Karl marched his rounds without really paying any attention to what was happening around him. The Americans could have driven a tank column supported by infantry divisions through the camp, and he wouldn't have noticed. All he could feel was the envelope in his coat, with the stolen battle plans, weighing like lead on his chest.

This was the work of an Allied spy, surely. Who knew about the fliers he'd saved. Somehow. And it wasn't Hogan, who wouldn't have needed a middleman.

Karl suspected the notorious agent Nimrod (the only Allied spy possibly more infamous than Papa Bear) due to the sheer audacity of the scheme to send Panzer division battle plans to the Allies via Luftwaffe mail, although it wasn't as if the spy had signed his name on the note.

Clearly, the spy intended for Karl to deliver the battle plans into the hands of the Allies. Specifically, Colonel Hogan. (It wasn't as if Karl knew a lot of Allied spies, after all. He thought, anyway.) And Nimrod (or whoever he was) couldn't find a pretext to get the documents to Hogan himself in a timely manner.

Of course, the smart thing for Karl to do would be to burn the envelope and all its contents and forget the whole thing. He'd saved the fliers; that was more than repayment to Colonel Hogan for rescuing Greta and getting her out of Germany. If he passed the documents to Hogan, he could be shot as a traitor, or worse. Karl had no desire to discover what delightful tortures the Gestapo had in store in whatever dark hellhole they'd send him to if he were caught.

And even if he wasn't caught, doubtless the spy would see him as a willing confederate and attempt to involve him in even more dangerous escapades in the future.

Karl really was not a brave man. He wasn't like Greta. He definitely wasn't like Colonel Hogan; he was no hero. He was barely even a soldier. He was just trying to survive this war. He should just keep himself safe and do his best to stay out of it. Survive.

And yet.

Karl had confided in the enemy of his sister's imminent arrest by the Gestapo. And these men, the enemies of the Third Reich, spirited her away to safety. But even before that, what had Karl already done? How many times had he spotted Hogan and his merry band of spies in Hammelburg, and said nothing? Noticed when they were up to their outrageous shenanigans in the camp?

And what of the little escapade to Paris, in which Hogan had convinced Sgt. Schultz to impersonate a general while they procured a counterfeit painting, and all Karl did was get drunk on fine French wine?

Karl let out a deep breath. By all rights, the Gestapo was well within its authority to shoot him already. Without even realizing it, he'd crossed the line, long ago.

And, more than that, he wasn't ashamed of it, either. He hated what his country had become, ruled by fear and hatred. He'd rather live in Hogan's world, where courage, loyalty, ingenuity, and compassion were more important than arbitrary standards of racial purity.

Ducking between the barracks for a breath of privacy, Karl pulled out the incriminating envelope. Taking that first page, he carefully tore off the handwritten note at the bottom, leaving only the typed message (which could just as well be addressed to Colonel Hogan as to himself). He then returned the diminished page to the envelope and the envelope to his coat pocket. The handwritten portion he crumpled up and slipped into another pocket.

Now the only problem was getting the papers to Hogan. He couldn't just walk into Barracks 2 and hand them to the man. But then it occurred to him: the mysterious Allied spy had given him the perfect way to deliver the stolen documents. Well, hopefully.

As luck would have it, the mail for the POWs had just arrived. It was a simple matter to volunteer to sort and deliver it; Sgt. Schultz was more than happy not to be mobbed again on the mail call, and it didn't take much to convince him that Karl's volunteering for the job was due to his ongoing good mood from making it out of the air raid in one piece.

While he sorted the mail, he slipped the incriminating envelope among the no less than four other letters addressed to Colonel Hogan and bound them all together with a rubber band. Then he stacked them innocently with the rest of the mail from Barracks 2.

His heart pounded despite himself and his commitment to his decision as he delivered the mail to all the other barracks before finally making his way to Hogan's barracks. He marveled that no one else could hear the organ thumping inside his chest.

"Mail call, mon Colonel!" called Corporal LeBeau as Karl walked in. The mad scramble to swarm him was no less than in the other barracks, but he managed to spot the precious pile of letters for Colonel Hogan as they passed from hand to hand to the Colonel.

"You should qualify for hazard pay," Hogan noted wryly to Karl as the small mob split off to enjoy their letters from home.

"It would be nice to have the extra marks, herr Colonel," Karl agreed (far more fervently than he meant to), while doing his best to not look at the colonel's mail.

Before he could actually incriminate himself, he ducked out of the barracks. It was done. Whatever happened now, it was up to Hogan himself. Maybe he'd even send them back to England with Captain McCaffrey and his men.

Part of him silently wished he could stay and watch to see the look on the colonel's face when he discovered the battle plans with his mail. Of course, that would be completely idiotic of him, and his enlightened self-interest was far more powerful than his curiosity at the moment. Better to make himself scarce and distant from any further connection with that envelope.

Let Colonel Hogan and his men assume that the legendary and notorious Nimrod somehow managed to sneak the documents into the mail himself.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Hogan would realize Karl's part in this. The colonel was, without doubt, the smartest man he'd ever met, so Karl really wouldn't put it past him.

If there was anything resembling Providence in this world, however, hopefully Hogan wouldn't confront him on it. Karl wasn't quite sure that his heart could take the stress. He might be able to acknowledge the truth of his actions and beliefs to himself, but admitting it to anyone else was pretty well beyond him at the moment.

With any luck, the war would end, and no one would ever be the wiser.

He stuck his hand in his pocket and fingered the crumpled note inside. He didn't know how Nimrod knew to write those exact words, words which had resonated so profoundly with Karl. Had Nimrod spoken with Greta? Was he part of the chain that delivered her to safety?

Someday, he promised himself, he would see her again and ask her for himself.