[ooc]Everyone's free to keep chatting, but I'm going to roll things forward a scene.[/ooc]<br/><br/>Climbing the stairs to the garage, the group cross to the American Jeep. Wallace may be imagining it, but Sgt Cartwright, the squat British vehicle technician who always seem to have the two American WAC mechanics hanging off of him, seems to leer quite pointedly, although as she turns her head toward him he seems to be innocently inspecting a clipboard, a habit no doubt learned avoiding the Sergeant-Major's eyes on parade.<br/><div class="floatright">(https://i.imgur.com/6AC2CnLm.png)</div><br/>Briggs switches the ignition on, there are no keys in military vehicles, and after jostling the choke for a second the peppy field vehicle rolls out of the garage and swings into traffic.<br/><br/>Templehof is in the west end of the city, and it's a chilly ride through the morning streets. With an ID flash at the gate, Briggs wheels toward the air-field. The 213rd, the victim Sgt Wilder's unit, is in Hangar H.<br/><br/>The jeep pulls up with a slight squeal of brakes, one of the 'features' of the rugged little utility vehicle.<br/><br/>The hangar is filled with shelves that reach up half=way to the ceiling. Soldiers and a few WACs move around loading push carts, or unloading them. There are scents of canvas and petroleum and metal. In the central area a Captain, middle-aged (which is generally but not always an indication of careers in the supporting services), is supervising the crating of a grand piano. Which are apparently issued by the US Army now, one assumes.<br/><br/>As the soldiers turn and gesture, the Captain finally pivots to face you.<br/><br/>"We're not open. Take a form. Fill it out. Have it signed by your Battalion commander, and mailed states-side for authorization. Takes about sixty days to make the round-trip. Good day!"