The Key to Berchtesgaden

“The only thing London hasn’t asked for is the key to Berchtesgaden,” Kinch once said.

But what if they did?

And how many Hitlers do you need to get hold of one key?

"They're nuts!"

"Who is?" Just entering the barracks with Newkirk and LeBeau, Carter's curiosity was immediately aroused upon hearing such a derogatory exclamation from the Colonel.

"London is, that's what." Hogan scrunched up one of Kinch's blue notes and threw it down on the table. And started his customary pacing.

Newkirk bristled good-humorously. "Now look here, sir, don't you go around insulting my good old hometown, okay?"

"I'm sure he means Allied headquarters, Newkirk – not the city itself," Carter said gamely.

Newkirk rolled his eyes, and LeBeau inquired, "So what do the big shots want us to do this time, Colonel? Hold up a whole battalion for a change?"

"We already did that once," Newkirk muttered.

But LeBeau wasn't done yet venting his sarcasm. "Knock out an entire Panzer division? Liberate Düsseldorf? Dig a tunnel to Berlin perhaps?"

But Kinch straightened out the blue note and recited in his best posh British accent, "The Allied forces are approaching Berchtesgaden, old chap. We expect to reach Hitler's private fortress within the next few weeks. It would be awfully nice if we'd have the key to his place instead of having to shoot our way in. I know it sounds like a fool's errand, old boy, but with your impressive record of achieving the impossible, I'm sure you will be able to come up with something to deliver us Hitler's house-key by the end of the week."

Newkirk put down his coffeemug so forcefully that some of the precious brown liquid spilt over the rim. "Bloody charming – how do they expect us to get hold of that key? Just go visit him in his bunker in Berlin and say, 'Good morning, mein Führer, would you be so kind as to give me your house-key?´"

"If you could get close to him, Pierre, you could pick his pockets, I'm sure."

"With all those ruddy bodyguards he has about? Not a chance. The guy's absolutely paranoid, that's what."

"Then perhaps we could kidnap him!" Carter suggested with his eyes shining. "And then, when we have him all alone down here in the tunnel, you could safely pick his pockets, Newkirk!"

"Right. Why didn't anybody else ever think of that? You ruddy fool – kidnapping the Führer...!"

"Yeah. You might as well try to kidnap the queen of England," Kinch pointed out.

But Hogan suddenly stopped pacing and turned to face them. "Wait a minute... Hold it, guys – that's it!"

"What – you want to kidnap the queen of England and exchange her with the Germans for Hitler's bloody house-key?" Newkirk wavered between disbelief and indignation, and Kinch had to bite down hard on his lip to avoid bursting out in laughter.

"No, no. Don't worry, Newkirk, we don't need that queen of yours. It's old Scramblebrains we want."

LeBeau's jaw dropped. "Don't tell me you do want to kidnap Hitler..."

"No, not him either. We don't need to kidnap anybody. We just need that key, right?"

"And?" Newkirk butted his cigarette.

"So – if the mountain won't come to Mohammed, then perhaps Mohammed can send for someone to deliver it to him."

LeBeau frowned, trying to figure out the meaning of this obscure American proverb. But apparently Carter didn't quite grasp the idea either. "Colonel, what's Mohammed got to do with it? I thought the guy died like a thousand years ago. It's going to be hard for us to contact him, isn't it?"

Newkirk pulled the cap down over Carter's eyes. "Not Mohammed, you fool. Hitler."

"Wrong. We are Mohammed." Hogan straightened himself.

"We, Colonel?" Kinch waited for Hogan to elaborate.

"Yes, we." Hogan looked around the befuddled circle of faces. "Well, we all seem to agree that we can't very well march into Hitler's headquarters to pick up that key, right? So – we get Hitler to order the key to be delivered to us here."

The general air of befuddlement did not lift after that explanation. Newkirk was the one to vocalize the predominant feeling in one single word. "How?"

"Easy." Hogan took Carter by the shoulder. "On his way to Berchtesgaden, our very own beloved Führer is going to stay the night in a safe POW camp, and while inspecting the grounds with the Kommandant, he will lose his house-key. And since it would of course be far too humiliating for the Führer of the Third Reich to have to knock on his own door when he comes home, he'll send for his spare key to be delivered to him in Stalag 13 at once."

Carter gulped. "Sir, when you say, 'our own beloved Führer'... you don't mean...?"

"Of course he does! Blimey, Carter, you're a better Führer than old Scramblebrains himself!"

A grin from Hogan. "My idea. Don't worry, Carter. We'll have you constantly guarded by some of our own men. And you've done it before. You know you're good at it."

"Yeah, well..." Carter put his hands in his pockets. "It's just that, after the war, you know, it would be kind of awkward if my son would ask me one day, 'Daddy, what did you do during the war?' And I'd have to answer, 'Well, son, I played Hitler'..."

"I didn't know you had a son?" Kinch teased him.

And Hogan promised, "I'll write you a nice long CV listing everything else you've done for the war. Then you can show that to your son, okay?"

Carter nodded. "But please leave out that time I forgot to set the timer, will you?"

"Okay, I will." The others chuckled. "Now go get your play-clothes out. LeBeau, go with him and help him dye his hair and look like a perfect Hitler. Kinch, we'll need the best staff car from the motorpool, with Berlin licence plates. Newkirk, go raid your uniform rack. I'm going to send three men down to you in a few minutes who need to be outfitted as trusted members of the Führer's staff."

"Sir, what about Captain McCall and the five escapees that are still waiting in the tunnel?" Kinch asked.

"They'll have to wait a little longer. And they can fill in for the others during roll call. And once we got the key, they'll be the ones taking it back to England."

With that, everyone set off to their different tasks, and Hogan let his eyes wander over the men in his barracks. Now who was fluent enough in the German language to pass as a native, yet inconspicuous enough not to be recognized by the guards?

Corporal Kinkel and Private Schnüffis had only just taken over guard duty at the main gate when they saw a blinking staff car approaching them along the barbed wire inside the perimeter.

"Must have come in through the back gate," Kinkel muttered.

It was already getting dark, and they had to squint even against the tiny slits of the car's bright headlights as it came to a halt right in front of them. At the sight of the uniforms inside, the two guards saluted dutifully, and Kinkel bent down to the driver's window. "How may I help you, Herr Leutnant?"

"Has the Kommandant been informed yet?" the German driver (alias Addison from barracks 2) inquired in a stern voice.

"Informed? Of your arrival, sir? I don't know. The guys at the back gate should have..."

"Not my arrival, you Dummkopf. The Führer's arrival!"

"The F..." Kinkel glanced at the man sitting next to the driver, to the back seat... and jumped to attention hitting his hand on the car in his eagerness to give the proper salutation. "Ouch! I mean, Heil Hitler!" Immediately followed by Schnüffis, who – although unaware of exactly who sat in the car's back seat – had brains enough to realize it must be a real, real big shot.

"Well? Are you going to inform the Kommandant, or do we spend the night here at the gate?"

"Jawohl, Herr Leutnant. At once!" He turned to his subordinate. "Schnell! Go tell the Kommandant that the Führer is here to see him!"

Schnüffis jumped to attention, "Jawohl, Corporal," and jumped away. Only to stumble over his own feet as he just as quickly came to a halt again. "Did you say the Führer?"

"The Führer, ja! Now schnell!"

Schnüffis took off at warp speed, and Kinkel brought another Heil Hitler greeting. And then he suddenly remembered there was a telephone in their sentry box, hooked in straight to the Kommandant's line.

"Entschuldigung, meine Herren. Eine Moment, bitte." Another salute, and he dashed to the sentry box. The receiver, dial a 1 and... "Kommandant! Herr Kommandant, the Führer is here to see you!"

"Whaaat?" came Klink's astonished reply through the receiver. "The Führer is..." The rest was drowned out by the sound of a slamming door, and someone (Schnüffis no doubt) yelling, "Kommandant! The Führer is here to see you!"

Klink not only dropped his jaw, but his monocle and the telephone as well. "The Führer? For me?"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Schnüffis panted.

"Well, don't keep him waiting – send him on!" He fumbled to get hold of the receiver again and blared into it, "Send him on – immediately, you Dummkopf!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!"

Klink ran out of his office, putting on his hat and tugging his riding crop under his arm on the go. Private Schnüffis was on his heels, and they both came to a stiff salute as a pokerfaced Addison curved the car in front of the porch.

He jumped out as soon as he had brought it to a halt, and rushed to open the door at the passenger side. And out stepped Sergeant Kruse from barracks 17, a native German speaker thanks to his parents who had moved from the Frankfurt area to the US in the '20's. It made him eminently suitable to pose as...

"Major Hans Speidel of the Führer's staff. Heil Hitler."

"Heil!" Klink echoed breathlessly, followed by Schnüffis's equally breathless repeat.

"Are you the Kommandant of this place?"

"Jawohl, Herr Major. Kommandant Wilhelm Klink, at your service, sir."

"We are on our way from Berlin to Berchtesgaden, and we need a place to stay the night. A safe place," Speidel added with threatening emphasis.

Klink let out a nervous twitter. "Stalag 13 is the safest place in all of Germany, Herr Major. No one has ever escaped from Stalag... I mean, the Allies would never bomb a prisoner-of-war camp. You may rest assured that..."

"Yes, yes, yes." The Major made a gesture of impatience. "The Führer will want to use your private quarters for the night. I assume they are safe?"

"Oh, yes, Herr Major. Absolutely safe."

"Good. My men and I will stand watch at the exits and the windows. And so will the best of your guards. Nothing is more important than the security of our beloved Führer! Have your Sergeant of the Guard report to me at once."

"Jawohl, Herr Major." Klink turned to Schnüffis behind him. "Go and fetch Sergeant Schultz at once!"

Schnüffis saluted and hurried away in search of Schultz.

And Klink, eager to please as always, conversed in his best social mode, "Can I perhaps get you and your men something, Herr Major? And our beloved Führer, of course? Some refreshments perhaps?"

Major Speidel glared him down. "First security, Kwink. Then we can talk about refreshments."

"First security. Of course, Herr Major. And it's Klink, sir – Klink."

Speidel made no reply, and an awkward lull in their discourse was the result – something Klink deftly tried to diffuse by repeated Heil Hitler salutes until Schultz came puffing around the corner.

"Herr Kommandant, Private Schnüffis says that..." He gave Klink a half-hearted salute; the Major got a slightly more professional one. "Good evening, Herr Major. Are you perhaps...?"

"Schultz!" Klink stomped his foot, making Schultz flinch. "Stop babbling!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

From the corner of his eye, Klink noted the nearly imperceptible raising of Major Speidel's eyebrow, and he cringed. "I'm sorry, Herr Major. Of course our best men are at the front. Guarding cowed prisoners is something even an incompetent idiot can do. When led by a true mastermind for a Kommandant of course," he added quickly.

"Of course." Major Speidel stroked his moustache. "So this is your Sergeant of the Guard, hm?" He looked Schultz over from top to toe, and shook his head. "I pity you, Herr Kommandant. But it will have to suffice for tonight, I suppose. The Führer is still safer here than in a hotel in town."

Schultz's eyes bulged. "Th... the... the Führer? So it is true? Schnüffis said... Our great Führer will be here tonight?"

"He is already here." Speidel gestured to the car. "Now, Sergeant, I will need your ten best men... No, wait. If you are the best specimen available, I think we'd better have twenty-five of your guards. I want you to get your twenty-five best guards, and post them around the Kommandant's quarters. Understood?"

"Jawohl, Herr Major," Schultz quavered in awe.

"Then report with these men to the Kommandant's quarters in five minutes. Dismissed!"

Schultz saluted, and waddled away as quickly as he could, while muttering the names of his best guards under his breath. "Keun of course, und Wassermann. Duden und Schimpf. Fassbinder und Hochhuth und Schlöndorff, Kneipp, Kinkel und Kühnhackl. Und Langenscheidt, und... Oh, that's right: he won't be back until tomorrow. Wepper then, und Engels, und..."

When he returned with his twenty-five best, Speidel took it upon himself to personally place the overawed guards around Klink's quarters – an unbreakable ring of steel. He then returned to the car, and under a concert of clicking bootheels and Heil Hitlers, the great Führer himself got out of the car, followed by his aide, Colonel Mansdorf (also known as Corporal Schwarz from barracks 12, of a similar background as Kruse).

With his posse tightly around him, Carter-Hitler looked around, nodded curtly and said, "I remember this place, yes. With the nice barbed wire. I like barbed wire."

Speidel began to usher the four of them towards the adjoining building, with Klink almost literally on his heels.

"Welcome to Stalag 13, mein Führer! We are so happy to have you as our guest! Please feel free to regard our little camp as your home, and if there is anything you want – anything at all – you just say the word and I shall personally see to it that..."

"Speidel," Hitler spat. "Who is this bumbling fool?"

"That is Colonel Wilhelm Plink, mein Führer. The Kommandant of this camp."

"Eh... Klink, mein Führer. Klink, with a K."

"I see." Hitler cast a nasty glance over his shoulder at the bumbling fool. "Yes, I believe I remember him from last time. I knew I should have sent him straight to the Russian front then and there."

Klink gulped. "But mein Führer...!"

Mansdorf cut him off. "Mein Führer, do we really need another straight loss at the eastern front? Is it not better for those men fighting there for their lives to leave this incompetent fool right where he is? He'd only get them into more trouble than they already are."

"Oh yes! Yes, I like it here!" Klink fawned.

"Hm," was all the Führer said to that.

They entered Klink's fortified quarters. Colonel Mansdorf immediately posted his two men by the room's outside exits before allowing his Führer to enter.

Hitler looked around with disdain and snorted. "I suppose we all have to make sacrifices for the war effort," he said, and ambled through the room with his thumb in his buckle. He stopped in front of Klink's pride. "I hate cuckoo clocks. Get it out of here."

"At once, mein Führer." Immediately, Klink dribbled over to personally remove his precious clock from the wall. "I hate cuckoo clocks, too, mein Führer. Those little birds that come out and say, 'Cuckoo' all the time! It can drive a man to distraction! But it's an old family heirloom, you see, and my mother would get really upset if I..."

Hitler's glare silenced him, and a humble Klink retreated to the door with his cuckoo clock.

"We expect a good dinner on the table in forty-five minutes," Mansdorf ordered. "And when I say 'a good dinner', I mean I expect a good one. Understood? And please remember that our glorious Führer is both a vegetarian and a teetotallist. I expect his dishes to be as good as ours."

"Naturally, Herr Colonel," Klink twittered.

"And we wish to dine in private, is that understood?"

"Jawohl, Herr Colonel. Of course, Herr Colonel. In private. As you wish, Herr Colonel."

Mansdorf waved him away, and with a lot of bowing, saluting and heelclicking, Klink left his quarters and closed the door behind him.

Carter blew out his breath, and instantly his beady little Hitler eyes transformed back to his own puppy ones. "Did you have to say that?" he complained. "I can't remember the last time I had a good steak..."

They dined in good cheer on chicken, potatoes and salad, and since Mansdorf had ordered dinner in private, Carter could enjoy the grilled meat dish as much as his comrades.

Dinner was winding down when the stove suddenly moved aside and Hogan hauled himself out of the tunnel. "Mm, I see you guys are doing yourselves well!" He took one of the last chicken-legs and bit into it with gusto. "Much better than the cabbage soup we had in the mess hall tonight."

"Colonel." Carter wiped his mouth with his napkin. "I forgot. Did you bring the key?"

Hogan frowned. "What key?"

"The key I'm supposed to lose."

A sigh. "Carter, you don't need a real key. The whole point is that when everyone is going to search the grounds, there will be no key to be found. You just pretend you lost it when you've finished the tour of the camp, okay?"

"Okay, I get it." Carter nodded. "So I don't really have to lose it, because I don't have one in the first place."

"Exactly."

Kruse snickered. "It's a complicated war, isn't it?"

They all froze as they heard someone clumping out on the porch.

"Quick!" Hogan grabbed another chicken-leg and dashed back into the hole. Kruse and Addison were immediately at his side to push the stove back into place.

"Mein Führer?" they all heard Klink's bootlicking voice through the door.

Carter jumped up and started to noisily pace the room to drown out any possible sounds from moving the stove. "And I will not be humiliated by such tasteless food again! I am the Führer – the great Führer, remember? – and I am the one who will govern the Thousand Year Reich from its cradle to the grave. So I need good food!" Carter's eyes practically begged Schwarz to cut into his monologue.

"Jawohl, mein Führer," was all Schwarz could come up with in the spur of the moment, but by then, Addison and Kruse had made it back to their seats.

"Mein Führer?" they heard Klink's nervous whinny.

"Herein!" Hitler barked, seriously not in the best of spirits.

The door peeped open, and Klink stuck his head in. "Did you enjoy your dinner, mein Führer?"

"Nein." Hitler's reply was as a whiplash. "It tasted like shoeleather. Have you ever tried to eat your shoes, Mink?" To be honest, he still had the pleasant greasy taste of freshly grilled chicken in his mouth. Oh well, details...

Klink's head cowered back a little. "I am truly sorry, mein Führer. You see, with the war and all, we don't..."

"I know about the war, Pink. I started it myself!" Hitler gave back.

"Jawohl, mein Führer." Klink's head shrank back a little further yet. "And it's Klink, sir. K-L-I-N-..." Another of the Führer's nasty glares made him close his mouth immediately.

"Flink, in order to digest your measly food, I will require some exercise. You may take me on a guided tour of your little camp. There is nothing like a nice prisoner-of-war camp to lift the spirits. And make sure you point out all the attractions to me – I don't want to miss a single feature!"

"Jawohl, mein Führer." Klink, relieved to be back in some kind of favour, opened the door as wide as if Adolf Hitler were twice the size of Burkhalter. With a curt gesture, Hitler ordered his men to follow them, and out they stepped on the brightly lit veranda.

"Schultz!" Klink ordered. "Run over to the guard towers and tell them not to shoot us!"

A salute and a stammered, "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," and Schultz hurried off.

"You see, mein Führer," a nervous Klink neighed. "It is after the prisoners' curfew. We have a very strict routine here in Stalag 13 – undoubtedly the secret of our success of never having suffered a successful escape. Not one, mein Führer! You see, after lights out, no prisoner is allowed outside the barracks. And the guards have their fixed rounds to cover the entire grounds. Anyone seen moving outside that pattern will automatically be perceived as highly suspicious – and possibly be shot at."

The Führer nodded. "Very interesting, Fink."

"Um... actually, it's Klink, mein Führer. Klink – with a K."

"Yes, yes, carry on. I want to hear all the details about your little camp."

So Klink happily prattled on about his pet camp as he guided his guests around the mess hall, the recreation hall, the cooler, the delousing station, the guards' mess, the guards' quarters, the latrines, the showers, the storage huts, the motorpool, the well, the dog pound, the water tower, the main gate, the guard towers, the fences...

Hogan was watching them from between a crack in the shutters.

"How's he doing, Colonel?" Newkirk asked about every other minute.

"Fine," was the standard answer.

Carter was indeed doing fine. He let Klink do the talking, prompting him with an occasional harsh question or observation to be even more verbose than usual, and insisting on inspecting everything Klink pointed out to him to the tiniest detail. And the good thing was, that by covering pretty much the entire grounds as they did, it would make a large scale search for that non-existent key all the more fruitless.

"Now would you perhaps be interested in meeting some of the prisoners?" Klink quacked. "Especially our senior prisoner-of-war is a general favourite with the visiting German officers. He is very witty."

Hitler glowered at him, so Klink quickly amended, "But completely cowed, sir. Completely."

"Nein." Hitler snarled with utter contempt. "I will not associate with these Untermenschen any more than I absolutely have to. Ich danke Ihnen, Blink. But I think it is time for me to return to my quarters. I need my beauty sleep." He put his hands in his pockets, and suddenly he froze. His eyes narrowed, and Klink saw him frantically turning his pockets inside out, and then patting himself in all the other possible places one could keep an item in one's clothes.

"Wink! Where is my key!"

A nervous little laugh from the Kommandant. "Eh... your key?"

"Ja! The key to my little cottage in Berchtesgaden!" Once more Hitler turned all his pockets inside out.

"Ah, that key!"

Hitler stopped searching and threateningly invaded Klink's personal space. "Stink, one of your so-called cowed prisoners must have stolen it from my pocket!"

Klink hovered back. "Aber mein Führer, you have not even been near any prisoners! You have not even set eyes on any prisoners! So how can they possibly have stolen your key?"

The beady eyes narrowed even further. "But you have been close to me, Trink!" And to his aide, "Search him!"

So Klink had to suffer the humiliation of a thorough body-search. But none of the keys found on his person turned out to be Hitler's house-key.

The Führer was fuming. "I will not go to Berchtesgaden without my key! Think of what the neighbours would say if I couldn't get into my own home! I – the glorious Führer of the Thousand Year Reich – having to ring the doorbell at my own house!"

"Mein Führer," Speidel ventured. "When did you last see the key? Perhaps it just got... mislaid."

He withered under the Führer's burning glare. "I still had it when we left my quarters here to go on this tour around the camp."

Klink's face lit up with the glimmer of hope to be able to help. "I think you may simply have lost it, mein Führer! I shall..."

The next withering glare was for him. "I do not lose things, Spink. It may have fallen out of my pocket, but the Führer of the glorious Third Reich does not lose things!" he finished in a piercing shriek.

"Of course not, mein Führer," Klink trembled. "It must have fallen out of your pocket, yes. I shall order the guards to find it immediately, sir. Immediately!"

With that, Klink hurried away, and but a few minutes later, there were guards crawling on hands and knees all over the camp.

Hitler and his posse stood observing the activity for a few minutes, stifling their all too ready laughter as they watched a frantic Klink fluttering back and forth to instruct his subordinates.

"Come," Carter said at last, and they marched back to Klink's quarters.

Only Mansdorf made a little detour to inform the Kommandant that he'd better not stop searching until the Führer's key was found, or else...

And of course the 'or else' sent Klink into an even more animated frenzy.

The four men amused themselves for quite a while covertly observing the goings-on outside.

But it was necessary to stay true to form – after all, there was always the possibility that they would find some or other lost key and came to ask the Führer if perhaps it was his. So Carter got to sleep in state in Klink's bed, and Addison, Schwarz and Kruse took up a guardpost each by the three exits of the apartment.

The next morning, Kruse found a nervous Kommandant Klink approaching him on the porch.

"Yes, Kommandant?"

Klink saluted and clicked his heels. "Ehm... good morning, Herr Major, und Heil Hitler."

Major Speidel silently returned the greeting.

"I'm um... I'm sorry to tell you that my men have not yet been able to find the Führer's key. But now that we have the benefit of daylight, I'm sure we'll have no trouble locating it. No trouble at all."

"Good. Because the Führer doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"No. Of course not." Klink saluted again. "And may I suggest to employ the prisoners in the search as well? That would be nearly a thousand extra pairs of eyes looking, and I'm sure..."

"Was? Are you out of your mind?" Speidel shook his fist at him. "The prisoners are confined to barracks until that key is found! Understood? We cannot risk it falling into enemy hands!"

"Of course, Herr Major." Another salute. "As you wish, Herr Major." And with that, Klink backed off to join the search parties again, leaving Kruse to stifle his all too visible grin.

Schultz was just taking a breather in the sentry box by the main gate when Corporal Langenscheidt returned to report for duty after his two days' leave.

"What's going on?" the young guard inquired with an anxious glance at his colleagues all going on all fours around the compound.

Schultz let out a pitiful moan. "I know nothing. Nothing!"

Langenscheidt tilted his head. "Colonel Hogan up to his tricks again?"

"Nein. Nicht Colonel Hogan this time." Schultz peeked out of the sentry box to see where the Kommandant was. "Much worse: it's the Führer himself. He came here yesterday evening and... It really is the Führer!" he continued upon seeing Langenscheidt's incredulous face. "I've seen him with my own eyes!"

"Really?" Langenscheidt sounded far from convinced.

"Yes, really! But oh, when he took a walk around the camp yesterday after dinner... Can you imagine he lost his house-key! So now the Kommandant has all the guards combing out the compound and the mess hall and the..." Another moan. "I'm getting too old for this..."

Langenscheidt had already come to his own opinion about the situation, but – as was by far the safest in Nazi Germany – decided to keep it to himself.

"Langenscheidt!"

Langenscheidt jumped, and there was the Kommandant.

"Where have you been?"

Langenscheidt came to a trembling attention. "I... I was out on a t... two day p... pass, Kommandant."

"Oh! Yes, that's right. Schultz, have you acquainted the corporal with the situation?"

Schultz sighed. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

"Good. Now, Langenscheidt, since you're the only one who hasn't been crawling around in the mud all night, you're the only one presentable enough to go and bring the Führer and his men their breakfast."

Langenscheidt positively quavered. "Me, Herr Kommandant?"

"Yes. So go to the mess hall right away, and make sure that you salute and bow and click your heels together and everything when you're in the presence of our esteemed leader!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant." Langenscheidt hurried off, hearing the Kommandant behind him scold Schultz back on his hands and knees.

Poor Schultz.

But under his anxious and uncertain façade, his brain was working overtime.

Most of all, he was convinced that this was just another one of Colonel Hogan's outrageous schemes. The Führer had visited the camp once before – if it really had been him. At the time, he – Langenscheidt – had been in Paris on another assignment, so he had missed the entire caper. Still, the stories he'd heard smacked too much of Papa Bear's infamous pranks for him to believe it truly having been Hitler. So why should it be any different this time? Surely the bloody Führer had no interest in a lowly POW-camp?

Him being sent to serve their breakfast was therefore only fortunate. He knew all too well that a charade that worked well by evening did not always hold up by daylight. And anyway, who better to see through their disguises than the Master of Disguises himself?

And if by any chance it was Adolf Hitler himself...

Fifteen minutes later he rolled a heavily loaded serving trolley towards the Kommandant's quarters.

"Halt," the major guarding the door ordered. He stepped down off the porch and lifted up every lid on the trays. "In Ordnung." He glanced at Langenscheidt and pointed at his belt. "Legen Sie das ab. No one goes into the Führer's quarters carrying weapons of any kind."

Langenscheidt let out an inaudible sigh. So much for his advantage this time if indeed it was the Führer. The overcautious security sure seemed to point in that direction.

So he took off his belt and laid it in a corner on the veranda. The major gave him a thorough body-search as well, removing even his pocket-knife. "In Ordnung. Sie können hinein gehen." He even helped to lift the heavy trolley onto the porch, and held the door for him.

Langenscheidt rolled the trolley into the Kommandant's living-room, and found the perfect Führer glowering down at him.

"Guten Morgen, mein Führer." A bow, his boots clicking, and he loathed his own obsequiousness towards this monster. At least that other time he... "Haben Sie gut geschlafen?"

"Ja. Danke."

The monster turned and started pacing the room while his visitor set the table in silence. At the same time, Langenscheidt never let the supposed Führer out of his sight – if only from the corner of his eye.

At first sight he had already established that it definitely was not Colonel Hogan himself. And the guy sure looked and acted the part convincingly enough to be easily accepted as that blasted Führer.

But was it really, truly him?

There was but one way to find out: one way or another, he'd have to draw the guy into some sort of conversation. He knew by experience that Colonel Hogan's men were fluent enough in the German language when it came to known or prepared phrases. But German is a difficult language for people who haven't learned to deal with case endings the natural way – from childhood. He knew Colonel Hogan and Sergeant Kinchloe had mastered it perfectly indeed. But the other three? It was certainly worth a try.

"Es wird ein schöner Tag heute," he remarked casually as he laid out the cutlery.

The monster merely glared at him without pausing his pacing.

"Ich habe selbst auch einige Jahre in Berlin gewohnt. Gefällt Ihnen die Stadt? Oder ziehen Sie die Ländlichkeit Berchtesgadens vor?"

No reaction at all, and Langenscheidt was beginning to lean towards the conclusion that one of Colonel Hogan's men indeed made for a very believable Hitler impersonator.

"Haben Sie keine Sorge, mein Führer. Nun, da wir Tageslicht haben, werden wir Ihren Schlüssel schon bald finden."

The monster turned on him in a flash and shrieked in his face, "Du blöder Idiot! Halt's Maul!"

Poor Langenscheidt all but staggered back, and spittle was flying everywhere as an absolutely furious Führer continued, "Das einzige, was Sie hier machen sollen, ist, den Tisch zu decken! Also machen Sie hin, und lassen Sie mich in Ruhe meine Pläne schmieden!"

His military training kicking in, Langenscheidt saluted automatically and stammered, "J... jawohl, mein Führer."

And as he quickly finished setting the table, his breathing went faster and faster. No doubt about it – it was him! Seen up close, there was not the tiniest trace of theatrical make-up, and that outburst just now was complicated enough to trip someone with only mediocre skills in the German language. Even the slight southern accent was in place! So this wasn't some scheme of Colonel Hogan's for a change – this was the real Hitler!

Oh, the possibilities...

He straightened up to attention as he finished. "Guten Appetit, mein Führer. Heil Hitler!"

The evil monster practically froze him out, and Langenscheidt quickly made for the door. He collected his belt and his pocket-knife on the veranda, saluted the major there, and went in search of Schultz to find out whether or not he was supposed to join in the search for Hitler's key.

His eyes darted to barracks 2 for a moment. Surely Colonel Hogan was aware of whom Klink's guest was? He'd love to have a chat with him; he was sure that between the two of them, they would be able to rid this world of the worst vermin since... probably since the beginning of mankind. It would even be worth giving up his precious incognito – well, at least to Papa Bear then – if there was even half a chance of finally eliminating that Hitler monster.

But it was obvious that the prisoners had been confined to barracks. And with all the guards crawling around the compound, chances of him entering or even contacting barracks 2 unnoticed were zero.

And (unfortunately in this case) to Colonel Hogan and his men, Corporal Karl Langenscheidt was but one of the many hapless guards to run circles around...

Inside Klink's quarters, Schwarz peered around the door to the kitchen. Just in time to see Carter wipe his brow.

"Phew... That was close!"

Schwarz grinned. "But you did well. Your German was absolutely perfect – to the umlaut!"

Carter shook his head. "You know, sometimes I wonder at myself. The way I slip into all these nasty Kraut characters... And so easily! I think it's scary, don't you think?" He hesitated. "Do you think I might be schizophrenic or something?"

"Nah." Schwarz shook his head. "If that's all it takes to be schizophrenic, then every professional actor must suffer from a severe case of multiple personality disorder." He winked. "But you sure got Langenscheidt off your back with it."

Carter grimaced. "I do feel a little bad about it though. He really is one of the nicest guards around. I'm sure he just wanted to be friendly."

The choice he had before him sure wasn't easy. Should he kidnap the evil devil and deliver him to justice – or just plain shoot him?

While half-heartedly rooting through the mud of the compound in search of a key he had no intention of finding, Langenscheidt's mind was awhirl with possibilities. Would it be possible to find a way to outright kill the guy? It was not his usual style, but then, Hitler was not your usual enemy either.

Still, with the way they searched anyone who entered Hitler's quarters, bringing in a weapon was close to impossible. And with these three adjutants he had brought, a paranoid like Hitler was sure to use one of them for a food-taster, so that eliminated the option of poisoning him as well.

But then again, was killing the horrid monster really preferable? After all, what kind of a punishment was that – he wouldn't even be aware of it himself. No – perhaps he should aim for kidnapping him and shipping him off to England. Where he could be locked up in a nasty prison for the rest of his life. Or better still: in a madhouse. If he didn't get capital punishment after a long dreary trial after all.

Getting Hitler to England however was the easy part. The Underground had a perfect escape route, and with one call to London, Colonel Hogan could organize a submarine to pick him up.

No. The tricky part was how to kidnap the bloody Führer without having the entire Gestapo, SS, SD, Abwehr and whatever else on his back when transporting him to the coast...

---

Important author's note:

In case Langenscheidt has you a little puzzled here, allow me to let you in on one of the biggest secrets of ww2.

Are you alone? Really? No one looking over your shoulder?

Good.

Now get out your dvd's of Hogan's Heroes – more specifically, season 6, disc 3, and watch the episode That's No Lady, That's My Spy. And pay special attention to the Underground leader Hogan and his men meet in the opening scene: Oskar Danzig, the Master of Disguises and Germany's number 1 female impersonator. Do you recognize him by any chance? No?

Then continue to the ending credits, and check the name of the actor portraying him.

! ! !

Ever seen or heard that name before? Exactly!

Now don't tell anyone, but here on the internet, there is a series of loosely connected stories exploring the adventures of this intriguing double character: The Corporal Chronicles. So if you'd like to know more about this guy, just find a moment (better make that a few hours) to acquaint yourself with stories like Chameleon Fever, No Silent Night + The Mystery of the Love-Struck Corporal, Robin Hood's Christmas Party and the extensive flashback of chapters 4 to 8 in The Pied Piper of Hamelburg.

But whatever you do, don't breathe a word to anyone about what you've just learned! Our friend is very particular about not tainting his real identity with the not always so respectable past of his alternate ego – his family would be absolutely mortified if they were ever to find out! Not to mention the fact that someone like major Hochstetter would pick him up in the blink of an eye if he were ever to become aware of Danzig's true identity...

No. The only people Danzig trusts with his secret are his oldest friend from childhood, his bank manager in Switzerland, and his girl-friend Little Red Ridinghood.

Can he rely on you, too, to keep your mouth shut – even in front of the Gestapo?

---

Hogan looked at his watch and half turned away from the supposedly shuttered window. "Kinch, Newkirk, you better get down in the tunnel. It's almost time."

It was indeed. Not two hundred yards from barracks 2, Carter-Hitler impatiently drummed his fingers on the mahogany table until suddenly he slammed it and stood. "Speidel, go and get that noodle of a Kommandant. I'm sick and tired of this nonsense."

"Jawohl, mein Führer." Kruse winked and disappeared outside, to return only half a minute later with a jittery Klink in his wake.

"You sent for me, mein Führer?"

"Ja!" With his thumbs in his buckle, Hitler paced back and forth like a caged tiger. "Kink, you are the Kommandant of the most incompetent bunch of imbeciles I have ever seen. These men have been searching non-stop for eighteen hours straight, and where is my key? Still nowhere to be found!"

A nervous twitter from Klink. "Ich bitte um Verzeihung, mein Führer, but you must realize that the men under my command are not exactly the pick of the..."

"Quiet!" Hitler roared – so loud that he nearly blew both Klink and Speidel out of the room. "I've had enough of this, Klunk. You can tell your men to return to the only duty they are capable of: guarding your oh so cowed prisoners. But I'm going to make a phone call to my butler in Berchtesgaden right now and have him send me a spare key by express. And until that key arrives, Link, I will stay right here in your quarters. Is that understood?"

"Jawohl, mein Führer." As a scared little mouse.

"Good. Then I shall call Johann immediately." He picked up the telephone. "Operator? This is Adolf Hitler speaking. Put me through to... Ja, ja... Put me through to Berchtesgaden acht-sieben-drei-null. Priority call, ja. And you may charge it to the private account of Kommandant Schink from Luftstalag 13."

Klink, Speidel and Mansdorf silently stood and listened to their side of the conversation.

"Hallo – Johann? Ja, this is the boss... Ja, ja, ja, Sieg Heil. Now listen. I am on my way to Berchtesgaden, but it was all a rather sudden change of plans. Which means I didn't bring my key... Ja... I want you to send me the spare key to the house by express... When? Immediately – today! ... No, don't address it to me personally, you Dummkopf! You can address it to Colonel Konrad Mansdorf, c/o Luftstalag 13, Hamelburg, Kreis Düsseldorf. Got that? ... Good. You may expect me within a few days then. And don't forget to feed my parakeet!"

Newkirk was silently laughing when Kinch pulled out the plug. "Him and his parakeet..."

Kinch's hands hovered over the switchboard. "Are you ready for the real call?"

Newkirk turned off his laughter. "Sure. Put me through."

He waited for the connection to get through. He knew an awful lot depended on his performance now. For whoever kept house for the Führer down in Berchtesgaden was bound to be in regular personal contact with the man. So it was absolutely vital that this phone call sounded as genuine as possible – hence the choice of Newkirk (who did the best Hitler in audio) to actually make the call.

He waited as he heard the phone beginning to ring on the other side. Hopefully, somebody would be home, or... Yes!

"Berchtesgaden acht-sieben-drei-null, Heil Hitler."

Darn it, he didn't say his name... "This is the boss speaking. Who is this?"

A small gasp at the other end. "It's Rüdiger, mein Führer. Heil Hitler!"

"Ja, ja, schon gut. Now Rüdiger, listen. We were on our way to the coast, but there has been a sudden change of plans: my staff and I are headed south for Berchtesgaden. But... what? Oh, it's me, and three others. But the problem is, that since I had not intended to go to Berchtesgaden at all, I left my house-key in Berlin."

"I see," the Rüdiger person at the other end twittered nervously. In fact, he sounded a bit like Klink.

"Now I do not want to arrive at my own home and not be able to get in. So I want you to send me the spare key by express."

"I understand, mein Führer. Where do you want it sent?"

"Address it to Colonel Konrad Mansdorf, c/o Luftstalag 13, Hamelburg, Kreis Düsseldorf. You got that?"

"Hamelburg... Kreis... Düssel... dorf. Jawohl, mein Führer."

"And send it off today! Understood?"

"Jawohl, mein Führer. I'll see to it right away."

"Good. Sieg Heil then."

"Heil Hitler!"

And Kinch pulled out the plug with a satisfied grin. "Looks like he bought it."

The good thing about guard duty was that it gave you ample time to think. To work out the wildest schemes into the most minute detail. It was the one and only reason why Karl Langenscheidt hadn't come up with a solid excuse yet to get himself excused from the military entirely.

As it was, he spent about as much time on different kinds of leave as he spent doing his guard duty, but such is the fate of a man juggling multiple careers.

And one of those careers – though not actively pursued since the outbreak of the war – was that of an actor.

Nevertheless, the war provided him with ample opportunities to work on his craft. Like today for example.

It was during dinner in the noisy guards' mess that he began to display the signs of the onset of a severe asthma attack – the shortness of breath, his breathing becoming more and more laboured and wheezy, getting all pale and sweaty, getting more and more focused on the simple act of breathing to the exclusion of everything else – in... and out... in... and out...

One of his sisters had suffered from asthma as a child, so he was well acquainted with the symptoms. And could mimic them as true to nature as he could any other human behaviour.

Private Schnüffis, sitting opposite of him, was the first to notice. "Corporal, are you alright?"

That drew the attention of Sergeant Schmidt next to him. "Karl?" He sighed. "Not another of those blasted attacks... Schnüffis, go find Schultz."

Gasping for breath, Langenscheidt rested his head in his hands. The scary thing with a charade like this was, that pretending to have trouble breathing really did make you feel like you couldn't breathe.

And there was Schultz.

One look at the wheezing Corporal was enough to understand what was going on, and gently, he forced the young man to his feet. "Come on. We better get you home."

That meant going to the Kommandant first. With Schultz practically having to hold him up, the worried Sergeant and the gasping Corporal slowly made their way over to the Kommandant's office.

"Yes, what is it!" Klink's annoyed voice sounded as Schultz knocked on the door.

Schultz opened it and gently ushered Langenscheidt inside. The Corporal immediately grabbed the back of the nearest chair to keep himself upright.

And Klink sighed. "Not again...!" He already took out a sick leave pass from his drawer and began to fill it out. "You know, Langenscheidt, you really should ask your doctor for a cure that works this time. Or better still: a preventive one. The way you've been going lately, you've been away on sick leave more than you have done your duty!"

Langenscheidt struggled for some breath to get an answer out, and instead practically collapsed in a tight coughing fit without end. So Schultz answered for him, "Herr Kommandant, he already told me before that there is no real cure for asthma. And no preventive cure either. But a prolonged stay high up in the Alps is likely to give him relief."

Klink scowled. "A long stay in the Alps would give me some much needed relief as well."

Schultz's face brightened. "Perhaps for everybody's good, we should move Stalag 13 to the Alps then?"

"Don't be silly." Klink thrusted the pass in Langenscheidt's direction, but the poor Corporal was too engrossed in his struggle for breath to react in time to catch it. So with some loud moans, Schultz bent down and picked it up for him.

"Now take him home, and you come back here straight away, you hear me, Schultz? Especially now that we have the Führer in camp, I will tolerate no detours to the Hofbrau tonight!"

Schultz saluted. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

And with that, he took the gasping and still coughing Corporal under his arm, left him in Hilda's chair for a moment to go and fetch a motorcycle from the motorpool, and after a painstaking struggle to get the poor Corporal in the side car and out of it again on the driveway of his cottage in the woods, Schultz was back at camp within ten minutes.

Taking delicious deep gulps of air, Langenscheidt listened with his front door at a crack for the sound of the motorcycle to fade out. Then he quickly hung up his overcoat, stripped off his boots and his uniform and disappeared in the cellar.

Ten minutes later, a strapping countrywoman in her middle ages stepped purposely down the lane. She carried a shopping basket and headed straight for the windmill at the junction with the road to Glückenheim. There she bought her weekly ration of flour, and as she set off towards town, the miller went up to the platform, turned the head of the mill into the quiet breeze, and let the wings turn for a few minutes as if to test the wind for its suitability.

Apparently the wind wasn't good enough for his taste, for soon he stopped the wings and fastened them in a slightly different position than they had been before: with the top wing pointing straight up to the sky. With that, any active member of Oskar Danzig's most intimate circle of associates in the Hamelburg Underground knew upon seeing the wings in this position, that he or she was expected in their headquarters that evening. (1)

Meanwhile, the middle aged lady proceeded to town, and called at Richterstraβe 18.

The door was opened by a young lady in her early thirties. She smiled as she recognized her visitor. "Hello Aunt Effi." A mutual kiss on the cheek. "Did you get the flour?"

"Yes, I did."

Aunt Effi was welcomed into the small terraced house, but as soon as the door closed behind her, she put down her basket and with it, lost much of the sturdy femininity in her features.

"What's up?" the younger lady asked.

Somehow, the elder woman's face remained the same, yet it looked quite different. But the strangest thing was that the voice answering the question was definitely not that of a female's.

And still, the younger lady didn't even blink at the incongruity before her.

The not-quite-female woman said, "We've got something big up for tonight. If we succeed, it could well be the beginning of the end of the war."

She nodded slowly. "So what are you planning?"

(S)he sighed heavily and gave the younger lady a pained look. "Please, Maryse, I don't want to involve you in this – it's too dangerous."

The mysterious visitor got an upbraiding look in return. "And you know that I prefer to have something tangible to worry about – instead of having to worry at random. Now something in your demeanor tells me that if this mission tonight goes awry, you're going to be in an awful lot of trouble – if you survive at all. So tell me at least the basics, Karl: what's going on?"

The not-quite-female Aunt Effi (or Karl?) averted her/his eyes and crossed her/his arms. And Maryse waited patiently – knowingly – till (s)he had come around to her point of view as (s)he usually did.

"Alright," Aunt Effi sighed at last, and turned back to the young lady. "We've got the bloody Führer at the camp. Of course I thought at first that it was one of Colonel Hogan's schemes, but I checked the guy out – he's legit."

Maryse looked doubtful. "Are you sure?"

The not-quite-female Aunt Effi nodded. "I've met him before, remember? At the time, I never got the chance to eliminate him. If I had, it might well have prevented this entire war. So this time I want to get it right."

Maryse's eyes widened. "You want to try and kill the Führer? Karl, that is...!"

But Aunt Effi shook her/his head. "No, not kill him. Just kidnap him and get him off to England."

She shook her head. "You're just going to kidnap the Führer and get him off to England," she repeated with a voice dripping with sarcasm.

An awkward grin was her reply. "Well, at least I've got to try..." Suddenly he found himself in Maryse's arms, and he hugged her close in return. They held each other tight for quite a while, until Maryse quietly spoke over his shoulder, "If anyone can pull that off, it's you, Karl. But I'll be scared to pieces till I hear from you again."

"I know." A gentle rubbing of her back. "If we succeed, one of the guys will come around tomorrow morning to get a message through to Papa Bear about sending a submarine."

She screwed her eyes shut for a moment. "And if you don't succeed, I'll probably never see you again."

Karl straightened, and pushed the girl in his arms away just enough to be able to look her in the eye. Fear, resignation, determination – all those things he read in there. And he knew she understood. He knew she realized what he was really planning. And he knew she supported him in this one-time opportunity to get rid of this modern day devil. Despite everything. Even if...

And he took her in his arms with all the desperate passion of a man who knows there is every chance that he might be dead at this hour tomorrow.

When he finally let go of her, he straightened his wig, picked up his basket, left the small bag of flour on the side table, and gave his girl-friend one last parting look where she stood, leaning against the wall, still trying to catch her breath after that all overwhelming kiss.

"I love you," he told her, his voice all croaky with pent-up emotion.

And with that, he turned and left.

And the moment the door fell shut behind his back, Aunt Effi was back in full glory, striding off down the street.

Well, at least on the outside.

"Here you are, Carter." Hogan handed their pseudo Hitler the tube with theatrical glue. "Can't have Hitler losing his moustache now, can we?"

Carter walked over to the mirror to apply some extra glue on his upper lip to keep the moustache in place. "I can't understand why Kinch is so attached to his," he said with a lisp as he turned back, still pressing the little thing in place. "It itches like crazy!"

Hogan grinned. "Maybe it's just the glue."

"Yeah. Maybe." Carter fingered his moustache to test its durability. "But I don't think I'll ever grow one myself. I look absolutely silly with a moustache. Or with a beard for that matter. You know, when I was..."

"How is Klink's bed?" Hogan deftly cut off one of Carter's neverending personal monologues.

"Soft. Very soft." Carter looked over to the bedroom. "I didn't sleep very well though. I think I've gotten too accustomed to thin, lumpy mattresses to appreciate such a soft one."

"Shall we switch places then tonight?" Schwarz offered. "I'll take the bed, and you can stand guard at the door."

Carter grimaced. "Given that choice, I think I do prefer the bed."

Suddenly there was a knock on the outside door, and everybody froze. "Mein Führer?" they heard Klink fawn. "Is there anything you want for the night? A cup of hot cocoa perhaps?"

With a quiet, catlike jump, Hogan disappeared into the kitchen, and Addison and Schwarz quickly positioned themselves in front of the displaced stove.

And Carter grated, "Ja! Peace and quiet is what I want. Gute Nacht, Sink!"

"Um... gute Nacht, mein Führer. Und schlafen Sie gut!"

Kruse snickered softly. "Und schlafen Sie gut… Who does he think he's talking to - a little kid?"

They listened as Klink's dancing footsteps moved away to the guest quarters where he presently slept, and Hogan came back into the room as well.

"Well done, Carter. But this only shows that we can't really leave any of the entrances to these rooms unguarded. It's vital for everybody's safety that we intercept interlopers before they have a chance to come in. So, Addison, you stand guard outside the kitchen door. Schwarz, the porch. Kruse, take up your position in Klink's office. And stay alert – it's for your own cover as well as Carter's!"

With that, Hogan climbed down into the tunnel, and the guys pushed the stove back in place.

"Well, gute Nacht then," Carter grinned.

"Ja. Und schlafen Sie gut, my little Führer," Kruse said rather scornfully.

Through the black of night moved six nearly invisible figures. Dressed in black with a dark balaclava pulled over their heads, they barely registered as shadows against the many shades of black in the woods just outside Stalag 13.

One of them however was dressed differently. He wore a long black cloak with a wide hood pulled over his head. From the others you could still see the eyes, glittering with tension and excitement. But the face of this one man was entirely wrapped in shadows.

They crouched down behind an equally dark bush, and for a long time, nothing seemed to happen as they watched the pattern of the searchlights and listened to the rustling footfalls of the patrols.

Until – finally – the cloaked man placed his gloved hand on the black-clad arm next to him.

Agile as a cat, the black shadow jumped towards the nearest treestump, opened its top, and within seconds he had disappeared inside, leaving the nocturnal scene as deserted as it had seemed before.

Soon the second one followed, and the third, until only the cloaked man was left crouching behind the bushes. But at last he, too, dashed towards the treestump in between the glaring beams from the guard towers, and disappeared underground.

He found his men exactly where he had told them to wait – a few meters down the dead-end tunnel further away from camp.

Together they stood listening intently. But all was quiet under ground, and slowly, carefully by the scant light of a few small oil lamps in the wall, the cloaked man led the party in the direction of a brighter light.

Stealthily, he peered around the corner, careful not to cast a shadow in that direction. There was Papa Bear's radio-room. The younger black sergeant – with the headphones over his ears – had apparently fallen asleep with his head on his arms. An incoming radio signal was sure to wake him up, but stealthy footsteps on the sandy tunnel floor might well escape his notice. At least he hadn't heard anything so far.

One by one, the six men crept past the bright entrance to the radio-room to the dark mouth of the tunnel beyond. Following the lead of their cloaked leader, they sneaked deeper and deeper into the camp, until finally they came to the tunnel's dead-end.

Above them was a handle. Two of the black-clad men took hold of it, and the cloaked man whispered under his breath, "Careful now. We don't know where those guards are."

Inch by inch they moved the heavy cover aside, until a hole just big enough to admit a lean-built man to climb through was visible above them.

One of the black guys peered over the rim. He looked, listened, and came down below again. "All quiet. No one in sight," he reported barely audible.

A nod from their leader, and one by one, the six men hauled themselves soundlessly up into the darkened room.

At first they stood motionless again, alert to their teeth. But all remained quiet, and with one gesture from their leader, three of the black-clad men crept with him to the bedroom, while the other two remained on watch where they stood.

For an awful moment, the bedroom door creaked like a ship in full storm. Holding their breath, the six intruders stood like statues in the black night. But the only reaction they heard was a soft murmur from the hated man in the bed inside.

Had the sound awakened him? Tense as a spring, they stood listening through the crack in the door. But the breathing in there retained its calm rhythm – he must have slept through the noise.

At least for now.

Even more cautious than before, they pushed the door open further, millimeter by millimeter. Apparently only the very first bit creaked, and after a few agonizingly slow minutes, the four of them sneaked into the darkened bedroom.

The cloaked man stayed in the back. Two of the black-clad men positioned themselves each on a side of the bed, with their hands hovering over the sleeping man's wrists, ready to immobilize him if necessary.

The third pulled a smelly cloth out of his pocket, peered at the sleeping face on the pillow to make sure of his target, and with a sudden swift motion pressed the smelly cloth over the sleeper's nose and mouth.

Eyes flew open in response to the sudden suffocating stench – but they turned upwards before realization reached them, and the body went limp.

Without a word, the duvet was pulled back.

Without a word, the three black-clad men tied their victim's hands and feet, blindfolded him and gagged him.

Without a word, the largest of the three men hauled their unconscious prisoner over his shoulder.

Without a word, the four intruders returned to the other room with their booty.

Without a word, the two men who had stood watch lowered themselves back into the hole under the stove.

Without a word, they received the limp form the others lowered down the hole.

Without a word, the other three black-clad men climbed down into the tunnel as well.

And without a word, their leader took off his cloak, handed it down to his men, and carefully inched the stove back in place. And after a final look around to make sure no clues were left, he disappeared into the bedroom and cautiously shut the door behind him.

It was Adolf Hitler in his nightgown.

Stealthily, the five black-clad men crept back towards the light of Papa Bear's radio-room. Hasso, the strong miller, carried their limp prisoner as if he were a bag of flour. They had wrapped the guy from head to toe in Oskar's black cloak, in order to make him as inconspicuous as possible in the dark of night.

As they approached the radio-room, Udo motioned the others to a halt, and went to check out the situation himself. It would make things so much easier if that radio guy was still asleep...

And fortunately, he was. One by one he gestured for his comrades to go past. They continued down the only lit passage towards the exit through the treestump. Somehow, by hook or by crook, they managed to haul their limp prisoner up the ladder without the camp guards outside noticing, and once they had all gathered behind the nearby bush where they had kept out of sight earlier that evening, they quietly set off through the night, disappearing in the black shadows of the woods around Stalag 13.

Sergeant Baker jerked upright at the insistent beeping in his headphones. Instantly awake, he reached for the morse key and glanced at his watch as he tapped the go-ahead sign. It was barely six o'clock – nearly time for roll call. But first he grabbed a pencil to jot down the incoming message.

"Stand by," he replied when the beeping ceased.

He scribbled down the decodation of the message, and scratched the back of his head with his pencil. Better let Colonel Hogan take a look at this before proceeding here, he thought.

So he opened up the trapdoor, jolted LeBeau awake who slept in the bunk above it, and made his way to the Colonel's office under a stream of muttered French curses.

A knock, a grunt, and in he went to the barely awake Colonel. "I just received this message from Little Red Ridinghood, sir." He handed him the note. "Do you think it merits an emergency evacuation by sub?"

Bleary-eyed, Hogan stared at the blue paper in his hand. Top priority. Have super VIP prisoner on our hands. Please arrange pick-up by sub with all possible speed. Little Red Ridinghood.

Hogan blinked a few times and stifled a yawn. "Well, it sure sounds urgent. I wonder who they've got? But knowing Ridinghood, this is more than the local constable. A lot more. So sure, go ahead and get them that emergency pick-up."

"Right, sir." And Baker turned to go.

Hogan rubbed the last remains of sleep out of his eyes. "That devil of a Danzig," he muttered to himself. "Who did he get his hands on this time? A super VIP prisoner? Must be a real big shot..."

Half an hour later, young Franz dropped his civilian coat on an old chair, pulled the black balaclava over his head and descended into the damp cellar of the dilapidated farm in the half overgrown clearing in the woods. Two slow taps on the door and he heard the key being placed in the lock and being turned.

Udo's eyes peered out from the narrow opening of a similar balaclava. Seeing who their visitor was, he nodded to his fellow guards inside, and stepped out in the stairwell. "And?"

"All arranged. There'll be a fishing-boat waiting for us in Altheim tonight, and we have the coordinates for the rendezvous with the sub."

Udo nodded. "Good. We better get going then. This is one boat I don't want to miss!"

The two men entered the dim cellar again, and Udo gave the two other black-clad men the thumbs-up sign.

And Franz peered at their prisoner on the cot. Blindfolded, gagged, tied and unconscious, he sure was a sorry sight. To imagine that such a miserable little creature was the cause of so much suffering and death – it was unfathomable.

One by one now, the four men went upstairs and returned dressed in full Gestapo regalia. Udo was the last to go and change. And when he returned, Karsten gave their prisoner an extra dose of chloroform for good measure, put the cloth in his pocket, and Hasso the miller lifted the miserable little creature over his shoulder. His hat fell off in the process, but Franz picked it up and followed the others up top and through the inner door into the shed where the car was parked.

Unceremoniously, the limp body was dumped on the floor of the car between the front and the back seats, and covered with a dark blanket. The house was locked, and the four men climbed into the car – Hasso in the driver's seat.

And as he started the motor, Franz whispered to Udo next to him, "Not many people can say they've had the Führer under their feet. But oh, how I'm tempted to crush him..."

Meanwhile in Klink's private quarters, the new pseudo Hitler had gotten dressed in the old one's uniform, and discovered – as he had expected following his encounter with the man the day before – it fitted him well enough to pass inspection. He quickly touched up his practically indistinguishable make-up, and applied a new layer of pomade to his dyed, naturally somewhat wavy hair.

And it was Hitler himself who looked back at him from the mirror.

For a fleeting moment, his thoughts were with his comrades. If everything had gone as planned, they might already be on their way to the coast by now. He had sufficient faith in Maryse's persuasive powers and Colonel Hogan's contacts and quick understanding to entertain well-founded hopes that the bloody Führer would be out of the country by midnight tonight.

He allowed himself a little sigh. For that still didn't mean that he himself could go home by midnight. To avoid casting suspicion on Stalag 13, and consequently on Papa Bear's operation, he'd have to wait till that stupid key would arrive, head south to Berchtesgaden as planned with his three adjutants, and then he could only pray for a moment of general lack of attention on their part to give them the slip. Only then would the Führer disappear for real.

And then he'd have to find a way to change his outfit as soon and as inconspicuous as may be, and head back to Hamelburg to resume his duties as Corporal Langenscheidt a.s.a.p. After all, he couldn't suffer from the effects of an asthma attack for more than a few days. A week at most, but that already would stretch credulity a fair bit.

He closed his eyes for a moment. A week at most. Then he'd be able to take Maryse in his arms again and reassure her that he was still in one piece.

Or else he would be dead. If he were lucky, that is...

A knock on the door, so loud as to split its wood, started him out of this dooming gloomy reverie. And the instant transformation that came over the man was almost eerie. "Ja?"

"Ihr Frühstück, mein Führer."

"Herein."

And in came Schultz, with a trolley full of breakfast aromas.

He saluted and dutifully clicked his heels together. "Guten Morgen, mein Führer. Haben Sie gut geschlafen?"

Hitler instantly boiled over. "Sie blöder Idiot! Why is everyone here so concerned about my sleeping? If you would be equally concerned about the war, we wouldn't be losing on all fronts! You especially, Sergeant – you're a disgrace to the German uniform! Now get out of here and don't let me see you again!"

A trembling Schultz brought out a shaky, "Jawohl, mein Führer," and clearly couldn't get out of the room fast enough.

And the Führer glared at the slammed shut door, and strode over to the breakfast trolley. He lifted up some of the lids. "Eggs and toast. Again? Paah!"

When Schwarz and Addison left Klink's quarters after their breakfast with the fake Führer to resume their guard posts on the porch and in the office respectively, they glanced at each other and shared a silent burst of laughter.

"He's really into it this morning, isn't he?" Schwarz said quietly. "The way he kept alternating between joviality and arrogance, and being pleasant and insufferable, and then those rants out of the blue...!"

Addison grimaced. "I really felt I could sink through the floor when he bawled me out like that. And that from our happy-go-lucky Carter!"

Schwarz snickered. "Yeah, he really had it in for you there. But I suppose he's right." He switched to German. "After all, you never know who might be overhearing us. We'd better keep up the act and stick to German all the time."

Addison agreed – in German. "Interesting though. Did you notice that because he only spoke German this morning, automatically none of us used any English either?" He grinned. "By the way, did you notice that he didn't even touch the ham and the sausages? That certainly was a first."

Schwarz had another chuckle. "If this keeps up much longer, we're going to have trouble convincing the guy that his name is Andrew J. Carter..."

Our new pseudo Führer in the meantime was raiding Klink's bookshelf in order to find something to pass the time. He could of course call in one of his adjutants for company, but unsure of their relation to the Führer, and still in the dark about his lieutenant's name, it was a safer bet to pass the hours in solitude.

He finally settled for a book with crossword puzzles. Klink had started on nearly all of them, but not finished a single one. That should keep him occupied for a while.

So he sat himself down at the table with the crosswords and a pencil, and began to complete the puzzles. He did take care to disguise his handwriting though – even if it were only capitals. After all, it wouldn't do if anyone accidentally discovered that Corporal Langenscheidt had been filling out the Kommandant's crossword puzzles...

Midday roll call for barracks 2 went pretty much as it had gone since Hitler had arrived in camp.

Two of the escapees from the tunnel had been posing as Carter and Addison around the clock since the happy charade began, as had Captain McCall for Schwarz and another escapee for Kruse. Wearing their namesakes' uniform, living in their barracks, sleeping in their bunks, and a general order to lay low and not attract unnecessary attention had fooled the guards so far.

Or... fooled?

As the men settled down in formation, Schultz pulled out his pencil and clipboard and started calling out the names of the inmates of barracks 2. "Addison."

"Here."

Schultz closed his eyes, determined not to see that this man was not Addison at all. So he simply continued, "Baker."

"Here."

"Beauchamp."

"Here."

"Carter."

"Here."

Schultz peeked at the respondent – and literally turned a blind eye. "Davis."

"Here."

"Garth."

"Here."

"Hammond."

"Here."

"Harper."

"Here."

"Colonel Hogan."

"Here, Schultz."

Schultz gave him a look that wavered between pleading and upbraiding, and sidled up to him. "Colonel Hogan, when are Carter and Addison coming back? The real Carter and Addison?"

"They'll be back any day now."

Schultz closed his eyes in horror. "Any day now? That is not good enough, Colonel Hogan! They should be here now! Today! Please, Colonel Hogan?"

"Don't worry, Schultz. They'll be back. Soon."

"But Colonel Hogan, who are these two men that say they are Carter and Addison?"

Hogan turned to look at the two men Schultz meant. "Those two? Oh, they just dropped in here out of thin air and are waiting for their flight back home."

Once more, Schultz closed his eyes. "Colonel Hogan, you know that I should report this. It is verboten for the prisoners to pretend to be anyone but themselves, and..."

"Right," Hogan cut in. "So you go tell Klink that there are two strangers in camp, impersonating Carter and Addison. What will be the first question the Kommandant will ask?"

"Um... maybe: where are Carter and Addison?"

"Right. And when it comes out that the real Carter and Addison are missing, you will be on the next train to the Russian front. Is that what you want?"

Schultz shivered with anticipatory cold. "No. Not the Russian front. Please, Colonel Hogan...!"

Hogan smirked. "That's what I thought. So just rejoice in the simple fact that you got your fifteen men and be done with it. And Schultz..." He leaned over to the big guard with an air of confidentiality. "If it's any consolation, Corporal Neuhaus of barracks 12 and Sergeant Werther of barracks 17 have impersonating prisoners as well. Have they reported it at all?"

Schultz closed his eyes, just for a change. "Colonel Hogan, I want to know nothing. Nothing!"

"Checkpoint coming up," Karsten reported from up front.

Udo took a deep breath to steel himself for the upcoming scene. Under Danzig's tuition these past years, he had certainly mastered the 'nasty Gestapo officer act'. But doing it live, in front of a possibly fatal audience, he was still more at ease with the grand master at his side to back him up whenever the need would arise.

But this time he was on his own. He was the leader to whom the other three looked up for guidance.

As it was his task today to bluff their way past any checkpoints before some overzealous officer decided to turn their vehicle inside out...

And there was the stopsign.

"Think nasty! Think arrogant!" Udo imprinted upon himself.

For starters however, it didn't seem too bad. A soldier in Wehrmacht uniform came up to the car and greeted them with a neutral, "Guten Morgen, Herr Major, Herr Leutnant. Heil Hitler!"

All four Gestapomen in the car dutifully returned the obligatory greeting, followed by the soldier asking for their papers. Hasso handed over his first. A cursory inspection, then Karsten's, then Franz's, and finally Udo handed over his own – with a bit of a glare for good measure.

"Danke, Herr Major. Alles in Ordnung." So far so good. "And where are you going?"

Udo bared his teeth. "Gestapo business is none of your business, Corporal."

The guy blinked. "Verzeihung, Herr Major... It's just that... since you are heading north, I wanted to warn you that the Autobahn between Oldenburg and Rastede has been bombed out last night."

"Good. Then we won't take that road. Now are you going to open that blasted barrier or do we have to shoot our way through?"

It was at that very moment that their prisoner on the floor apparently began to regain consciousness and let out a frightful moan.

For a second, both the four fake Gestapomen as well as the soldier outside the car were paralyzed with a mix of astonishment and fear – albeit for different reasons.

"What... what was that?" the soldier asked, with sudden suspicion evident in his voice.

It was Franz who saved the day – and who knows, maybe even their lives? – as he put his arms around his belly and bent forward with a similar moan as the one that had come from under the blanket just now. "I'm so hungry... I haven't had a bite to eat since lunch yesterday. Leutnant Hildebrandt, when can we finally stop for a good meal?"

Hasso caught on right away. "We have to be in Osnabrück before midday. I'm sure we can find you a café there."

A pitiful sigh. "Can we please drive on then now? The sooner we get there, the better – my stomach is like an empty tomb!"

Udo wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Why did I ever let Amalia talk me into taking you under my wings... You're nothing but whiny trouble, private Ganz!"

Franz looked shocked. "Private? Oh, bitte, Uncle Eduard! Amalia will be ever so upset if she hears I'm not a Corporal anymore! And just for being hungry...! You can't demote a man for being hungry, can you?"

"I can do anything I want. Now shut up!" Udo glared at the Wehrmacht soldier. "Are you going to lift that barrier or what?"

"Of course. Jawohl, Herr Major." The soldier saluted, and hurried away to open the barrier. A mutual silent Heil Hitler greeting, and on they went on the Autobahn to Osnabrück.

Nobody said a word until the checkpoint was safely out of sight around the curve of the road. Only their VIP prisoner let out another long moan. It was obvious that he was awake – or at the very least waking up from his chloroform induced slumber.

Karsten pulled the magic cloth out of his pocket and handed it to the two in the back seat. Udo gratefully accepted it, pulled back the blanket from the monster's head and pushed the nauseating cloth once more against the man's nose and mouth. Who conked out again right away.

"We'll have to be careful," Udo said quietly. "This could happen any time." He handed back the cloth and pulled the blanket back in place. And punched Franz in the shoulder. "And you were great! Another score in favour of Oskar's improvisation games! Where on earth did you get the inspiration from?"

Franz grimaced. "Easy. I really haven't eaten since yesterday."

When Hogan entered Klink's private quarters through the entrance under the stove that evening after roll call, he didn't quite get the hospitable welcome he'd gotten the day before.

No. Instead, when he popped his head up to take in the situation, he found an irate Hitler sitting at the table, with his eyes bulging. And the next moment, the guy jumped to his feet and screamed at the top of his lungs, "Speidel! Mansdorf!"

Kruse, Schwarz, and for good measure even Addison came barging into the room from three different sides, expecting a double murder to have been committed at the very least.

But all they found was their fake Hitler in an irate temper tantrum, and a wide-eyed Colonel Hogan staring at him from a hole in the floor.

Hogan turned to his nearest ally, which happened to be Addison. "What's with him?" he mouthed, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

Addison opened his mouth to answer, but their pseudo Hitler finally managed to shriek out a coherent sentence again. "What is this man doing here!"

Hogan grinned. "Just making sure you're having a good time, sir. But if you'd rather have me leave?"

"Get that Amerikaner out of my sight at once!" the fake Hitler shrieked. "And cover that treacherous hole with a millstone! Two millstones – three! No one comes into the Führer's quarters through the floor! And especially not a dirty prisoner!"

As Kruse attempted – entirely without success – to calm down their Führer, and Schwarz unobtrusively disappeared behind the door to the office to let out his irrepressible laughter, Hogan raised his eyebrows and decided he wouldn't go where he wasn't wanted.

Addison squatted down beside the hole, but before pulling the stove back in place, he chuckled, "He's been like that all day – he doesn't break character for a second! If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was the real Hitler."

Hogan raised a skeptical eyebrow. "If you ask me, we're going to have to end this game soon or he'll be spending the rest of the war in a mental home..." With that, he disappeared underground, where he vaguely heard "Hitler" screaming at one of his men to stand guard in the doorway to the kitchen instead of at the outside door, so that he could keep an eye on the stove as well.

He shook his head. Impersonating Hitler was all very well, and of course the more lifelike, the better – but did he really have to take it that far?

Just outside the small port town of Altheim, Hasso had stopped the car in the lea of a deserted barn.

The rest of the journey had been fairly uneventful – despite three more checkpoints and a long and winding detour to avoid the Autobahn north of Oldenburg. Their prisoner had shown signs of regaining consciousness two more times, but fortunately it didn't coincide with their encountering possible trouble-makers.

Night had fallen by now, and as regulations required, all was dark around them. If they could, the Nazis would probably even forbid the stars to shine in order to mislead the Allied bombers. Fortunately, their sphere of influence didn't reach quite that far, and since it was a clear night, the tiny little lightpricks provided some minimal illumination to the activities in the shadow of this barn in utmost northern Germany.

Udo, Franz and Hasso were swiftly changing into fisherman's gear, while Karsten folded their uniforms and locked them safely away in the trunk.

But then came the trickiest part: getting their prisoner out of the car and into the large gunny sack they had brought for that purpose.

"Maybe we should give him some more chloroform first," Udo hesitated. "We can't risk having him wake up before he's on the sub."

Franz grinned. "Maybe we should just use that cloth to gag him. Then he sure won't wake up."

But Udo shook his head. "That can't be very healthy. I don't think we need to make the guy lose whatever little brains he's got."

Hasso agreed. "And Oskar did indeed say we didn't exactly have to treat him with courtesy, but that physical abuse was out of the question. So no continuous chloroform exposure either."

"Alright, alright." Franz looked over to the car. "So how are we going to get him into that gunny sack?"

"Easy." Hasso took the chloroform cloth, pressed it firmly over their still sleeping prisoner's nose and mouth, and then simply picked him up from the car floor and said, "Hold up that sack. I'll just let him glide down in it."

It wasn't quite as simple as Hasso described it, with all kinds of limp limbs sticking out, but their third attempt was successful enough for them to decide that 'this would do'. They tied the gunny sack with a sixteen-fold double knot, and with mutual good luck wishes, the three would-be fishermen marched off into town – Hasso with the heavy gunny sack over his shoulder – while Karsten would take the car into town and take a room for the night as his alias Sergeant Becher, Gestapo.

None of the three fishermen had ever been in Altheim before, but as in any small port town, the harbour wasn't hard to find. And once you're in the harbour, the sailor's pub can't be more than a few steps away.

Franz pushed open the heavy wooden door of the establishment, and waves of voices, tobacco smoke and stale beer came to greet them.

Few men inside looked up as the three of them entered with their load. Franz just couldn't help staring at the unfamiliar scene, and Udo felt obliged to poke him in the ribs. "Act natural," he warned under his breath, and began to push his way toward the bar.

The barkeeper grinned when he noticed the bulky bag Hasso lowered to the ground. "So what did you catch – an octopus?"

"No, a mermaid."

The barkeeper laughed out loud. "Oh, you should speak to Jan – he'll go one better than that. Hey Jan! Come and hear this guy's tale!"

Udo let out a relieved little sigh. The password been dealt with, they knew now they were to go with a guy named Jan. Probably the elderly man who was making his towards them.

It was indeed, and after a quick round of shaking hands, Jan said, "But you boys are a bit early. The tide is only just coming in. At least another hour before we can leave port."

Udo frowned. "I hope he'll keep that long."

"He'll have to. We can't get to the boat yet." Jan looked around at their faces. "Perhaps you should get a bite to eat. We won't be back until early morning." A sudden half toothless grin lit up his weathered face. "Unless of course you have a tendency to get seasick?"

Franz gulped. "I don't know. I've never been out at sea before."

"You'll be fine," Udo assured him. "So let's get something to eat – that seemed like sound advice. Anything you recommend, Jan?"

Even while they enjoyed a sturdy potato and fish dish, Hasso kept a close eye on their precious prisoner in his gunny sack. Judging by the now occasionally moving lumps, the noise in the tavern had woken up Germany's so-called Führer. But if he did moan due to his probable splitting headache and bad case of nausea, the sound was lost in the general ruckus of the room.

A good hour later, they followed Jan to a small rowing-boat tied to the quayside. They all jumped in, and Udo helped the sturdy fisherman to row their heavy load against the tide to his ship.

The Aaltje bobbed up and down on the wash of the waves, and it proved rather tricky for our three less experienced fishermen to climb on board.

"Hey!" Udo suddenly discovered. "Don't they check what you're bringing in and out of port here?"

"They do." Jan pulled the bulky gunny sack to the forecastle and covered it with heaps of fishing nets. "They're lying in ambush just out of port. Depending on who's on duty (and that's never a secret in a town this size), we know if we're going to have to endure a thorough search or just a quick look around." He nodded encouragingly. "Hannes is on duty tonight. He hates being out at sea – he's always seasick. He'll just have a glance around, ask a question or two and then hurry back to his own ship to empty his stomach the wrong way up again."

Hasso laughed; Franz got a bit pale at this new mentioning of seasickness.

Jan brought up the anchor. "So where do we go tonight to deliver this package?"

Udo gave him the coordinates, and Jan nodded. "We'll be there within two hours."

"You know where it is then, out there in the middle of the sea?" Franz was properly impressed. "It looks just the same everywhere to me – just water."

And Jan laughed. "My boy, I know these seas like the back of my hand. If it weren't for those bloody drifting mines, I could find my way out there blindfolded."

This time it wasn't just Franz who paled. "Drifting mines?" Udo echoed bleakly.

"Don't worry. I know how to avoid them," Jan reassured them.

But his three voluntary passengers suddenly felt a lot less eager about their little nocturnal outing...

They had barely left port on the motor when a piercing beam of light caught the Aaltje.

"Here we go," Jan muttered. He turned off the motor and waited for the policeboat to come alongside.

Immediately, one officer clambered over the railing and jumped down on the deck of the Aaltje. He glared menacingly at the three strangers before fixing his eyes on Jan. "Who are these people?"

"You know that, Hannes. You ask the same question every time," Jan grumbled.

"Because you always bring different people. Now who are these men?"

Jan sighed and gestured towards his guests. "This is Gerd, this is Achim, and Markus. I'm not sure of their last names, but they're from the city, and came begging for food at my door today. So I told them they could have an equal share of the haul if they helped me on tonight's fishing trip. Like I always offer these beggars. Satisfied?"

Officer Hannes Whatever-His-Last-Name-Was looked back at the three landlubbers where they huddled together on the after deck. Especially the youngest of them seemed to have trouble keeping his balance in the rolling of the...

They all saw Hannes retching violently. And again, and again... He truly seemed to turn green in the light of his ship's beam.

"Alright. Just make sure you bring them back, too," he got out between clenched teeth. He didn't even wait for acknowledgement – he simply dashed back to his own ship and had it move away quickly.

Jan grinned. "Told you so."

It was long after lights out for the prisoners, but the lights in Klink's private quarters were still on. Not that you could discern that from the outside: all the shutters were closed, and for good measure both the black-out curtains and the ordinary ones had been drawn. No one outside could possibly tell where in the room the silently pacing Führer was.

And that was exactly the way Danzig wanted it, after the scare he'd gotten earlier this evening.

He really thought he had bought it tonight when he saw Colonel Hogan's head coming up from the tunnel under the stove. In his mind, the gun was already drawn and fired when nothing more than just the Colonel's head had been visible.

For what reason could Colonel Hogan possibly have to enter the Führer's quarters, if not to eliminate the Allies' worst enemy?

As Oskar Danzig he had worked together with the man quite a few times. As Karl Langenscheidt, he observed the man's shenanigans on a daily basis. He knew all too well what Colonel Hogan was capable of. Nothing was too big or too crazy for the man. And he sure wouldn't hesitate to lay his hands on the Führer now that he had him within reach.

Only – someone else had been there before him...

It was a factor Danzig hadn't quite counted with when he planned this charade. A grave mistake, he realized now. An inexcusable mistake. A mistake that could very well cost him his life – by mistake. He just had been so focused on the very real dangers of being unmasked by Hitler's personal staff and any other big shots who might personally know the monster, that he hadn't given much thought to the fact that someone like Colonel Hogan had his own reasons to prey on him. Not in order to denounce him as an impostor, but simply to get rid of Hitler altogether!

And Colonel Hogan was not a man to give up after a first attempt failed...

As he saw it, the only thing he could do now to save his skin from that particular direction was to denounce himself to Colonel Hogan. The reasons not to involve him in this scheme were still as valid as before, but if he'd get himself assassinated as Hitler by the Colonel, they would be moot anyway.

But how was he to contact Colonel Hogan? Now that there had already been an attempt on the Führer's life here in camp, his personal staff was likely not to leave him out of their sight for a second as long as they were in Stalag 13. Especially not in the company of the enemy.

On the other hand, they did provide some security against the Colonel's attempts. Being on the Führer's personal staff meant they were likely to be die-hard Nazis. They would protect their Führer at all cost. If they weren't secretly planning to do away with him after all, that is... That was something he had considered, yes. But now that Colonel Hogan had entered the equation, things were spinning rather out of control as far as he was concerned.

Still, although he hadn't been able to make out exactly what had happened in this room tonight (throwing a temper tantrum in order to get your guards rushing to your side unfortunately had made observation difficult), fact was that Colonel Hogan had retreated once his personal staff had come in.

He glanced at the doorway to the kitchen, where Wennemann (he had finally heard his lieutenant's name being mentioned) stood at stiff attention, keeping an eye both on the stove and on the kitchen door. He sure would order his men to stay close to him tonight. Maybe even in the bedroom. After all, if he could sneak in here and kidnap the Führer, what would stop Colonel Hogan from doing the same – or worse?

Still, if he kept his protective personal staff with him at all times to prevent getting himself killed by mistake, his only chance of denouncing himself to the Colonel lay in their recognition code. But how on earth would Adolf Hitler be able to casually drop a remark about high heels and tight girdles and disguises no longer being disguises into a public conversation with the camp's senior prisoner-of-war? And without raising suspicion with his own personal staff? And neither Maryse's code, nor that of his team, was any more suitable to fit the occasion. (1) Who came up with these silly codes anyway?

He sighed. For now, it seemed the only thing he could do was to make sure that he was never alone. And then simply stay out of Colonel Hogan's way, be as unpredictable as possible, and try and keep the man off balance that way. Simply not give the guy the chance to try again.

And of course pray that that stupid key would arrive with all possible speed, allowing him to get out of here – away from the immediate threat of being mistakenly assassinated by his unsuspecting ally...

Somehow, Jan seemed indeed able to circumnavigate any drifting mines. Or perhaps he had exaggerated the situation a bit, just to aggravate his landlubber passengers. In any case, they reached the assigned coordinates without any other mishap than Franz feeling rather queasy from the continuous rolling of the deck under his feet.

And there, just off the starboard bow, suddenly a small stocky tower rose up from the waves, growing larger and larger, until the entire top body of a submarine lay half submerged next to the little fishing-boat.

A hatch opened in the top of the little tower and a British navy officer peered out. "Hello there. I believe you have a burning hot package for us?"

Franz just stared at the guy as if he were seeing a ghost, but Hasso and Udo quickly pushed aside the nets and retrieved the gunny sack with its contents. Lumps were erratically moving back and forth in it – clearly, the monster was awake.

Jan was the one to hand it over to the Commander, who lowered it down to one of his men below him.

"I say, this is a very unusual way to transport a defector. Or even a prisoner! Who is he – is he that dangerous?"

Udo grimaced. "It's Adolf Hitler. Himself."

The Commander raised both his eyebrows. "Very funny." And disappeared back down in his mechanical whale and closed the hatch.

And Franz breathed, full of indignation, "He doesn't even believe us!"

"Don't worry, he will," Hasso soothed him. "Once they get him out of that gunny sack..."

While up top Jan and his three helpers threw out their nets to keep up their cover story, down below the surface, the British Commander and one of his sailors stood contemplating the frantically bulging gunny sack.

"Did they catch an octopus perhaps?" Sailor Lewis wondered.

Commander Bingham Carter sniffed with disdain. "I say those Jerries really are barbaric. This is no way to transport a human being. Not even a prisoner!" He turned to his subordinate. "Get him out."

Lewis knelt down and began to tug at the rope tied around the top of the sack. The knot was a complicated one, and many on top of each other. He grinned. "You think they're trying to tell us something, sir? Look at the way they tied this up!"

"Just proceed, Sailor."

In silence, Lewis worked on the many knots. But the prisoner's continuous jerking around wasn't exactly helpful. So he patted the bulge at random, saying, "Hey, calm down. We're getting you out."

Fortunately, the prisoner seemed to grasp the simple English phrase, for he instantly chose an apparently comfortable position and remained still until Lewis finally managed to pry open the gunny sack.

He peeked inside and up to his superior officer. "He's blindfolded, sir. And gagged. Handcuffed, too, I presume."

"Get him out," was all Bingham Carter said.

So Lewis carefully worked the prisoner out of the bag, and pulled off the guy's blindfold.

Frantic eyes nailed him from under a shock of tousled dark hair and above an upper lip adorned with a small black moustache.

Lewis dropped the blindfold and instinctively backed away. "Cor blimey..." he breathed. "It's Hitler in his underwear!"

News travels fast in the cramped corridors of a submarine, and before Lewis, Bingham Carter and "Hitler" were through staring at each other in disbelief, anyone who could be spared from his duties for a few seconds crowded around them to gawk at the incredible package they had picked up tonight.

"Should we notify headquarters, Commander?" their radioman ventured.

"And The Times?" a sailor suggested.

But Commander Bingham Carter shook his head. "No. We'll proceed as we always do. We can't have anyone getting wind of who we have on board – the Jerries would be after us in a flash. No. We'll just lock him in a cabin and hand him over to headquarters as soon as we are in port. Let them take care of this." He nodded to the radioman. "But do inform Papa Bear without delay that we have received the package and are proceeding to the post office with all deliberate speed."

"Aye aye, Commander."

On the cold floor, Carter suddenly came to life. He wasn't entirely sure what was going on here, but it was obvious there had been some misunderstanding. He tried to tell them that his name was Andrew J. Carter, Technical Sergeant in the United States Army Air Corps, and that he actually worked with the Papa Bear they mentioned. But all that came out through the stifling cloth in his mouth was something that sounded like, "Mm mm mhm, ng hm mm mmm."

"He's trying to tell us something," Lewis remarked in awe mixed with disgust. "Should we remove that gag as well?"

But Commander Bingham Carter shook his head. "Hitler's speeches have been analyzed as to have a hypnotic, inciting effect on people. I'd rather not risk having the entire crew come under his spell."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Just take him to the guest quarters and lock him up good and proper. With two men guarding the door. You may leave the blindfold off, but keep him tied and gagged – just to be on the safe side." He looked at his feet. "Oh, and do find a place to dispose of this filthy sack, will you?"

"Aye aye, sir." Lewis took Hitler unceremoniously under the armpits and dragged him through the narrow corridors to the guest quarters. It was more like a low closet with two narrow bunkbeds taking up most of the space, but being tied to both hands and feet, the bloody Führer wouldn't have much chance of moving around anyway. He was just as unceremoniously thrown down on the lower bunk, and with a triumphant sneer, Lewis exited the claustrophobic cabin and locked the door behind him.

The alert signal of a message coming in drew Kinch out of his borrowed copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. He put on the headphones and took the mike. "Go ahead. Over."

"This is Mama Bear to Papa Bear. Do you read me, Papa Bear? Over."

"Read you loud and clear, Mama Bear. Over."

"Just want to inform you chaps that we've received the package you sent us. We are proceeding to the post office as planned. Over."

"Thanks, Mama Bear. I will pass on the message. Over and out." Kinch put down the mike, scribbled down the message and picked up his book again. Passing on a message like that could wait a few hours – neither the Colonel, nor Ridinghood was likely to be happy to get called out of bed at one o'clock in the morning for something so routine.

Back in his little cabin-cell on the sub, Carter tried to think. Which sounds much easier than it was: his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton-wool, and on top of that, he had a splitting headache, too.

But in his present predicament, it was absolutely paramount that he'd try to remember what happened. And how he got here – on a British submarine no less! Surely these people couldn't really think he was Hitler?

He frowned as he seriously contemplated that it could well be a nightmare – that he was just dreaming. "Wake up, Andrew. Wake up!" he thought hard to himself.

But it didn't help. He remained where he was: uncomfortably lying on his side on a low bunkbed, with his hands tightly tied behind his back, his ankles tied as well, and with a foul tasting cloth in his mouth.

No. Clearly, this nightmare was for real.

He became aware that his hands felt rather numb. How long had he been tied up like this? His wrists smarted; his shoulders and elbows ached. Must have been hours then. Or days?

Once again, he tried to drag up some recent memories out of the cotton-wool. He had a fairly clear (although imageless) memory of being on a rocking boat just now. And in a very noisy room with the nauseating stench of hot food, beer and the sea. A pub at the seaside?

And the last thing he recalled before that... He frowned, and frowned even deeper. This couldn't be... The last thing he remembered before the impression of a noisy pub was... going to bed in Kommandant Klink's quarters.

Suddenly the different pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and he jerked upright as realization washed over him – only to hit his head on the bunk above him and fall back down again.

But of course, that was it! He had been impersonating Hitler to get hold of that key London wanted, and apparently some people from the Underground had thought he was the real Hitler and had kidnapped him and packed him off to London! Oh boy... what would the Colonel say?

Judging by how far it was from the camp to the coast, his disappearance had certainly been detected by now. He could easily imagine the Kommandant's panic when he'd find out that his glorious Führer had been kidnapped – right from under his nose.

But Colonel Hogan wouldn't be Colonel Hogan if he wasn't high upon his trail by now. He was probably pursuing this sub in Germany's flagship or something outrageous like that. Or else he had notified London to receive him with a hot bath and a three-pound steak, and then send him straight back to Stalag 13.

Boy, were these navy guys in for an unwelcome surprise...

Both Hogan and Little Red Ridinghood had simply acknowledged the news of the VIP prisoner having been picked up by the sub.

But now, as the shivering POW's were lined up in the early morninglight for morning roll call, everyone was in for a dubious surprise. For just as Klink came striding down the compound, hollering for Schultz's report, the door to the Kommandant's private quarters opened and out came their very own Mr. Hitler and his three helpers.

Hogan raised his eyebrows. What on earth was Carter up to now?

But some of his men couldn't resist a chuckle as they watched the four of them brushing past the Kommandant and heading straight for their formation.

"Keep a straight face," Hogan warned his men, and swiftly the message was passed on.

Klink hurried after the little group. "Mein Führer! What a pleasure to see you this morning! Haben Sie gut geschlafen?"

"Shut up, Klink," Hitler snarled.

A happy whinny was his reply. "Oh, mein Führer – you finally remember my name! Thank you, mein Führer. I am honoured! Thank you!"

There was a barely visible frown as Oskar Danzig assimilated the fact that the Führer apparently either had had trouble remembering the Kommandant's name, or else had continually corrupted it on purpose. Like so many of the visiting top brass did. Well, it wouldn't hurt to continue with that.

In the meantime, he had reached Schultz, took the clipboard from him and let his eyes wander over the names. "These are your prisoners?"

Klink deftly intervened. "Ha ha... Actually, mein Führer, they are my prisoners. I am the Kommandant; he is but a Sergeant."

Hitler thrusted the clipboard back at Schultz. "You are mistaken, Bink – they are prisoners of the Third Reich. Therefore, they are my prisoners." He looked them over. "And I will inspect them personally this morning."

Hogan raised his eyebrows at him, trying to catch his eye as to say, "Carter, what are you doing?"

But Hitler ignored him completely, and ordered his lieutenant, "Search them."

"Was?" That was an order Addison certainly hadn't expected.

"You heard me – search them!"

"Jawohl, mein Führer." Better keep up the charade for the Germans, no matter how crazy Carter was getting... So he stepped forward and gave Colonel Hogan a cursory body search. "Sorry, Colonel," he mouthed under his breath.

But Hitler wasn't exactly satisfied. "You call that a search? You nincompoop! Speidel, you do it! And be thorough about it!"

So Kruse got to give each and every one of the inmates of barracks 2 a thorough body search, and once he was through – to Danzig's relief with nothing possibly life-threatening to show his superior – Hitler began to parade slowly up and down the line, between and behind the prisoners. And although many of them felt a laugh tickling their cheeks, they couldn't help but be impressed by the menacing authority bordering on paranoia that radiated from their friend's every pore. He wasn't just pretending to be Adolf Hitler – he practically was Adolf Hitler!

When he finally reached Hogan, the Colonel mumbled from out of the corner of his mouth, "What are you doing?"

But their Hitler completely ignored him as if he hadn't heard. And perhaps he hadn't, for instead he was just about to address Schultz. "Sergeant, who is this Amerikaner."

Schultz paled. "Um... das ist... um..."

"Na?"

"Das ist... um... Colonel Hogan, mein Führer."

"He is the senior prisoner here, mein Führer," Klink cut in, happy to be of service. "The one I told you about: the witty one. Hihihi. I think you will like him."

Hitler looked Hogan over from top to toe and back. And wrinkled his nose in disdain. "Never. I hate Amerikaner. They are ignorant fools who ride around on horseback all day and eat nothing but popcorn and pommes frites. No wonder they're losing the war."

Hogan rolled his eyes. Alright, Carter, he thought. That's enough. Go back inside and don't come out until that stupid key arrives.

But the fool didn't go back inside. On the contrary: he began one of his long-winded shrieky speeches proclaiming the superiority of the German people, and after ten minutes, there was hardly a man among the prisoners who was still interested, let alone amused by his performance. All he was ventilating was plain crappy Nazi propaganda, and once again, Hogan felt the worry popping up if perhaps this prolonged charade had pushed his sergeant over the edge.

So when their pseudo Führer finally concluded his shrieking soliloquy, and was awarded by devoted applause from the real and fake Germans around him, as well as harrumphing and booing from the prisoners' side, Hogan quickly gathered his team around him as soon as roll call was dismissed. "Impressions?" he invited.

"The guy's gone nuts," was Kinch's uncommonly harsh comment. "Did you hear all that crap about other races? Sickening!"

LeBeau agreed wholeheartedly, but Newkirk cut in with glittering eyes. "That's because he simply isn't our Carter anymore. That's what you call 'method acting' – you're so into a role that you're not playing a part anymore; no, you really are that person! Only truly great actors ever fully master it. And believe me, I had no idea Carter had it in him! Blimey, I'm going to ask him if I can be his agent after the war. He's going to make me rich!"

The other three regarded him with doubt written all over their faces. "You mean the Carter we know is still in there somewhere?" LeBeau inquired. "Because if he is, I'm going to punch him in the nose as soon as he is himself again. The things he said about the French just now... C'est abominable!"

Hogan sighed. "I don't like it one bit either, but what Newkirk says coincides with what Addison said last night when I was thrown out of Mr. Hitler's quarters. Apparently Carter doesn't break character for a second anymore – he pretends he's Hitler 24/7. I don't know – maybe he thinks it's easier that way."

Newkirk beamed. "That's my man. Believe me, he's going to be a big star after the war. You guys better make sure you get his autograph while we're still stationed here – you'll never get another chance."

"Fine." Hogan crossed his arms. "But the sooner this is over, the better. It's getting creepy."

"Yeah. If that key was dispatched by express, shouldn't it be here by now?"

Hogan heaved a sigh. "Normally, yes. But in case you forgot, Kinch: there's a war on."

Carter was jerked awake out of an uncomfortable slumber when he felt someone working on the ropes around his ankles. He wanted to say something, but before he had thought of what to say, he realized he still wouldn't be able to get out anything but muffled mm-sounds.

Anyway, if they were untying his bonds, then perhaps they had finally realized who he was. Or better: who he was not. Or else they were about to go ashore in England, where Colonel Hogan sure would have raised the alarm by now and all would be well in the twinkling of an eye. Boy, he could already taste the juicy texture of a medium rare steak in his mouth...

He moaned a little as the rope around his ankles was loosened enough to allow normal circulation again. Boy, that hurt...

But the sailor who had untied him merely retreated to the door half a foot away from him, and watched him wriggle his toes and stretching his calves with a wary eye. Clearly, he had no intention of freeing him from his other bonds.

Once the worst of the pins and needles in his feet had subsided, Carter struggled to sit up in the cramped space between the bunks. Stiff and cramped as he was, with his hands still tied behind his back, it took him a few attempts to succeed, and the sailor by the door didn't lift a finger to assist him. Neither glares nor pleading puppy looks had any effect on the stoic guy, and with a sigh, Carter decided it was best to be grateful for small mercies right now: his feet were freed, and his headache was almost gone. And the moment they'd go ashore, they'd free him for sure.

He tried to stretch his back in the narrow space between the bunks, but it only resulted in his bumping his head.

And there was the long awaited knock at the door. Carter looked up, his eyes full of hope. Was it Colonel Hogan perhaps?

But no, it was that posh British Commandant. He came in, and together with the guy who had untied the rope around his ankles, he pulled their prisoner on his feet, blindfolded him again and began to lead him through the narrow corridors of the ship.

Carter tripped at every other step – especially when there were steep slippery ladders and stairs to be climbed. But in the end, his nose finally recognized the scent of fresh sea air, and a moment later, the gentle movement of the ground under his feet miraculously stopped. He was in England!

So far, things weren't exactly improving for him. A gunpoint made itself felt between his shoulderblades, and he was pulled along by his upper arms over a rough pavement. But soon he heard a heavy door being opened, and he smelled that they entered a building.

"We need to see General Hodges right away," he heard the Commander say in his posh accent. "It's urgent. Very urgent."

And Carter sighed. Very urgent indeed... When would these guys realize that he was just plain old Andrew Carter from Bullfrog, North Dakota?

The receptionist or whoever had been addressed gave no verbal answer, but apparently the General was free, for Carter was pulled along into a stuffy elevator, and once they got out, led into a room that smelled of peppermint and pipe tobacco.

He heard people saluting, and then the Commandant's explanation. "Sir, the German Underground delivered this package to us last night. A very special package if you please, sir."

Suddenly the blindfold was ripped away, and as he blinked against the bright light in the room, he heard the General's breath catch in his throat.

"Well, well, well..." was all the corpulent man said. He got up and slowly began to walk around Carter and his two captors. "A very special package indeed!"

Carter shook his head with flourish. "Mm ng hmm-m! Ng mm mm!"

The old man gave him a sharp glance. "Sorry, sir. I don't speak German."

"Ng-ng hm mmm! Mm-hm!"

The General shook his head. "Never had I thought I'd see the day that I'd look the bloody Führer in the eye..."

Once again, Carter tried to make clear that he was not the 'bloody Führer', but no one paid any attention to his limited strings of consonants.

Instead, General Hodges looked up at the Commander. "This is too big for me, Bingham Carter. I'll have him sent on to Headquarters in London right away. It's more in their line to negotiate surrender and such." He nodded. "But at least you may rest assured that you've played a vital part in bringing this war to an end. Congratulations!"

With that, three other men were called in, an armoured car was ordered, and within ten minutes of his setting foot on British soil, Carter found himself on the way to London at gunpoint of no less than three machine guns. He barely dared to breathe.

So much for his steak...

Hogan had chosen a lounging place against the wall of barracks 2 from where he could oversee most of the compound.

And it was necessary. Overseeing most of the compound meant he could keep an eye on Carter – Carter, who was making a mighty nuisance of himself today: harassing prisoners, bawling out guards and throwing a tantrum at anyone who dared to get in his way.

Hogan was worried. Sure – the guards were too petrified to do anything. But every minute out there was an extra minute in danger of exposure. On top of that, would Carter know when he was going too far? When to stop?

If only that stupid key would arrive...

Three times had he tried to address Carter himself. To talk some sense into him, to warn him not to push his luck too far.

But he hadn't gotten anywhere of course. Carter deftly avoided him, and whenever he would allow him to get near, it was always in the company of at least a handful of German guards. And with the necessity to keep up the charade in front of the Germans, he could hardly call him to order in front of such an audience. Instead, he got to swallow insults and derogatory remarks – from his Sergeant! Method acting or not, there was no need to revel so much in putting down his senior officer... But what could he do about it as long as Carter was supposed to be Hitler?

At the moment, Carter was speed-ambling across the compound with Addison in his wake. He had ditched Kruse and Schwarz a few minutes ago, with orders to go and prepare lunch, and the two had retreated to the Kommandant's quarters.

Addison of course kept up his perfect pokerface, but there was something in his manner that told Hogan he was getting heartily fed up with Carter's act.

Carter made a sudden turn and began to head towards the dog pound.

And that's when it happened: a staff car drove up to the gate, and the guards – jumpy as they were today – hurried to let the visitors in.

Hogan's heart jumped to his throat.

In the back seat of the car, flanked by two of his officers, sat Adolf Hitler...

There was no time for despair. As the car drove up to the Kommandantur, Hogan set off in a half run to intercept his own Führer, hoping against all hopes to be able to get Carter at least out of sight before the real one laid eyes on him. Things would get complicated enough with Klink to not to have to worry about their fake Führer as well...

Carter snarled at him as soon as he saw his senior officer approaching. "Da ist dieser aufdringliche Amerikaner schon wieder. Was will Seine Exzellenz denn dieses Mal?"

"Get out of sight. Quick!" Hogan hissed. He grabbed the fake Führer by the arm and pulled him along towards the dog pound.

But that was a grave mistake, considering their Führer's touchiness today. "Keep your hands off me, you dirty Amerikaner! No one – I repeat no one orders the Führer of the Third Reich around. No one, you understand?"

Hogan understood indeed. From the corner of his eye he had seen the real Führer get out of the car, with his eyes fixed on the three men near the dog pound – two in German uniform, one in American. "For God's sake, stop gassing around! It's the Führer – the real one!"

Addison took off in a flash, and Hogan felt the other man stiffen as he realized what this meant – something had gone wrong, Hitler was at liberty again, and his friends were most likely in the deepest possible trouble... In fact, the realization hit him so hard, that the odd way Colonel Hogan was addressing the Führer didn't even really register with him. For if his friends had been captured, it was now up to him to get them out. And if he were ever to have a go at that, he had only one card left to play: bluff.

His break of character lasted but half an instant. Immediately he pulled himself together and jerked his arm free. "What do you mean, 'der richtige Führer'? Ich bin der einzige Führer des Deutschen Reiches!" And with a menacing snarl he turned to face his arch-enemy and counterpart.

Hogan closed his eyes in horror, and even shuddered when he heard Carter scream at the top of his lungs, "Arrest that man! He is an impostor!" And more so when the newly arrived Führer shrieked back at him at equal volume, "No, you are the impostor! Grab him!"

It was more than enough to attract the attention of anyone out in the compound. All the guards stood gaping, Schultz came hurrying around a corner, the real Hitler's guards trained their guns on Carter, and Klink came storming out of his office – and dropped his jaw before bawling, "What is going on here?"

"Alright. If that's how you want it...?" Hogan muttered.

A fuming Carter-Hitler took off at a purposeful stride towards his counterpart, in blissful faked ignorance of the three guns aimed at his chest.

Out of a sense of duty to protect even the fools under his command, Hogan followed a few meters behind. He noticed how both Schultz and Klink looked back and forth between the two Führers as if they were watching a pingpong match, but that neither the real Hitler nor the officers he had brought with him showed any surprise. Almost as if they had expected a fake Führer to be there.

And that's when he saw it – the guard on the right was none other than Max the greengrocer...!

His eyes flew to the others. Yes, there was Schnitzer, and Hitler himself looked vaguely familiar, too, though he couldn't quite place the man. Oh my... And here they were, about to open fire on...!

Quickly he caught up with his own Führer, shook a quick, pleading 'no' at the new visitors and called out, "Kommandant, look what an honour is being paid to you today! You're the first to see the two brothers together that make for your esteemed leader Adolf Hitler!"

"What?" Klink's monocle fell out of his eye, but he caught it out of habit and put it back where it belonged. "You mean that the Führer really exists of...?"

"Of course!" Hogan smiled jovially, but managed to get in a warning glare as he glanced back at Carter for a moment. The guy still radiated pure venom. "Surely a Thousand Year Reich is more than any one man can manage by himself. Or even build by himself. So the two twin-brothers have been working on it together, yet for publicity reasons they always present themselves as one."

Klink shook his head in amazement. "They do look alike, yes..."

"Like two peas in a pot." Schultz was still watching the pingpong match.

"Must be a first, what? Of course it's a well-known fact among the Allies, but for a German to see the Hitler twins together..." He gestured towards Carter. "Kommandant, may I present Adrian Hitler..." And gesturing to the other, "And Rudolf Hitler."

Schultz nodded. "Adrian and Rudolf. AD-rian and Rud-OLF. Together they make ADOLF. Yes. Very clever."

"Yes, isn't it, Schultz?" Hogan gave him a slightly relieved grin. At least he had avoided one Underground group opening instant fire on the other...

"So you are mein Führer, too, mein Führer?" Klink stepped down off his porch and respectfully approached 'Rudolf Hitler'. "Then allow me to welcome you to our humble Stalag 13, mein other Führer. Klink is the name. Colonel Wilhelm Klink. And I am very glad to meet you. Your brother has been a most delightful guest these three days and..." He hit himself against the head. "Of course! You are here to bring him his key!"

Rudolf glared so ferociously at him, that all the little familiarity Klink in vain had tried to bring into his contact with 'Adrian' lately melted away like ice in the sun. "Quiet, Splink! This has nothing to do with you!"

For a split second, Hogan froze. That voice... No doubt about it: Rudolf Hitler was none other than his own outside man Olsen! Now what the blazes was he doing here?

Meanwhile, Rudolf-Olsen continued, "I have a bone to pick with my brother, Dink. So kindly grant us some privacy." His voice was like ice.

"Some privacy. Of course, mein other Führer. Right away, mein other Führer." Obediently, Klink backed off a few meters.

Hogan glanced back at Carter and found to his surprise that his own Hitler was still shooting daggers at the newcomer. Surely Carter, too, had recognized Olsen and their friends from the Underground? (Danzig had indeed, and although utterly relieved for his friends' sake, he was too professional an actor to let his character switch moods for no reason his audience could discern.)

Hogan hid a sigh. Apparently, Carter was really going stircrazy. But he would also like to have a hearty chat with Olsen. But to let Carter out of his sight, in this state...? Who knows what idiocies the guy was still up to?

His inspiration came from the way the two 'brothers' were still glaring at one another. Clearly, they had anything but a friendly chat in mind. So he said, "Gentlemen, since you seem to have a serious difference of opinion here, may I perhaps offer my services as an impartial mediator?"

Rudolf-Olsen switched his glare to him, and Klink huffed, "Impartial – you? Ridiculous!"

"Sure I am. I've got absolutely no interest in their affairs: I'm not German, I'm no Nazi, and I haven't been part of their war for ages. What more could they want?"

"He does have a point," Schultz agreed, and fortunately, Carter-Hitler bared his fangs and hissed, "Alright. A mediator."

Olsen-Hitler grunted his unwilling assent, too, and a moment later, the two pseudo Hitlers strode off across the compound with an American Colonel in their midst.

"What the heck do you think you're doing?" were Hogan's first words to Olsen.

The young man shrugged. "We had heard that Hitler was staying at the camp. The real Hitler, I mean. So we figured we'd come in here, posing as Hitler and his staff, and accuse the real one of impersonating the Führer and take him prisoner. And then get the hell out of here."

Hogan closed his eyes in disgust. "Of all the foolish plans I've ever heard..."

On the other side of him, Hitler frowned.

And Olsen had another shrug. "Sorry, Colonel. We just thought we'd take the opportunity to eliminate that Schweinhund now that he was practically on our doorstep. It sure would shorten the war."

"It would indeed – if it really was the Führer," Hogan conceded with a sigh. "Still..."

"Was?" the other Hitler interrupted him almost aghast. "Das war nicht der echte Führer?" (That was not the real Führer?)

Both Hogan and Olsen turned to face the third of their party open-mouthed. It was Hogan who gathered his wits the fastest. "No. That was my man Carter." He narrowed his eyes. "And since you are obviously not him, I would dearly like to know who you are then, and what you've done with my Carter."

An awkward grin appeared on this Hitler's face. "We kidnapped him and shipped him off to England."

"You what?" Hogan exclaimed, totally taken aback before throwing up his hands in desperation. "What's with you guys? Is this 'kidnap-Hitler-week' or something? Why don't you people check with me first before barging into camp and..." Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "That super important VIP prisoner – of course! But..." He looked the Hitler he had mistaken for Carter for so long carefully over. The resemblance was truly remarkable. Barely distinguishable. Which could mean only one thing. "Then you must be Oskar Danzig, the Master of Disguises – right?"

The stern Hitler features gave way to a rather embarrassed grin. "Right."

All of a sudden, Hogan collapsed in a fit of of laughter. "Good gracious!" he hiccuped. "This is priceless! So you were here, impersonating the real Hitler, while I thought I was dealing with a Carter who was going berzerk! Oh boy..."

"Um... Colonel?" Olsen-Hitler took his sort-of commanding officer by the arm to attract his attention.

"What?" Hogan had to wipe the laughing tears from his eyes before he could take a serious look at what Olsen wanted to show him.

"Look who's joining the party, Colonel," Olsen muttered.

"Uh-oh," Danzig said softly.

"Uh-oh indeed," Hogan agreed.

Through the gate came a large black staff car.

Gestapo. Hochstetter.

And behind him... Did everything have to happen at once?

"Stay here; I'll be back in a sec." With that, Hogan set off for barracks 2 in what was not quite a run, and barged in on his barracks mates like a bomb in a pond. "Newkirk, get in the tunnel and entrench yourself in Klink's quarters on the double. You're Hitler for now – just don't let anybody in."

"Right-o." Newkirk already hit the bunk to open up the trapdoor.

"And everyone else: we're having a Hitler look-alike contest. So make yourself look like the Führer as quick as you can."

The barracks erupted in an instant flurry. Over time they had gotten accustomed to the Colonel's odd inspirations and the breakneck speed with which they were to be executed. Even the two escapees that were posing as Carter and Addison were drawn along – albeit rather overwhelmed.

Hogan however didn't wait to see the result of his order. He knew he could count on them. His first priority now was... Oh dear, Hochstetter had already spotted the two Hitlers...

He hurried back to his Hitler friends as from the other side Hochstetter approached them with a twittering Klink at his side. Hogan could make out only snatches of their conversation, but he could easily fill in the gaps.

"... You see, major Hochstetter ... glorious Führer really ... two people! Two ... twin-brothers! Adrian ... Rudolf together ... Adolf. Isn't that clever?"

"It is ridiculous," Hochstetter spat. "There is only one Führer."

"Well, see for yourself." Klink gestured to the two Hitlers just as Hogan reached them again, too.

"Major Hochstetter, what a pleasant surprise! Are you here for our contest? My, you would make an expert jury for our final round. Wouldn't he, Kommandant?"

Klink looked utterly puzzled. "What? What final round?"

"In our Führer look-alike contest of course! Well, major, how do you like our two finalists?"

Hochstetter took in the two Führers with disdain and spat on the ground. "Ridiculous. They don't look anything like the Führer."

"I think they do," Klink ventured. "But... Colonel Hogan, I thought you said...? And this man definitely is the...!"

"Hey Kommandant, surely an intelligent man like you understood right away that I was only kidding. We were just testing you, to see if they really looked like the Führer. But once you know, anyone can see that this is Sergeant Carter, and this here is Sergeant Olsen."

Klink looked positively crestfallen. "Yes. Of course."

"And why are they wearing a German uniform?" Hochstetter inquired angrily. "Allied prisoners should not have access to German uniforms, Klink. Now? Where did you get them?"

Hogan grinned amiably. "From the second-hand shop in town."

"Paah!"

"We just wanted our finalists to look as real as possible, that's all. So you are not interested in judging our contest?"

"Paah!"

"Alright, suit yourself. Then perhaps you, Kommandant, would like to take a peek at the inmates of barracks 2? Just to give you an indication of the difference between the masses and the impersonating experts like these two. After all, you know best what the Führer looks like – you've been in frequent contact with him these past days."

"What? What do you mean?" Hochstetter growled.

"Didn't he tell you? The Führer has been staying at the Kommandant's quarters lately. He's still waiting for his key from Berchtesgaden to be sent here."

"But... but I thought he was the Führer who was staying in my quarters." Klink hesitantly pointed at Danzig.

"Wow! Is the resemblance so strong that you can't even tell them apart? Well, guys, I think that settles it. Seems our Carter wins yets another impersonating contest."

"Nonsense," Hochstetter grumbled. "Let me see that 'real' Führer of yours, Klink. It wouldn't surprise me at all if it turns out to be another one of Colonel Hogan's band of im-per-so-na-tors."

Hogan showed an affable smile. "Be my guest, major. I believe you will find him in the Kommandant's quarters."

Hochstetter strode away with his usual choleric steps, leaving the Kommandant to stare glumly at his two fake Führers.

"Come on, Kommandant," Hogan animated. "Why don't you come back to the barracks with us and do us the honour of judging our contest?"

Meanwhile in England, the armoured car carrying Carter at triple gunpoint had reached Allied headquarters in London. Before the car doors were opened however, Carter was blindfolded again, and then led down into a vast subterranean complex.

He felt the rush of air as people passed by their little group, and wondered if it'd be anyone he knew. Anyone who could vouch for him really being Andrew J. Carter, and not Adolf Hitler dressed in longjohns.

But nobody said anything, and after stumbling down several flights of stairs (a pretty scary experience when you're blindfolded and being held at triple gunpoint), his blindfold was removed again and he found himself in a large room.

He blinked a few times. And realized he was looking at a roomful of Allied generals, all staring at him with gloat and disgust written all over their faces.

He gulped. And again. Oh boy...

His military training told him he should come to attention for them. But how do you come to attention when your hands are tied behind your back? Still, he did the best he could, and straightened his stiff, aching body into some resemblance of military attention.

For several minutes, it seemed all the assembled generals planned to do was to have a staredown with him. He knew he had never been good at such games, and the sudden realization that apparently Colonel Hogan had not alerted London yet made him even more fidgety. What the heck was going on back at camp, that they hadn't even noticed his disappearance yet?

At last, one of the big shots opened his mouth and drawled, "Well, well, well, if it isn't our little Führer. Welcome to London, Mr. Hitler. So glad you could join us to discuss the details of Germany's surrender."

Carter's eyes bulged, and he fiercely shook his head. "Mm ng mh hm mm-ng!"

"Let him speak," somebody else said. "We cannot negotiate with a gagged man."

Helpful hands removed the soggy cloth from his mouth. He promptly erupted in a fit of coughing, but straightened himself into his present version of attention right away and croaked for all the room to hear, "Sergeant Andrew J. Carter reporting, sirs. United States Army Air Corps, serial number 750 76 79." Followed by more coughing.

Eyebrows were raised, others contracted in a frown. "Nice try, Mr. Hitler."

"That chap who brought him in on the sub was called Carter or Bingley-Carter or something like that," someone recalled. "Obviously that's where he picked up the name."

"But I am Andrew Carter – honest! Just check my... dog tags..." His voice trailed off as he realized he didn't have his dog tags on him.

One of the generals took the liberty of checking for his dog tags, and of course came to the same conclusion. "He has no dog tags." And to their VIP prisoner, "You might as well own up, you little rat. No American soldier would ever take off his dog tags, so that settles it."

"The game is up, Mr. Hitler," one of the others said. "The only smart thing for you to do now is to cooperate."

"But I'm not Hitler!" Carter protested.

"His accent really sounds almost natural," someone pointed out.

"Because it is!" Carter confirmed. "I really am Andrew J. Carter from Bullfrog, North Dakota."

One of the Brits snorted. "Bullfrog! Surely there does not exist a town anywhere on this planet that's called Bullfrog?"

"Well, there is. It's just north of Crab Apple Junction."

That didn't help much.

"Any of you Yanks ever heard of Bullfrog near Crab Apple Junction?" a sniggering British general inquired with his colleagues from across the Atlantic.

Heads were shaken in response, although one elderly general observed that the United States was a vast country, and one could hardly be expected to know every little hamlet.

"Well, it does exist. I grew up there." Carter was getting a little petulant by now. "I tell you, my name really is Andrew J. Carter. Why won't you guys believe me?"

There was a short silence before one of the generals replied, "Because our eyes tell us that you are none other than Adolf Hitler."

"I was only pretending to be Hitler, and..."

"Just like you're pretending to be Andrew J. Carter now?"

"No! I was just... He took a good breath. "Believe me, it's all a misunderstanding. Whoever kidnapped me must have thought I was the real Hitler. But I'm not. Really, I'm not!"

"The people who delivered you to us are part of a well-established resistance group in Germany. They don't usually present us with a pig in a poke."

Carter bristled visibly at being called a pig – which did little to improve his credence with the Allied officers – but chose sagely to pursue the other opening this last remark offered. "Look, guys, I'm part of the resistance work, too. That's why I was imperson..." Abruptly, he broke off the explanation he started.

"Yes?" someone prompted.

"Why were you impersonating Hitler?" someone else added.

Carter looked uncomfortable, but kept his mouth shut. If there was one thing Colonel Hogan had drilled into his men, it was the vital importance of not divulging anything to anyone regarding their operation in Stalag 13. So unless all the people present had the required security clearance, he'd have to keep his mouth shut. Even if it meant he'd be unable to convince them that he was who he said he was.

"It seems we have reached an impasse," one of the British generals commented wryly.

Carter gulped. They all looked at him with such disapproval – it was unsettling. Perhaps one last attempt to get them to see reason? "Look guys, why don't you let me take a shower? Then you'll see that my hair is really blond. Or pull off that hokey moustache – really, it's a fake."

The big shots closest to him looked at each other. And one – an American – stepped up to him and tried a fierce tug at the side of the moustache.

"Ow!" Carter yelped, and wanted to grab his upper lip – only he couldn't.

An eyebrow was raised at him. "Clearly it's not so fake after all, is it?"

"It must be the glue." Carter tried his hardest to blink his tears away. "I used quite a lot, you see, to make sure it would stick for a few days – even in bed."

"Even in bed."

The derisive tone finally snapped something in Carter. Well, folks, if you don't want to listen to reason, why not try a little foolishness then?

While Hogan took his time to diffuse the situation with Hochstetter and the two fake Führers, the men around Klink's quarters had other things to deal with. For right behind major Hochstetter's car, a messenger had arrived, who parked his motorcycle in front of the Kommandantur, hopped up on the porch and disappeared into Klink's office before anyone could stop him.

But the office was deserted (with Klink puzzling over the sudden mystery of having two fake Führers in his camp), so the messenger came out again right away and addressed the first person in sight.

"You, Sergeant, where can I find Colonel Mansdorf?"

Schultz's face took on its question-mark expression. "Mansdorf? Colonel Mansdorf, you say? I am sorry, sir – there is no Colonel Mansdorf in Stalag 13."

The messenger peered at the address on the package in his hand. "Colonel Konrad Mansdorf, c/o Luftstalag 13, Hamelburg, Kreis Düsseldorf. That is here, isn't it?"

"Yes. That is here. But I do not know anything about a Colonel Konrad Mansdorf. In fact, I know nothing!"

"Hm." The messenger looked around for a more intelligent being to give him directions to the Colonel's present whereabouts.

"Where does the package come from?" Schultz conversed in his standard friendly way.

"From Berchtesgaden." The messenger sighed. "I was told it was mighty important."

Schultz's face brightened. "From Berchtesgaden? Oh, but that must be the Führer's house-key! Oh, he will be ever so pleased. He has been staying in the Kommandant's quarters for days, waiting for that. Why don't you go right on in? The Führer himself is busy at the moment – family business, you know – but I believe some members of his staff are available. I don't recall their names, but one of them might well be this Colonel Mansdorf you were looking for."

The messenger nodded, obviously relieved that his impending dilemma was resolved. "Thank you, Sergeant. I believe I shall."

So Schultz showed the messenger the way to the Kommandant's quarters and knocked on the door for him.

Newkirk – who only just at that moment hauled himself up out of the tunnel – snarled in his best Hitler voice, "Wer da?" to win a few moments to get the stove back in place.

Unfortunately, Schultz being Schultz misinterpreted the reply for, "Herein", and with a friendly smile he opened the door and ushered the messenger in.

The man took three steps into the room before he realized something was seriously amiss.

Newkirk however, after a split second of fright, didn't miss a beat. "Hello there. Anything I can do for you?" And he pushed the stove into place over the tunnel entrance as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

In the messenger's brain, a whole handful of pressing questions popped up simultaneously. He chose one. "You are a prisoner. What are you doing here?"

"Cleaning the room." He pulled a not so white handkerchief from his pocket and began to dust off the clock on the mantelpiece. "Work detail, you know, to keep us occupied." He grimaced. "I drew the short straw this week. I'd rather work in the mess hall – there at least there is always a chance of some scraps falling off."

"But there is a hole in the floor – I saw it! Under the stove. You're making a tunnel!"

Newkirk laughed sarcastically. "Yeah, right. A tunnel into the Kommandant's quarters – just what I've always dreamed of!" He shook his head. "No, it's a recent invention: an ash-hole! You see, part of the bottom of the stove is an open grate – to allow oxygen supply for the fire, you see. But of course there's always ash falling through that grate. And instead of having the burning ash falling on your carpet, you make a hole in the ground to collect the ash. Brilliant, ain't it?" He sure thought it was a brilliant inspiration...

"Hm." The messenger looked around. "And where is the Führer?"

Newkirk shrugged. "Outside somewhere, I guess. He didn't want to be in the same room as a lowly POW, I believe. Shall I get him for you?"

"No, no." The messenger finally seemed to give some credence to Newkirk's tales. "Actually it is a Colonel Mansdorf I am looking for. The Sergeant outside said I might find him here."

"Colonel Mansdorf?" Newkirk thanked his lucky star that he had been the one making that phone call to the Führer's residence. "I'm sure he's around somewhere. Let me call him for you." And he hollered, "Colonel Mansdorf!"

There was some clattering in the adjacent kitchen, and the next moment Schwarz stuck in his head. "Was ist los?"

The messenger stepped forward. "I have a package for you, sir. From Berchtesgaden. Sign here, please."

"Ah! Yes, I've been waiting for that." Schwarz came into the room and accepted the man's pencil to scribble something illegible on the form he held out. The precious package changed hands, and the messenger saluted and turned to go.

Newkirk winked back at Schwarz. "Mission accomplished," he mouthed.

Schwarz paled a little and held up his hand. "Not quite."

Outside on the porch, they heard the snarling voice of major Hochstetter brushing off Schultz, and when the door opened to let out the messenger...

Well, folks, if you don't want to listen to reason, why not try a little foolishness then?

Carter narrowed his eyes, screwed his face a little, and even though he was still in longjohns with his hands tied behind his back, he found he had no trouble at all to slip into his Hitler-mode in front of this bunch of imbeciles who didn't even believe their own men.

"Ihr Idioter!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. Only to continue – in German of course – "Alright, so I am Adolf Hitler. The great Adolf Hitler! But if you think you can talk me into this silly peace conference, you've got another thing coming, pal! I will not – you hear me? – not surrender. Ever! Germany is mine, and soon the whole world will be! My Thousand Year Reich will span across the earth until kingdom comes!"

He started pacing his angry Hitler walk, giving a mad glare to every other man in the room, and was highly amused to see several of his stubborn antagonists back away. One even reached for his gun – gee, what was he going to do to them with his hands still tied behind his back? Spit on them perhaps?

But suddenly he came to a halt. A familiar face among the mass of big shots: the guy who had been at the camp a while back – and knew all about their operation!

A split second decision was necessary: should he appeal to the man as Sergeant Carter or as Adolf Hitler?

His lack of success in convincing anyone today that he was Andrew Carter clearly tipped the scales in favour of a continued Hitler act. Though it was kind of ironic that High Command would rather believe their arch-enemy than one of their own men...

All this went through his mind in less than a second. Then he pointed his chin at the stocky balding man and snarled, "I will talk to this man only. In private."

Eyebrows were raised, gasps were heard – and his old pal the general stared at him impassively.

Carter felt a chill go down his spine. What if the guy didn't remember him? But then again, surely he would remember his visit to Stalag 13, wouldn't he?

There was a lot of talk back and forth around him as he stood there nailing 'his' general with his eyes. But in the end, it was reluctantly agreed to leave the general alone with Adolf Hitler – at gunpoint.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Carter relaxed and let go of his Hitler charade. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him they were indeed alone – barring any bugs of course. Would the Allies bug their own conference room, just for a situation like this?

To be on the safe side, he leaned forward to his interlocutor till the gun was mere inches away from his face and whispered, "I don't remember your name, sir, but I do know that you've visited Stalag 13."

There was no reaction, and Carter realized he needed to provide more for the general to believe him. "You were brought in as a POW – a corporal, I believe, and assigned to barracks 2. I found your cigarettes, but you got mad at me for even picking up the package and you refused to share them. Colonel Hogan then decided to have Klink transfer you to another camp because he didn't think you'd be the kind of man he needed to help protect our operation. But in the pack of cigarettes was a radar device that needed to go on top of one of the guard towers, to help the bombers find some underground factory."

The general seemed to thaw a little. "Tell me more."

Carter looked around. "Are you sure there are no bugs here? Listening devices, I mean?"

"No bugs. So tell me more. Who is your commanding officer?"

"Colonel Robert E. Hogan, sir."

"What is the name of your communications expert?"

"That's Kinch. I mean Sergeant Kinchloe."

"What is your codename on the BBC?"

"On the BBC? Um... oh yeah, 'unsung heroes'."

"And for the radio?"

"Papa Bear. And London is Goldilocks, and the sub is Mama Bear."

"What are your orders?"

"Never to escape. And to harass and um... obstruct the enemy in any way we can."

And finally, there was the long awaited smile. "You're one of Hogan's men. And this is all some scheme of his."

"Yes, sir. I mean no, sir." Carter thought for a moment. "Not really. Not my being kidnapped and taken to England. All I had to do was impersonate the Führer for a few days."

"Oh, was that all?" The general chuckled, and put down his gun.

"Yeah. And that's why I put so much glue on that moustache – it wouldn't do to have Hitler lose his moustache after a day or so, would it?" Carter frowned. "I hope I will get it off somehow..."

"I'm sure we can manage that. And where are your dog tags?"

"Back at Stalag 13, down in the tunnel. It'd be a dead giveaway to have Hitler wear American dog tags, wouldn't it?"

A friendly grin. "It would indeed. So why don't you tell me the whole story?"

Carter grinned. "With pleasure, sir. But..." He turned his back to his new-found ally. "Could you perhaps untie my hands first? I don't know how long it's been, but it hurts like hell!"

Newkirk dove for the nearest door – it happened to be the bathroom. He already heard Hochstetter stomping into the hall. Blimey! And he was supposed to be the Führer!

Desperate situations ask for desperate measures: he turned on the tap and let the water patter down noisily into the bath tub. Then he reached back to turn the lock on the door and...

Bloody charming, it was broken!

"Where is that Führer!" Hochstetter growled.

Almost trembling with nerves, Schwarz came to attention – only to discover that he was still holding the package he had just received. Quickly, he put it away in one of his pockets and came to attention properly this time.

"Na?"

"Um... I believe he is taking a bath, Herr Major." Suddenly he recalled that as Colonel Mansdorf, he was supposed to outrank Hochstetter. Still, all of a sudden he could imagine how the Kommandant felt whenever the major was in camp – being the superior officer was one thing, defying Hochstetter quite another...

But Newkirk was in there – and the lock hadn't been turned!

And there was Schultz, too. "Major Hochstetter, you cannot simply barge into the Führer's quarters. That is not nice, you know."

"I am not known for being nice." Hochstetter reached for the bathroom door, and suddenly Schwarz rediscovered the use of his legs and jumped in front of the door.

"Verzeihung, Herr Major, but I cannot let you go in there."

"And why not, huh?"

"Because... the Führer is taking a bath."

Schultz frowned. "I thought he – they – were outside?" he muttered to himself. "Oh well. As always, I prefer to know nothing..."

"So what?" Hochstetter snarled through Schultz's little reverie. He tried to shove Schwarz aside. "Get out of my way!"

Schultz deftly joined the blockade – clearly, there is some truth in the notion that strength can be found in numbers, and the poor colonel looked like he could do with some help. "But Herr Major, it would not be proper," he pointed out. "Imagine – seeing the Führer in his birthday suit..."

"I know what that looks like. Now get out of my way!"

That surely aroused Schultz's curiosity. "Why – have you seen the Führer in his birthday suit before?"

"Of course not. Don't be foolish. But I know as well as you do what a man's body looks like." Once again, Hochstetter tried to push his way past them, but neither man – each for his own reasons – was willing to budge.

"But why do you need to see him so urgently?" Schwarz ventured between fear and duty. "I'm on the Führer's personal staff. So if it's a message you..."

Hochstetter silenced him with a glowering glare. "No stupid message. I just want to make sure that he is the Führer. With all those bogus Führers running around outside..."

Schultz's face lit up. "Oh, you mean Adrian and Rudolf?" He frowned. "But I'm not sure which of them is in the bath tub at the moment. I thought they were both outside?" And his face brightened again. "Maybe they are triplets then?"

Just as Hochstetter was getting ready to explode, the fosset in te bathroom was turned off, and they all heard a voice that was unmistakably Hitler's say, "Oh, for Pete's sake, let the guy come in. He's only doing his duty insuring my safety."

Too surprised at this development to stand their ground, both Schwarz and Schultz were now easily pushed aside and Hochstetter barged into the bathroom. Into a thick cloud of hot steam.

Schultz and Schwarz, too, peered around the corner – anxious each for their own reason.

Hochstetter coughed uncomfortably. He tried to wave away some of the steam, and half touched his way to the bath tub.

And there was his Führer – mostly submerged under a frothy layer of soap bubbles, and with his face completely covered in some kind of beauty-mask with a strong smell of peppermint.

Hochstetter peered at him through the wallowing steam. "Is it really you, mein Führer?"

"No. It's Hermann Göring." A cackle of a laugh. "Who do you think it is? Of course it's me. But who are you?"

Hochstetter clicked his heels together and stretched his arm in a proud Heil Hitler greeting. "Major Wolfgang Amadeus Moza... I mean, Hochstetter. At your service, mein Führer."

"Hm." Beady eyes peered at him through the slits of the supposedly nourishing facial cream. "Gestapo, I see." Hitler tilted his head. "Are you related to that horribly squeaky composer by any chance?"

Hochstetter turned beet red. "Nein, mein Führer. An unfortunate choice of names. My mother hoped I would grow up into something decent with names like that."

"I see. And did you?"

Another proud Hitler greeting. "I am your most loyal subject, mein Führer."

"That's what they all say." Hitler sniffed with disdain. "Well, at least you've established it's me. So you better get on with whatever you were investigating." A hand emerged from the white froth and waved the visitors away, sending soap bubbles flying in their direction.

Hochstetter retreated backwards as ordered, and he was already at the door when he remembered. "Mein Führer, would you like me to shoot those two impostors outside?"

Two eyebrows were raised – it was clearly visible, even under the beauty-mask. "What impostors?"

"He means your brothers, mein Führer. Adrian and Rudolf," Schultz explained before Hochstetter had even opened his mouth.

"Not brothers – impostors!" Hochstetter spat with a murderous look at Schultz. Fortunately for the latter, the rolling steam took out much of its sting.

Hitler studiously lifted a foot out of the water and asked with that typical nasty pleasantness of the Führer, "Do you mean there are people out there impersonating me – the glorious Führer?"

"Jawohl, mein Führer."

"Nein, mein Führer – they are your triplet brothers Adrian and Rudolf," Schultz corrected, which got him a bellowed, "Shut up, Schultz!" from Hochstetter.

But, "Nein. Let them be," the Führer said in a bored singsong tone. "It is good for my ego when people impersonate me. It means that I'm really important, nicht wahr? Aber jetzt raus mit euch. I prefer to enjoy my bath in solitude."

Even Hochstetter felt obliged to comply with such an order from this source, and with a lot of bowing, greeting, heel-clicking and a final angry glare at Schultz he marched outside. And sneezed from the dust after the damp environment he'd just left.

"Gesundheit!" Schultz called after him.

He didn't get a reply.

Things finally began to calm down a little.

The messenger had left.

Hochstetter didn't want to admit it, but in all the consternation he had forgotten what he'd come for. And after pacing a circular trench in a corner of the compound under the watchful eye of a whole bunch of poor Hitler look-alikes from barracks 2, he gave up trying to recall his errand for now and returned to town with multiple snarled warnings at everyone's address.

Klink had followed Hogan and the two Hitlers back to the barracks, and had accepted the honour of judging their look-alike contest. After much deliberation, he proclaimed 'Carter' indeed as the winner, "because he really looks just like the real Führer." Olsen came in second, and to everyone's surprise Kinch in third. ("It's the moustache," Klink explained.)

As soon as Klink had left, Hogan and Danzig dove as the blazes into the tunnel in order to get Hitler back in Klink's quarters and relieve Newkirk from his audio post.

They didn't exactly find what they expected.

"What happened here?" Hogan asked with eyebrows raised as he found Newkirk in his underwear, trying to wipe some kind of white paste off his face.

Newkirk sneezed. "Well, you see, sir, that messenger who brought the keys from Berchtesgaden messed up the schedule a bit." He went on to relate what happened. "My first thought was a mud bath, but of course there was no mud in the bathroom. So I used Klink's toothpaste instead."

Hogan snickered. "Sure. Keep those pores fresh!"

But Newkirk scowled. "Yeah, you can laugh all you want, but this stuff is stickier than you think."

"Come back to the barracks; we'll get it off. Where is your uniform?"

"In the laundry hamper." Newkirk went to fetch it, and returned with his nose all wrinkled. "I think I'll volunteer for laundry detail tomorrow, Colonel." And he disappeared into the tunnel, muttering about toothpaste in his ears and up his nose and on his eyelashes...

Hogan grinned, and turned to Schwarz and Kruse. "So where is that key? And where is Addison by the way? I haven't seen him for ages."

"Here, Colonel." Addison appeared in the doorway to the porch.

"Where on earth have you been?"

Addison came in. "When you told us to get out of sight because the real Hitler was here, I hid in one of the doghouses." He looked down at his not so clean uniform. "Maybe it wasn't the best idea..."

"Well, at least you managed to stay out of trouble. So Schwarz, where is that key?"

Schwarz pulled the brown padded envelope from his pocket and handed it to Hogan, who pocketed the three keys on a ring and handed back the envelope. "Keep it, in case you need to show Klink that your package has arrived. Now I want you guys to get ready to move out within ten minutes. Kruse, you're the one who's going to inform Klink. He'll probably want to say goodbye to the real Führer, but keep it short and get out of here. You're going to have a three men escort from the other Underground group as well, but never mind that – you just leave the car in the shed as instructed. Remember where it was?"

Three out of four of his audience nodded.

"And don't forget to change back the licence plates. Then wait till it gets dark and head back to camp through the emergency tunnel, where you'll change places with your stand-ins again. Everything clear?"

Four nods.

And a suddenly stern Hogan turned to their Hitler. "And you're coming back to camp, too! I want to have a word with you!"

With that, he disappeared into the tunnel, and together, the four men pushed the stove back into place.

Kruse glanced at the man he still believed to be Carter in Hitlerform. "That doesn't sound promising, mate," he breathed. "What the heck did you do?"

Danzig had a little shrug. "I just kidnapped your Hitler and took his place."

The moment Hogan passed through the radioroom on his way back to the barracks, Kinch called for his attention. "Colonel, London wants to talk to you."

With a sigh, Hogan took the mike. "Papa Bear here. Go ahead, Goldilocks."

"Hello Papa Bear, this is Pop."

A small grin appeared on Hogan's face. "Hello Pop. Anything we can do for you?"

"Actually, I have some good news for you. Someone has brought in a package of yours to our lost-and-found department. I suppose you'd like it back?"

Hogan chuckled with relief. This was good news indeed – even though he saw from the corner of his eye that Kinch looked mildly puzzled. "Yes, I've been looking all over the place for that thing! How soon can you get it here?"

"0200 hours tonight, Q10."

"Roger. Thanks, Pop."

"Oh, and by the way, did you manage to get hold of that little item Goldilocks asked for?"

"I've got it right here. You want to pick that up at the same time?"

"Yes, I would. Very much so."

"I've got five other packages that really need to go out as well. Could you carry those, too?"

"No problem, Papa Bear. Have them stand by and ready, and we'll take those along, too."

"Great. Thanks, Pop. And make sure you look after that package of mine, will you? I would prefer to get it back in one piece."

A chuckle. "I will. Don't worry, it's none the worse for wear. Over and out."

Kinch wasn't one to press his commanding officer for explanations, so he left the puzzle of the misplaced 'package' for what it was when Hogan put down the mike and told him that Hitler and Co were moving out in a few minutes. "When they get back, get Danzig to dress in Carter's clothes for now and have him report to me at once, okay?"

"Roger, Colonel." Only to be followed by a double-take. "Danzig? What's he got to do with it?"

Hogan grimaced. "Believe me – everything!"

By the time dusk set in and Olsen left in civilian clothes through the emergency exit, Kinch had pretty much figured out the equation of the Colonel's words, the misplaced package London had found, Ridinghood's VIP prisoner and Danzig having to dress in Carter's clothes. And he just couldn't help chuckling in amazement that apparently, nobody had noticed that 'Hitler' had been exchanged halfway through.

So when the illustrious quartet emerged from the emergency tunnel – a little breathless in the excitement of having brought their first real big assignment to a satisfactory conclusion – and Kruse pushed their Hitler forward, saying, "Kinch, you'll never guess who this isn't," Kinch kept his face placid and replied wryly that it sure wasn't Carter.

Schwarz's jaw dropped. "You knew?"

Kinch grinned. "Since an hour or so, yes." He fixed his gaze on Danzig, just to see whether or not he would be able to tell the difference, now that he knew. But all he saw was an utterly calm Adolf Hitler. Which was a clear contradiction in terms in itself of course.

He smiled. "Welcome to our tunnels, Mr. Danzig."

"Thank you." A momentary hesitation. "Where is Colonel Hogan? He said he wanted to see me."

"He's up top. But he said you'd have to change into Carter's clothes first. And you guys better get changed as well. Or... wait a minute..." Kinch's eyes got a mischievous gleam. "Why not change you into Carter for real? You think you can do that?"

Danzig nodded obligingly. "If you have a picture of him?" No way the Karl Langenscheidt in him was going to admit he knew exactly what Carter looked like...

While Kinch rummaged through their filed fake papers, the four men changed their clothes and then watched how the Master of Disguises studied Carter's picture for a moment, and then, with only a few carefully placed lines and strokes of the available make-up transformed himself from Hitler into Carter in a matter of seconds.

"Holy cow," Kinch breathed as he studied the perfect likeness. "That's amazing!"

But then again, if Carter didn't even need make-up to change his face from Carter's to Hitler's, it stood to reason that it wouldn't require much change in Hitler's face to transform it into Carter's.

Once they were over their awe, Schwarz and Kruse reluctantly obeyed Kinch's order to return to their own barracks – they sure would have liked to see the reaction of barracks 2 to this Carter. A final jovial farewell to Danzig, and once the two men had disappeared down one of the tunnels leading further into camp, Kinch lowered the trapdoor and whispered, "Show time!"

He jumped up the ladder with Addison and Danzig in his wake. "Look who's back, guys!" he announced.

And immediately, 'Carter' and Addison were surrounded by their friends, who flooded them with questions without giving them a chance to reply.

From across the room, Kinch watched with picture perfect innocence how the Colonel's face started to darken in a frown, and then, as the penny worked its way through the system, let the hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. But he kept his voice uncommonly stern as he called out over the excitement, "Carter! I want to see you in my office – right now!"

Kinch and Addison chuckled as 'Carter' gave his friends a perfect Carterish puppy-dog look before slowly making his way across the room to where the Colonel held the door to his office.

Silence had fallen over the barracks. "Now why is he so mad?" Newkirk hissed. "He pulled it off brilliantly, didn't he?"

Kinch and Addison exchanged a knowing glance, and Kinch said evenly, "I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

Meanwhile in the office, a still stern Hogan had offered Danzig the chair and leaned onto his desk himself. "Alright, I want to hear the whole story."

And Danzig told the whole story – the edited version. For it wouldn't do to let Colonel Hogan in on him being Langenscheidt, so he fabricated an – in his case – believable situation of having heard about Hitler being in camp, and him impersonating one of the guards to check him out up close.

He went on to relate briefly about the kidnapping, with him taking what he believed to be the real Hitler's place, and his people taking 'Hitler' to the submarine.

Hogan watched him carefully as he listened. It really was the oddest sensation to have Carter sitting in front of him – only it wasn't Carter. The eyes – observant, with a tinge of sadness – held the kind of quiet authority that inspired people to trust and loyalty. The voice was different, the narrative style ordered and concise. And on top of that, he spoke German. With a distinct Berlin accent to boot.

And when Danzig finally fell silent, Hogan had but one question for him. "Why didn't you tell me what you were up to? Here in camp no less?"

Danzig held his eye. "I did consider it, yes. And my first thought indeed was to do it together. But when I thought things through, I realized that whether or not we'd succeed in the kidnapping, I couldn't risk getting you killed over it."

Hogan frowned. "What do you mean?"

Danzig averted his eyes for a moment. "Colonel Hogan, presuming that it was the real Hitler we were to kidnap – and I told you that even though I've met the man before, in our personal encounter a few days ago your man Carter fooled the Master of Disguises into conviction that he was the real one – the moment I would have been found out, I would be as good as dead. The people who transported Hitler to the coast would have run the same risk in that case.

"But when it comes to the point, we are but a handful of people. It was a calculated risk each of us considered well worth taking in this case.

"But had we involved you in this and things had gone wrong, there is every chance that they would have noticed the connection between us and they would have shot you as well as us – and possibly every prisoner in this camp. I could not allow that to happen. In fact, our plan was to let me as Hitler disappear for real, long after I'd have left Stalag 13, thus shifting away the blame from the camp as much as possible.

"So that's why I decided not to involve you – even if it concerned your home base. If there was no connection between us, there was nothing for them to trace back to you in case it would go wrong."

Hogan smiled. "I see the merits of your reasoning, yes. But still, next time you want to pull a stunt like that here in camp, do me a favour and at least check with me if it really isn't some scheme by Hogan's Heroes, will you?"

"I will." A sigh. "Believe me, I will."

"For you may be the Master of Disguises, but believe me, you're not the only one who can make for a believable Hitler."

The Master of Disguises grinned on the wrong side of his mouth. "Boy, have I learned that..."

"Good." Hogan returned the grin in a much more genuine manner, and let his hand come down on Danzig's slender shoulder. "And seeing that I got word that Carter is safe and sound in London indeed, may I hereby congratulate you with your perfect scheme to get the Führer out of the way?"

Danzig frowned. "But you said it wasn't the Führer – was it?"

"That doesn't detract from the fact that this whole thing was perfectly planned. And executed. Had it been the real Führer, you would have gone down into history as the guy who single-handedly turned the tables of the war." He grinned. "If the opportunity with the real Hitler arises one day, I'll know who to turn to."

That finally got a chuckle out of Danzig. "Thank you, Colonel Hogan."

"Good. Now what are we going to do with you tonight? You think you could stay a few more hours and give Schultz a break at roll call? Carter isn't due back until after midnight, so..."

Danzig grimaced. "It's the least I could do after all the trouble I caused you."

"That's water under the bridge as far as I'm concerned. Now what do you say we go and introduce Oskar Danzig to barracks 2, and let them have a good laugh at the real Carter's fate?"

Once the astonishment had run out, the hilarity had ebbed away, LeBeau had vented his anger over this morning's speech, and the awe over their famous guest had settled down a bit, Newkirk sat down Danzig at the table to teach him how to play gin.

"You can't properly impersonate our Carter without knowing how to play gin," he said.

"Just make sure you don't play for money. Or anything," LeBeau warned their guest as he poured him a cup of coffee. "He cheats like the devil!"

"Not on a beginner – there's no sport in that," Newkirk scoffed. "Besides, I need to talk to him." And to Danzig, "Ever thought of going to London after the war, mate? Perform in West End? I'm in the performing arts myself, too, you know. Believe me, you'd be a big star!"

Danzig grimaced. "I will have to improve my English first. A lot."

"Well, we've got all night to work on that. You know any Shakespeare?"

Danzig nodded. "In German, yes."

That opened up a whole new perspective for Newkirk, and soon the cards lay forgotten on the table and the two new-found brothers-in-arts began to stage a bilingual performance of a wide array of Shakespearean scenes around the stove.

Just when Newkirk was yelling for a horse ("My kingdom for a horse!"), Schultz lumbered in. "What what what – what horse? Newkirk – " Suddenly his face brightened. "Carter! You're back! And Addison, too!"

Hogan's eyes had flitted to Schultz for just a split second. But when they found Danzig again... they found Carter instead. With his hands shoved into his pockets as usual, a gamely smile on his face, and his eyes with their standard trusting expression. He even said, "Hi Schultz!" in a perfect Carter tone – a phrase so simple that there was little chance for it tripping him up for his accent.

"Where have you been... No." Schultz closed his eyes and turned his head aside. "Do not tell me. I do not want to know – I will just be happy that you two are back." He looked around. "And nobody else missing tonight?"

Hogan put down his coffee cup. "Nope. We're all here, Schultz. Happy now?"

A big smile. "Yes. Very happy. Now if you all come outside, I can make a report to the Kommandant. Without having to lie for a change!"

Kinch unobtrusively pulled Danzig along, to make sure he'd stand in Carter's usual place next to him in the line.

A beaming Schultz went through the list of names, and happily counted all fifteen men on his list as being present. But since there was no sign of Klink yet to report the happy news, Schultz sidled up to Hogan and whispered, "Colonel Hogan, I've been meaning to ask you. What is the name of the third Hitler brother?"

Hogan frowned. "The third one?"

"Yes, the one in the bath tub, remember? You were outside with Adrian and Rudolf and the Kommandant, and there was another Hitler brother in the Kommandant's quarters taking a bath."

Hogan had caught on as soon as Schultz mentioned the bath tub. "Oh, that one! That must be the black sheep of the family."

Schultz looked doubtful. "The black sheep?"

"Yeah." Confidentially, Hogan leaned over to him. "The third identical one of the twins. His name is Winnie, and rumour has it that he is the illegitimate son of Mrs. Hitler and Winston Churchill."

It took a moment for Schultz to process that – ending with him glaring at Hogan and muttering, "Jolly joker..."

But there was Klink. A rather grumpy Klink, who received Schultz's report without comment and turned right away to march on to the other barracks for their reports.

"Kommandant!" Hogan called out. "Is it true that your Mr. Hitler has found his key and has moved on to Berchtesgaden?"

Klink came to a halt. "He's not my Mr. Hitler, Colonel Hogan. And yes, the key has arrived, so he has left."

"I bet you were really sorry to see him go," Hogan sympathized.

But Klink let out a long-suffering sigh. "Believe me, Colonel Hogan – I've seen enough Hitlers today to last me a lifetime..."

Newkirk raised his eyebrows. "And he didn't even get to see me...!"

It was approaching 3 a.m. when the trapdoor in barracks 2 opened up to allow an excited Carter – in a brandnew uniform – to jump over the bunk's sideboard. He carried a big duffel bag over his shoulder. "Hi guys, I'm back," he said quietly, while Hogan and LeBeau climbed out of the tunnel as well.

Apparently, most of his mates had stayed awake to welcome him home, for immediately, from nearly all the bunkbeds the men jumped down to welcome their friend. Carter shook hands, was patted on the back, inundated with questions... and that's when he saw it. Slowly emerging from his own bunk was... he himself.

He blinked two times, and then looked questioningly back at Hogan. "You got a replacement in for me that quickly, Colonel? Gee..."

Hogan grinned. "Carter, may I introduce your kidnapper and co-Hitler – Oskar Danzig."

Carter's jaw instantly dropped. "Oskar... who?"

"Oskar Danzig, remember?" Newkirk ruffled Carter's hair. "The Master of Disguises and all that. Your Hitler impersonation was so convincing that it fooled even him, so he decided to kidnap you and take your place as Hitler. We never knew the difference until only a few hours ago!"

"Gee..." Carter was clearly at a loss for words. "I suppose I should be honoured, shouldn't I? I mean, if even the Master of Disguises didn't see through it...?"

Danzig took a step forward. "I am really sorry for what happened. I hope they did not treat you too badly?"

"Nah, don't worry about it. In fact, once I finally got it through to them that I wasn't Hitler, I had a pretty good time." His voice went up a few notches in enthusiasm. "The Pop general gave me a pass for a few hours, and I went to the stores and brought back some goodies for you guys. Look!" He opened the duffel bag, and began to unload three bags of potato chips, a bag of marshmellows, a packet of cold pork pies, a bag full of mini sausage rolls, three large bottles of cider, two bags of salted peanuts, a pound of cheese, three packs of crackers, a box of chocolates ("That's for Schultz.") and a large bag of vanilla fudge. "I thought we could have a slumber party!" he beamed.

The men laughed and snickered; Hogan instead closed his eyes and shuddered in mock horror. "Are we back in the boy-scouts now?" But his warm grin muted the reproach of it completely. After all, how many men would have gone out of their way to organize something fun for their buddies when given the chance of a few hours in London before being dumped right back in this rotten prison-camp? He knew himself well enough to know that – had he been in Carter's shoes – he would have spent those hours in a totally different manner.

And Carter grinned from ear to ear. "I got you guys some presents, too. Look, LeBeau, I got a whole bunch of herbs and spices for you. And a novel for you, Kinch – I hope you don't know it yet. And a new deck of cards for Newkirk – at least we can rest assured for a few days that he hasn't marked the cards yet."

"Don't bet on it." Newkirk grinned.

"And a bunch of assorted magazines for everyone, and for you, Colonel..." Carter groped deep down in his bag. "A plate stating the rules in this camp!"

They all crowded around as Hogan read out loud, "Rule number one: I am the Boss. Figures," he commented before continuing, "Rule number two: The Boss is always right."

"He'd sure like to," Newkirk chuckled.

"And rule number three: In the unlikely event that the Boss is wrong, rule number two will automatically come into force."

Sniggers all around, and Kinch asked innocently, "Hey Carter, are you sure you had the right Colonel in mind? It sounds like one of those self-help courses in self-esteem for the Kommandant."

A general eruption of laughter drowned out Carter's answer – and suddenly the door barged open and Schultz came in. "What is going on here? It is long after lights out, so you should all be in bed and... Mmm!" His eye fell on the food displayed on the table. "Yummy, this looks gooood!" he cheered. "Potato chips and cheese and peanuts and... Wait a minute, where does this come from? Colonel Hogan?"

But Carter blocked his way. "Hi Schultz. Good to see you again!"

Schultz paled as he descried that there was another Carter right behind the Carter who had just addressed him. "Colonel Hogan...!" he moaned. "Please don't tell me that Carter exists of triple twins as well?"

"No Schultz, don't worry. There's only two of them: Andrew and John. His mother was a decent lady – she never slept with Winston Churchill."

"What?" was Carter's indignified reaction. "Hey, don't you dare talk about my...!"

But Hogan waved his protests away and picked up the box of chocolates Carter had said were for Schultz. "Now Andrew here has just returned from his holiday in London. And he's got a lot of news to tell us, Schultz. So why don't you take this present he brought especially for you, and then you leave this barracks alone for the rest of the night and you know nothing?"

It was shortly after daybreak when a lone figure stepped out of the woods and began to follow the road into Hamelburg. In a paper bag he carried his share of pies and cheese and sausage rolls. Upon being asked, good-hearted Carter had had no objection against his taking such rare goodies home to share with his 'family'.

He smiled as he thought back at the private little chat he had had with the man just now. Sitting back on Carter's bunk, each nibbling from a handful of peanuts, he had once more apologized for what he'd put Carter through these past days.

In a way, he was probably lucky that it had been Carter he'd kidnapped. He was quite sure that – had it been a hothead like Newkirk or the little Frenchman – they would easily have lynched him. Genial Carter however took it all in stride, and confessed that after having read dozens of pulp detectives as a boy, he had always secretly wished to be kidnapped himself one day.

He knew the sentiment from his own youth, and he had grinned. "Glad I could be of service then. Was it anything like in the books?"

Carter had chuckled. "I don't know. I believe I slept through most of it." A sigh. "But the most frustrating part was when they finally gave me a chance to explain things, and they didn't believe me."

"I can imagine." He had kept silence for a moment, before asking, "So what did the General Staff say when they learned that you really weren't Hitler?"

Carter had shrugged. "I wasn't there when General Walters told them. But he said they were pretty peeved."

He had heaved a sigh. "That, too, I can imagine."

"They just have no sense of humour," Carter had shrugged as an extenuation. "I suppose they don't have time for humour with the war and all, but the whole thing was actually pretty funny, wasn't it?" A quiet burst of laughter. "I mean, you kidnapping a fake Hitler because you think it's the real one, and then take my place impersonating the Führer, and nobody notices...!"

He had chuckled, too. "And then that other Hitler popping up, and the Engländer pretending to be yet another Hitler...! Although I understand that lots of your people did notice a difference between us, but they didn't realize it was because it wasn't you anymore."

"Which makes it even funnier." Suddenly Carter had sat up. "You know, you and I should get together after the war and make a play out of this whole adventure! You know, one of those slapstick comedies with all those mistaken identities. I reckon people could do with a good laugh after the war. And you're an actor – surely you know how to put together a play?"

"I'm an actor, not a playwright," he had pointed out – and paused as he realized how tempting the idea was nonetheless. Their combined story certainly had all the ingredients of a good old-fashioned theatre farce. And was there really any harm in trying to write a play himself after having performed them for so many years?

A sudden glitter had come to his eyes as he held out his hand to his identical counterpart. "You're right, we can always try. See you after the war?"

Carter had reciprocated with a broad grin that immediately became mutual as they shook hands on it. "After the war!"

It certainly promised to be an interesting enterprise...

The town was just beginning to stir when he reached Richterstraβe 18 and rang the modest bell. After a moment, the door was opened ajar. "Ja?"

A wink as he held out the bag to her. "Delivery for Fräulein Gotthardt."

Instantly, her eyes grew wide with recognition. She didn't say a word, but the door was opened wide, he was pulled inside, and before the door was entirely shut behind him, he already found himself in her arms. "Thank God you're alive..."

For a long while they just stood there, holding each other tight in the dark little hall. He began to rub her back – he knew how tense she got whenever she knew him to be out on a mission. Especially the more crazy ones, like this one.

And finally, with a long sigh, she let go of him – if only to take a proper look at who she was hugging this time.

Having the proclaimed Master of Disguises for a boy-friend (practically fiancé by now) had taught her over the years not to be overly fastidious when it came to his appearance. Today she was hugging a lean middle aged man with a weathered face, a fringe beard and scruffy puffs of grey hair – tomorrow it could be a handsome young adonis, or an old grandmother, a long-legged beauty queen, or the fat Hermann Göring himself. She – and she alone – knew that underneath all those fake people was the one man she truly loved: Karl Langenscheidt with his baby-blue eyes, his thick golden brown hair, his slender body and his shy smile.

He smiled that sweet smile of his as he cupped her face in his hands to kiss her. (True – even after all these years of practice, she still preferred him to do so in male form...) But he already returned to business. "How are the others – did they make it back alright?"

"Yep. They got back early last night. With a bucket full of fresh fish." She chuckled at the memory. "And Franz had gotten seasick, but for the rest things had gone well enough." She put her arms around his neck. "And how about you? You're back sooner than I expected."

Langenscheidt grimaced. "That's because it was all a big mistake. It turned out it wasn't Hitler after all."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "So it was one of Colonel Hogan's men after all? You little fool..." She slapped him playfully in the chest. "Well, at least none of you got caught over it. Why don't you come in for breakfast and tell me the whole story? I've got some of that fish left."

Langenscheidt retrieved his paper bag from the floor. "And our mistaken Führer brought back some delicacies from London. Pork and sausage rolls and cheese – and fish. Perfect for breakfast, don't you think?"

She grimaced. "Weird combination, but I'm not one to object." She snuggled up to him one more time before resuming the proper distance from this 'stranger' once they'd enter the living-room with its street facing window. And it didn't take much to lure him into a long, loving kiss.

It sure was the perfect ending to a big mistake.

Or was it?

For about a week afterwards, the telephone of Hitler's private line in Berlin rang. With an angry snarl, the Führer picked up the receiver. "Ja?"

"Mein Führer, this is Rüdiger Braun, in Berchtesgaden. Heil Hitler, mein Führer!"

"Ja, ja. Heil. Was ist los?"

"Mein Führer, I was just wondering if the keys I sent you arrived. Since you never showed up here, I thought..."

"What keys? What are you talking about?"

"The keys to Berchtesgaden, mein Führer."

"The keys to B... Bist du verrückt? What are you babbling about?"

The voice on the other end hesitated a little. "Didn't you call me Tuesday a week ago, telling me that you were on your way to Berchtesgaden, but that you had left your keys in Berlin?"

Hitler's eyes narrowed. "Rüdiger, have you been drinking again?"

"Nein, mein Führer. I mean – only a little."

"I never called you last week, so you must have imagined it."

"Jawohl, mein Führer."

A short silence. Then, "Rüdiger, did you just ask me if the keys arrived here?"

"Jawohl, mein Führer."

"You idiot! Sending my keys through the mail – heaven only knows who's got hold of them now!"

"Jawohl, mein Führer," Rüdiger cowered.

"If you weren't Eva's brother, I would send you to the eastern front right now, you fool! But I'll spare you for now – for her sake only."

A trembling, "Jawohl, mein Führer. Danke, mein Führer."

"Now I want you to get a locksmith and get every lock in my country-home replaced. All of them – today! Understood?"

"Jawohl, mein Führer."

"And don't do anything so stupid again, or you will find yourself on the next train to Moscow – Eva's brother or not!"

The phone was slammed down before the next "Jawohl, mein Führer" had travelled all the way from Berchtesgaden to Berlin, and Hitler was left muttering to himself about the ridiculous sacrifices one had to make, just to please the other sex.

So the entire hunt for the key to Berchtesgaden had been a fool's errand after all...

The End

---

And a heartfelt 'danke schön' to Tzuzuku for correcting my half forgotten high school German, and often suggesting much more colourful phrases than the ones I could produce myself.

I'm also most grateful to her for teaching me that when Germans bawl out someone who is not a close friend or relative, they do so using the polite Sie-form (!) – unfathomable for my Dutch lingual heritage, but there it is!

Anyway, if you still spot any errors in my German, it's likely to be my own fault and not hers, since I didn't bother to give her the most elementary phrases to check...

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I don´t own Hogan´s Heroes; I just like to play with them.

Hogan´s Heroes is the property of CBS.

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