely through the trickiest of missions and pull everything off just so.

He wanted those things. He wanted to deserve those things. He wanted to be the sort of commander who merited his men's loyalty—not just their obedience, their genuine loyalty. He wanted what Hogan had.

He wanted to be Hogan.

And London was giving him the chance to do just that. London believed in him. They did. They were giving him this command, weren't they? Hogan would be gone in a day or so, gone back to the States to sell bonds. Out of Stalag 13, out of the war, far, far away, goodbye, good riddance, and best of luck to him. Crittendon would be here, would be in unquestioned command. He would be the leader of the finest sabotage and intelligence group in the entire bally war. He would finally get the chance to do his part, to make a real difference, and, by Jove, he would earn the respect of his men if it killed him.

Even impertinent Cockneys. Even puppyish demolition men. Even charming American colonels with a hidden sting in their voices. All of them. He was Group Captain Rodney Crittendon, by gad, and he was going to make that mean something.

He was going to make that mean something beyond sheer mind-boggling stupidity and carelessness. He would. He'd show them all—he was just as good as Hogan.

Almost.

Sometimes.

Wasn't he?

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: As is, I suppose, fairly obvious, I feel a bit sorry for Crittendon. He's such an idiot, and I think he knows it. He spends pretty much every moment of screen time he has trying to outdo Hogan, either by pulling rank, or by outright attempting to emulate him- his commando unit being a prime example. He wants, so damned badly, to prove that he's clever, that he's worth following, and after a while it's almost pitiful to watch.

Mind you, I feel a great deal sorrier for anyone who actually did end up under his command, because the ones who weren't killed outright were captured, recaptured, or re-recaptured, but that's a whole nuther story.