This story is in response to the Colloquialisms Challenge posted in Smartgroups, in which you must create an original character who uses ten phrases unique to his country, as well as mention sunburn and escape, and have each major character speak at least once.

I live in Texas, which, technically, is not a country, but, by golly, it USED to be! We certainly have our share of phrases that people who aren't native to this state (and even some who are) might find peculiar. Most of the phrases should be self-explanatory. If one needs explanation, I'll put a footnote at the end of the chapter.

Enjoy!

Colonel Robert E. Hogan leaned against the barracks wall, lazily watching the volleyball game being played by a small group of prisoners at Stalag 13. He let his eyes travel over the compound. Not much appeared to be happening. Some prisoners played simple games of horseshoes or catch with their balls and mitts, while others just walked slowly about the grounds, enjoying the chance to move around and talking to pass the time. The tower guards stifled bored yawns, looking occasionally at their watches to see when their shift would end.

Hogan brought his attention back to the game for a moment, and then let his thoughts drift inward. The relaxed and peaceful atmosphere of this camp was a brilliant disguise. The Germans never guessed that below them lay an elaborate system of tunnels and rooms, or that Papa Bear, the man the Gestapo so fervently hunted, was running his Underground operation right under their noses. Or, more precisely, he thought, right under their feet. Below them, the tunnels buzzed with activity all hours of the day and many hours of the night.

At least, that was usually the case. But there had been an unusual lull in assignments recently, and while Hogan had enjoyed the reprieve, as well as the chance to actually get a full night's sleep, after two days he was restless. He could sense a similar agitation in his men. They were distracted by their activities right now, but as soon as the recreation period was over, the boredom would settle down on them again.

On his right, someone cleared his throat, startling Hogan out of his distracted musings. He looked questioningly at Sergeant Ivan Kinchloe, his radio operator, hoping it was a job from London.

"London wants you on the line, sir," the Sergeant announced, an expectant gleam in his eye matching the one in Hogan's. He had been getting antsy, too.

"Great, Kinch. I'll be right there." As Kinch walked inside, Hogan's eyes searched the crowd surrounding the volleyball players. He found who he was looking for, a young man enthusiastically cheering on his friends. "Carter!"

Carter looked for the voice calling him over the crowd and trotted to the barracks when he realized it was Hogan. "Yes, Colonel?"

"I have to go underground. If Sergeant Schultz comes looking for me, stall him until I get back."

"Yes, sir," Carter answered eagerly. "You can count on me. I won't let you down."

Hogan hid his amusement at the Sergeant's youthful enthusiasm. "Thanks, Carter. I know."

Hogan set down the headset and started pacing. Kinch's eyes followed him for a bit, until the beginnings of a headache finally forced him to stop. "What did they say, Colonel?"

To Kinch's immense relief, Hogan came to a halt. "I want to talk to everyone about it at once. Go get the guys, will ya?"

"London sent us a doosey this time," Hogan began.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "They always send us the hard stuff. I think they forget we're prisoners of war."

"Yeah, well, this time they have asked for a lot," Hogan replied. "They want a map of the area around camp."

"That doesn't sound too bad, mon Colonel," Le Beau said. "We have done things like this before."

"You're right, we have," Hogan answered. "But this time they want a very detailed map—elevations, underground facilities, exact distances, the works. And it's an extremely large area."

"We haven't had to do a map so detailed before," Kinch agreed. "How are we going to pull it off?"

"We aren't." Hogan grinned slyly.

Newkirk was quite sure he didn't like that smile. It usually meant trouble. "So, gov'nor," he began hesitantly, "who is?"

Hogan's smile broadened. "Sergeant Crocker."

"NO!" Le Beau exclaimed, his face mirroring the horrified expressions of Newkirk, Kinch, and Carter. "There must be someone else who can do it. Anyone else. Please, Colonel."

"Sorry, Le Beau, but he's the best cartographer we have. We need him for this job."

"Blimey, gov'nor," Newkirk complained. He had known it would be bad news. "It'd be easier to do it ourselves than to work with 'im." He looked to his friends for encouragement. "Right mates?"

"Wrong!" Hogan answered emphatically before anyone else could get a word in. "This has to be done right. This map must be exact. We need Sergeant Crocker. What's the big deal, anyway?"

Kinch was certain the Colonel knew exactly what the 'big deal' was, but he decided to play along. "Well, Colonel, he is just a bit hard to understand at times. It gets frustrating."

"Why?" Hogan asked innocently. "He's American, just like you."

"He's Texan," Le Beau said, letting his disdain show in his voice. "That hardly counts." He started to mumble in French, then finished in English. "Well, at least I don't have to cook for him. I hate barbecue!"

"Now, there's nothing wrong with barbecue," Kinch said, smiling. "I just like to be able to understand people when they're supposedly speaking the same language as I am."

"You know, he does talk kinda funny," Carter joined in, a puzzled look on his face. "The last time I saw him, he told me I had a ten-gallon mouth."

"Colonel 'ogan, sir, I've changed me mind." Newkirk tried unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. "I think I do like this chap after all."

"I wonder what he meant…" Carter wondered out loud.

"All right, guys," Hogan said. "Carter, go think it over for a while. I'm sure you'll figure it out. Le Beau, go and ask Sergeant Crocker to come and see me."

After his men left his quarters, Hogan crossed his arms and leaned against the bedpost, chuckling to himself. His men's reaction to his decision amused him. Actually, overreaction is more like it. Crocker couldn't possibly be that bad.