Author's notes: As always, the characters aren't mine, but the story is. This story is being written as a response to the "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few Kommandants" challenge by 96 Hubbles. It was also largely inspired by the Rockapella song "Rock River." The fic takes place a few weeks after the events of Episode 82, "Sticky Wicket Newkirk," and makes several references to that episode.

The meeting between Colonel Klink and Colonel Mullenberg, the commandant of Stalag 6, had not intended to go so far as to require a dinner, but as the two discussed about the fliers who had escaped from Stalag 6 a few weeks ago, coming up with questions that had no answers, the meeting went for longer than intended.

Realizing that his personal cooking staff would not do well with such short notice, Klink had sent Schultz to Barracks Two to ask Corporal Louis LeBeau to prepare the dinner. The Frenchman refused; he had not been in the best of moods ever since the fiasco with Newkirk and his enemy agent girlfriend. Newkirk had been spending the last few weeks in the cooler, leaving one man less to re-dig the tunnel that they had caved in when they had been forced to cover their tracks. They were lucky that Hochstetter never did find out about them, but it was no picnic getting the tunnel cleared out and operational again.

Due to their narrow escape, their operation was much quieter for the time being. Hochstetter was still ferreting around for answers to his own questions, and between that and Newkirk still being locked up, LeBeau wasn't granting any favors—especially not to Klink.

Klink was not about to take that for an answer, but LeBeau was being more tenacious than ever. Schultz immediately told Colonel Hogan of the situation, who arrived in Klink's office to see the German and the Frenchman glaring daggers at each other. After reminding Klink that the Geneva Convention forbade him from forcing LeBeau to make the meal, Hogan suggested the idea of an incentive. After much coaxing and arguing, Klink agreed to release Newkirk from solitary after dinner, providing that Mullenberg approved of the food.

It had taken LeBeau some time to accept the deal, though he eventually did; he was still feeling slightly betrayed by Newkirk, upset that the RAF Corporal had placed LeBeau and the others in such a dangerous situation. The Frenchman hadn't even spoken to him since he had been sent to the cooler (though he made food for him, he never delivered it to the cooler personally), but he had talked about him often, particularly with Carter. And he did so again tonight, as he was preparing the meal that Carter would help him serve.

"Colonel told him to go to London," LeBeau said, as he seasoned the bouillabaisse. "It was an order. And instead, he returns with that spy!"

"You know, I think it hurts like this because of how much we care about Newkirk," Carter said. "He's our best friend, and I'm sure he feels even worse about this than we do. Louis, you know he'd never want to put us in danger. You know that, right?"

"Oui, I know," the Corporal sighed. "To tell you the truth, I am glad he came back. I just wish he had come without that witch!"

"I'm sure he wishes that, too," Carter replied.

"André, do you mean to tell me that you are not upset with him for what happened?"

"Well, sure, I was," the sergeant admitted. "But what good does staying mad really do us? Everything turned out okay in the end, and you can bet that Newkirk will never do it again. He's learned his lesson, and I forgave him. I think you should, too; you guys have got a great friendship—you're like brothers! Don't throw that away because of this!"

LeBeau managed a small smile. Carter might be naïve at times, but when he spoke from the heart, he spoke with a wisdom beyond his years.

"We're all like brothers, André," he said. He sampled the bouillabaisse. "And this is ready; you can serve some of this to them--"

"Und you can serve some of that to me, too!" said Schultz, walking into the kitchen in time to hear LeBeau's last comment. He sat down in his usual chair in the kitchen. "It smells delicious, even from out there!"

"Schultz, we're having a private conversation!" LeBeau chided him; despite that, he gave him some of the bouillabaisse.

"No need to worry; except for when you mentioned the food, I heard nothing—nothing!" He placed a spoonful of the bouillabaisse in his mouth and closed his eyes as he savored the flavor. "Ohh, wunderbar!"

LeBeau just shook his head as Carter shrugged, taking servings of the stew to the two German colonels.

"Pour us some more wine, Carter," Klink ordered, holding up his wineglass.

"Yes, Sir," the sergeant replied, with a forced smile.

"I've had enough, for the moment," Mullenberg said. He tried the bouillabaisse and blinked in surprise. "Klink, this is excellent! You have excellent cooks on your staff."

"The creator of this meal is not one of my staff," Klink responded, with a smirk. "He is one of my prisoners—a Frenchman, Corporal Louis LeBeau."

"A prisoner, you say?" Mullenberg repeated. A smirk was crossing his face now, and he soon chuckled. "Excellent joke, Klink. Now who is it, really?"

The smile faded from Klink's face. "I just told you; he's one of my prisoners! He's the only one I could get on such short notice!" He turned towards the kitchen door. "LeBeau! Come out here for a moment!"

The Corporal cursed in his own tongue as he exited the kitchen, standing at attention before the two colonels.

"Remarkable," Mullenberg mused. "I must hand it to you, Klink. You have a prisoner working for you like this, and he doesn't even complain about it?"

"Well…" said Klink, with a wave of his hand. He didn't want to admit that he had made a deal with LeBeau. "One must put his foot down and show these men who is in charge, after all." He turned back to LeBeau. "That is all; you may return to the kitchen."

The Corporal did so, without a word. Carter flinched, feeling sorry for him.

Mullenberg, on the other hand, stared back at the bouillabaisse before him. This was the first time he had eaten something so delicious since becoming the commandant of Stalag 6, and they hadn't even progressed to the main course yet. The wheels began to turn in his head.

"Klink," he said, with a small smile. "You must consider lending him to me."

Carter, who had been standing with his back to the colonels, frowned. He did not like the sound of those words one iota. He turned slightly as Klink began to laugh, taking Mullenberg's comment as a joke.

"I'm sure if all of the Colonels in Germany heard about LeBeau, they would be lining up here for dinner," Klink said. "I am a lucky man, Mullenberg; there has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13, so this chef isn't going anywhere."

"Actually, Klink, I was somewhat serious," Mullenberg replied. "Do you remember a few weeks ago, we had arranged a transfer for that British Corporal?"

Klink winced as he recalled how Newkirk had escaped en route to Stalag 6. "I have installed a non-transfer policy of my prisoners since then, Colonel Mullenberg. It has led to a significant reduction in the headaches that come with being a Kommandant; I recommend that you try it, too."

"Klink," the other Colonel replied. "You shouldn't be the only one allowed to eat well on a regular basis. You have a golden goose in your possession; I merely request that you share the wealth."

Before Klink could reply, LeBeau reentered with a small serving tray.

"More bread for you," he said, placing the tray on the table. "The cassoulet will be ready very soon."

"Louis!" Carter said, trying to somehow warn him about Mullenberg. But he found himself unable to deliver his warning as Klink and Mullenberg glanced at him. "I smell something burning!"

"Impossible!" LeBeau said, bolting back towards the kitchen.

Carter moved to follow him, but froze as Mullenberg cleared his throat.

"I think I will have more wine, after all," he said, raising his glass. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the young American. "And stay here; I might need more."

Carter refilled Mullenberg's glass, biting his lip in nervousness.

"Colonel Mullenberg," said Klink, a frown crossing his features. "You were saying something about sharing the wealth? It is highly irregular to transfer prisoners for reasons such as this."

"Which brings me to the case of that British Corporal," said Mullenberg. "All you would need to do is change a few things on those old transfer papers—the name and nationality--"

"I'm afraid I can't quite go along with what you're suggesting," said Klink. "I doubt that General Burkhalter would approve of us playing musical chairs with the prisoners. No, Colonel; I am afraid I must refuse."

"And do you think, Klink, that Burkhalter would approve of Major Hochstetter returning here to search for further evidence of underground activity and means by which those fliers escaped from my stalag to yours?"

"There is no proof of that!" Klink said, glaring at Mullenberg through his monocle. "Major Hochstetter found nothing when he conducted his search here!"

"I have a meeting with the Major tomorrow evening, Klink," the crooked officer replied. "He's bringing back the men among those fliers who did not successfully escape. I could tell him of clues I found during my stay here. That would send him back here—and Burkhalter would send you right to the Eastern Front!"

"But there are no grounds for such accusations!" Klink exclaimed, going pale. "You wouldn't do such a thing!"

"I wouldn't… assuming that I had a nice, French meal to serve the Major tomorrow evening," Mullenberg said, smirking again at Klink's disdainful expression. "Oh, don't look at me that way, Klink; it would only be a temporary transfer—just for a few weeks." He was lying through his teeth; he had no intention of letting LeBeau go when he could eat this well day in and day out.

"Colonel Klink!" said Carter. "What about the next time General Burkhalter comes along? You don't want him eating anything other than LeBeau's cooking--"

"Silence!" Mullenberg ordered Carter. "You will speak only when you are spoken to, and you will not interrupt a private conversation between two Colonels!" He turned back to Klink. "See to it that this man is punished for his insolence!"

"Yes, yes; I'll see to it," Klink promised, meekly. "And I suppose that a small, two-week transfer won't bring any lasting harm; I'll draw up the papers tonight. The Frenchman can go to Stalag 6 with you when you leave in the morning."

Carter inwardly groaned. Even he could tell that LeBeau would not be returned to them. As he glanced at the kitchen door in despair, he noticed that the door closed slightly. He winced as he realized that LeBeau had heard most of the conversation.

"Transferred…" the Corporal whispered. Furious, he threw the metal lid of one of the pieces of cookware across the room, now cursing loudly.

"Please, LeBeau!" Schultz pleaded. "I know you are upset, but you mustn't act like this!"

"Upset!? I would rather be taken by demons!" He glared at the door. "I will not go; I will escape tonight!"

Schultz winced at the dreaded word. "I will pretend that I did not hear that."

"And I will go home and pretend that this cursed war never happened," LeBeau shot back. He turned off the stove. "That cassoulet is almost done; you can give it to them. There is no dessert; this kitchen is closed!"

"Oh, LeBeau," Schultz said, trying to calm the Frenchman down as he stormed out of the kitchen.

"Nice to see you again, Corporal," said Mullenberg, highly amused by the short man's temper. "I take it that you know of the transfer, which saves all of us time. You can do me a favor by gathering your things tonight and preparing for an early start tomorrow."

"Ah, oui?" LeBeau asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You can do me a favor, too: drop dead--"

Schultz covered the Corporal's mouth. "What he really means is to ask you to drop him off in the market in the morning, Kommandant. He would be dead set against anything other than fresh ingredients for your dinner tomorrow!"

LeBeau's eyes moved to glare daggers at Schultz.

"Schultz, take him and Carter back to the barracks," said Klink. "And you may release the prisoner in the cooler." He was no fool; there would be an ever greater quantity of unrest in the camp that night if he did not keep his word about releasing Newkirk.

"At once, Kommandant," the big man said, pulling LeBeau along. He sighed with relief once they were outside, and let him go. "You should not talk to Colonel Mullenberg like that; he is not like Colonel Klink. Oh, the things I have heard about this Colonel Mullenberg!" He shuddered.

"Schultz, this isn't the time," said Carter. He turned to his French friend. "Don't you worry about a thing, Louis. Colonel Hogan will find a way to get you out of this."

"It had better involve me going back to Paris," LeBeau vowed. "I am done with being a prisoner, and I am done with this war!"

Schultz flinched again at the talk of escape as he led them to the cooler. "Raus, Newkirk!" he called, unlocking the cell door. "You're going back to the barracks!"

"Blimey, it 'asn't even been the full thirty days yet," Newkirk murmured, though he certainly wasn't about to complain. He stretched his arms as he stepped out of solitary and as Schultz lead them back to Barracks Two. "Time off for good behavior, is it?"

"Not at all, Pierre," LeBeau replied, bitterly, as he headed inside. "I owe my soul to Colonel Mullenberg of Stalag 6—a small price to pay for getting you out of the cooler, no?"

Newkirk blinked, taking note of how cold LeBeau's tone was. "You want to give me a moment to work that out?"

His puzzled expression turned to one of concern as LeBeau cursed at him and retreated to his bunk without another word. Newkirk suspected that LeBeau was still upset with what had happened with that girl, Gretel. That would explain why the Frenchman hadn't even come by to say hello. Newkirk sighed to himself; he had apologized before, but it looked as though that he would have to give a more heartfelt apology to LeBeau.

"Louis, we need to talk," he said.

"Oui, we can talk while I am packing," the Frenchman spat, gathering his few worldly possessions together.

"Right; we'll talk while…" Newkirk trailed off as the words sunk in. Packing? Stalag 6? "What's going on 'ere!?"

"Colonel Klink made a deal with us," said Carter. "He wanted Louis to make a dinner for him and Colonel Mullenberg, and if Mullenberg liked it, he'd let you out of the cooler early." He swallowed nervously, not sure how to break the news. "Mullenberg liked it a little too much. He forced Klink into transferring Louis; he's going to Stalag 6 in the morning when Mullenberg leaves."

"What!? 'E can't do that!" the Englishman fumed, as nearby bunkmates exchanged shocked glances. "Maybe there's something I can do--"

"He has done it!" LeBeau fumed. "And please, don't try to do anything; it's your fault that I'm going in the first place! You were in the cooler because of that precious Gretel of yours! I made one meal to get you out—and that was the only reason why I agreed to make it! But at least you are out; take comfort in that thought, mon ami." He had spat the last two words out with enough venom to send a spitting cobra fleeing for cover.

"Louis…!" Carter gasped, not even sure how to respond.

And Newkirk, whose silver tongue had talked his way out of many a confrontation before, was now stricken speechless. LeBeau had returned to his packing, not even looking the Englishman in the eye.

You're right, Louis, Newkirk said, silently. The familiar feelings of guilt and remorse, which had been clawing at him ever since he had found out the truth about Gretel, now began to tear at his spirit again. I got you into this mess. And if it's the last thing I ever do, I swear I'll get you out of it.