Hogan twisted onto his back and looked up at the crack in the ceiling. He was too excited to sleep. No. Too worked up.

"Don't look back. Don't look back. Look ahead."

But the future looked like an empty shell; the hero's welcome like tinfoil winking in the sunlight and rattling in the wind.

What he had here, what he was giving up. That was substantial.

Feeling Kinch's strong shoulder under his hand. Feeling Donovan's strong grip on his own.

Smelling and tasting LeBeau's meals. Seeing his proud glow when they're appreciated.

Noticing Newkirk palm a card from the deck -- and outwitting him.

Outwitting Klink and Burkhalter and especially Hochstetter. Blowing up the ammo dumps. Blowing down Hitler's Reich.

Hearing Carter's rambling, inane conversation. "There will never be another Colonel Hogan. No, Sir! Unless of course you got married and had sons and one of them went into the service ... "

"I can't take that a decent, devoted, shy young man tries to tell me how much I mean to him?"

"I don't deserve you, Carter. And you don't deserve a colonel who shouts you down when you're trying to say what you feel. One whose guilty conscience shouts at him for leaving you in the lurch."

Hogan squeezed his eyes shut and twisted onto his side.

"Don't look back. You decided to go home to your hero's welcome. You've got to live with it."

That's what he had to do: Live with it.

"I'll get Marlena home. I'll get them home, or get them a better commanding officer. Persuade them to appoint Mike. Whatever he did in the past, he's fighting for England now."

He saw his men's faces. Saw Crittendon's smug, silly face rise over theirs. "I'll make it up to them. I swear I'll make it up to them."

---

Donovan blinked at Crittendon. Never before had he seen an Englishman drink so much and still stay upright.

He surreptitiously glanced at his watch as he passed the bottle to him. They won't be back yet. But soon, please God. "Please, God. Soon, or I'll be too drunk to know what I'm doing."

At least he was making progress getting Crittendon drunk and keeping him out of Barracks Two, so he doesn't know his boys left without him to go blowing up trains. When Crittendon had entered Donovan's quarters, he had looked like a figure on a recruiting poster. Bathed. Shaved. Tie straight. Cap at the right angle. Clean, pressed, and shiny. Now his cap was on the floor, his hair mussed, his tie and shirt collar loosened, his face flushed and his moustache flecked with whiskey drops.

Donovan repressed a smile and wished that Newkirk were here. The poor lad would have got some satisfaction out of the sight of his new commander, after his new commander's command that he be cleaned, trimmed and spruced up. Not an easy thing to accomplish when his commander had burned every stitch of his clothing, setting fire to the laundry hamper. Donovan had spotted the Canadian tie, Aussie trousers, American shirt (Carter's, probably.) and his aide Burkitt's tunic and cap. As Burkitt was broader than Newkirk, it was an ill fit.

"And his manners. In the three years I've known Newkirk, I've seen him stand to attention maybe a dozen times. Now, today, he's beat his own record."

"But enough of that," Donovan thought, surveying Crittendon's condition. "I've work to do and answers to find."

"So, Sir," he said. "I've seen by Newkirk that you're already taking the men in hand."

Crittendon burped, beamed and nodded sagely. "Yessir, I have - and not a moment too soon. Hogan's let them get sloopy ... er, sloppy. Yessir. Sloppy."

He waggled a finger near Donovan's nose. "I'm surprised, Sir. Surprised and grieved. That you let him do it, Sir."

Donovan bit his lips, trying to keep a straight face. When Newkirk ... . Donovan bit his lips harder at the memory. The poor Sassanach had looked so distressed at coming to attention before him. When Newkirk had announced Crittendon, what did the foolish man do upon entering but go ramrod straight stamp his feet and salute him. Salute me! And now he was calling me 'Sir'.

Well that was Crittendon: all mixed up without the sense to know it.

"Colonel Hogan outranked me, Group-Captain. Just as you do, Sir. And slackening his discipline was not a bad move of his, when you consider the men are demoralized at being in enemy hands."

Crittendon roused himself. "All the more reason, Sir, to keep them tough and alert. Calisthenics and cleanliness. Clipped hair and nails, a clean uniform and polished shoes means that the man inside is still proud of himself and is not letting down the side."

"Colonel Hogan hasn't been 'letting down the side', Sir. I admit that the men are not polished; but they are clean and they keep fit." He paused. "You've seen Sergeant Kinchloe, sir. Have you seen a man more fit?"

"Kinchloe?" Crittendon squinted, making an effort to think. "Kinchloe? Oh, Hogan's blackamoor." He dismissed him with a wave and slurped his drink.

Donovan took a breath, hesitated, then plunged. "Why did you give his place to Newkirk, Sir? Newkirk's a fine man, but Kinchloe is better for the task."

Crittendon looked truculent. "Are you criticising me? Is my command now."

"Indeed it is. But if I may advise you, Sir, you should sweep your new broom carefully at the start. Colonel Hogan put Sergeant Kinchloe at his right hand for good reasons. You should know what those reasons are before you make changes in your staff."

He leaned forward. "For one thing, Kinchloe knows how to deal with men. When to be stern. When to use tact. Newkirk is a 'lone wolf'. He knows how to cajole to get what he wants; but he is not tactful. He steps on toes. He is easily miffed. And he is an artful cheat and pickpocket. Many of the men have been his victims."

"Newkerr's English. Kinshloe is a nigra."

"And Hogan has used that to win over the men. There are some biased against Kinchloe's race; but most see Kinchloe's standing shows the Senior Officer is accepting of them." Donovan tried to hold Crittendon's eyes. "Group-Captain, we have men here from all backgrounds and nationalities. The one thing we officers cannot be is bigoted."

Crittendon looked at him, then shook his head. "Want an Englishman. Too many 'Mericans. All over England, taking over. Think we doan know what we're doing. How to fight a war. We fought wars 'fore they're born. Agincourt. Naseby. Fought their wars for them too, 'fore they rebelled. Won an Empire. All over world. Muss keep it. Not give it up to 'Mericans."

Donovan's eyes widened. "You want an English tunnel. All English."

"Yessir." Crittendon whacked his hand on the table - or would have if he had not missed it. "All English. No frogs. No fuzzies."

"What about Carter? He's an American, and he's the best of demolitions men."

"Muss be others, buttle keep Carter till we fine one."

Donovan digested the implications. "Group Captain, you can't do it. You can't have an All-English operation here."

Crittendon blinked owlishly. "Why not?"

"This is a polyglot camp. We've English, but we've also Scots, Irish, Welsh, French, Dutch, Poles, Norwegians, Australians and New Zealanders, and I don't know what all. Half the prisoners are American and Canadian. Most of them are not British blooded. Some of them have German, or Italian or Japanese parentage. The only thing that's held them together is Colonel Hogan's treating them alike and not disparaging them. That's why having Sergeant Kinchloe at his side was so good. They respected each other as colonel and sergeant, and as man and man.

"And these men have worked for this operation selflessly. They're tailors, forgers, scroungers, wig makers, tunnelers and dispersers, watchers and security, carpenters, cooks, medic's assistants. Out medic is an American: Sergeant Wilson. They're not going to give up their fight because they are not English enough for you. It's the only thing that keeps them going and the only thing that keeps them here."

"So we let them escape."

Donovan rolled his eyes in a plea for patience. "No, sir. We cannot. Every attempt means the Germans will sharpen security, which means no one can leave to blow up a bridge or rescue a downed flier. A success or two will mean Klink and Schultz are posted away and we get a kommandant and guards who are smarter and keener to prevent escapes -- and to capture spies and saboteurs."

He looked as deeply as he could into Crittendon's blurry eyes. "Please, Sir. Reconsider what you want."

---

Newkirk looked up, then swiveled from the switchboard. "So we can take out the lamp in the window now. The prodigal has returned home."

Kinch dropped his cap over the radio key and dropped his bottom on the nearby stool. "Jolly joker." He rubbed his face with both hands. "No word from Klink yet?"

Newkirk glanced back at the switchboard. "Not a dingle. Maybe he won't transfer Colonel Hogan. Just leave in the cooler."

Kinch grimaced. "Well, the Colonel will think up another plan. Crittendon in the Colonel's bed?"

Newkirk shook his head. "Burkitt is. We'd never have gotten Crittendon back without getting shot - him singing Rule Britannia at the top of his lungs, so Carter, Burkitt and I slung him into Burkitt's bunk and Burkitt came here."

He looked at Kinch. "Do you think he'll reconsider and stay?"

"With Crittendon here?" Now Kinch shook his head. "Crittendon outranks him. That means Crittendon will shoot down every idea he has. He'll blow up under that much pressure. Conflict. Court-martial. Ruin his career and tear apart our operation? No. He won't stay. I wouldn't."

Kinch dropped his head in his hands and sighed.

"Neither would I." Newkirk rose. "Not with a hero's welcome and lovely Hollywood birds waiting." He laid his hand on his friend's bowed shoulder. "He'll find a way out for us too. I know it."

"Oh, I believe. I just hope we'll survive until he does." He looked between his fingers. "I told Marlena to believe. I know he'll get her out, the moment he gets to London."

"And does she believe?"

"She said she did." Kinch raised his head. "I don't know what to make of her. I thought she'd be happy it's finally going to happen; but she looked ... she looked like I had given her a one way ticket to Hell."

"Who knows what to make of women?" Newkirk massaged the taut shoulder under his hand. Standing behind Kinch, he knew Kinch could not see his smile. "Maybe Marlena doesn't want to leave us?"

"Maybe she doesn't want to leave the kids at the hospital." The sergeant's lips thinned. "Well, she's got to. We've enough problems with Crittendon in charge."

"You're right. More than enough problems. We don't need those she's given us." Newkirk's smile widened.

"The Colonel will get her home, safe and sound."

"We'll never have to worry about her again. Probably never see her again, when she's back safe in Canada."

"Yeah. ... Yeah. I guess we won't see either of them, when they're home free." Newkirk heard the catch, and felt guilty for drawing him on.

He tried to think of some consoling, heartening words. He couldn't. Not with his own heart aching for losing Colonel Hogan as his guv'nor and friend. Not with his mind fretting that he was not as capable as Kinch, that he should not be doing Kinch's job, that everything will go into the dustbin because he wasn't smart enough to advise Crittendon and make it stick.

He opened his mouth to say something.

The switchboard buzzed and lit.

"Reprieved!" Newkirk sighed as he shot back and grabbed the headphones a second ahead of Kinch. Kinch grabbed and plugged the line into Klink's office.

"Jah! Heil Hitler, Kommandant! Stalag Fifteen? Jawohl, Herr Kommandant. Right away."

Kinch pushed a notepad and pencil in front of Newkirk. Their eyes met.

"Get the details," Kinch whispered. "I'll radio the underground."