A/N: This is set in the same AU as the 'Hogan and the General' stories – where Germany won the war.
Disclaimer: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…. Any and all mistakes are strictly my own, made out of ignorance, not malicious intent. Unfortunately, London is terra incognita to me. (blank map, Here there be Dragons…) So I left the locales' descriptions vague intentionally. Mavis' roommate was loosely modeled after an OC of Tuttle4077's; I tried to contact her, but she's out of touch, and I didn't want to wait 18 months to post this thing. Forgive, please??? (They do say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery…)
As for the rest, the general disclaimer applies: Don't own now, never will, no money made.
Enjoy. Jordre.
A Son of Olde England
by
Jordre
Chapter 1
October 28, 1942
Hammelburg, Germany
"Oh, guv'nor, I sure 'ope you know what you're doin'." The British corporal slumped against the wall of his cell, a pile of neatly written pages sitting on the table before him. "'Full disclosure,' the Colonel said," he muttered morosely. "'Old nothin' back; tell everything you remember.' Blimey, we'll all be shot for it." But they knew that could happen, had known it when they'd started it all. And they'd been caught, true enough.
But this Jerry general said he'd let the other guys live, so long as Hogan's men—the true saboteurs of the group—confessed all their sins. Newkirk could only pray that he'd told the truth. He'd even said that he'd let him and the others go along with the rest, because Hogan, like a true guv'nor, had given him such detail. That, the Englishman didn't believe, although it sounded great. No Jerry he'd ever heard of would do such a thing—except maybe old Schultzie, but he didn't want to see anyone hurt, ever. Still it sounded nice, and if it made going easier for the Colonel…
His musings were interrupted as his cell door was unlocked and cautiously opened. Two guards, armed with machine pistols, entered and stood to either side of the doorway, allowing a young blond leutnant to enter behind them. Newkirk sat carefully still—no sense in getting shot before you had to, after all—and watched as the young German gathered up the papers.
"You are finished?" he asked Newkirk in fairly good English. "You had enough paper?"
"Blimey, I could've written a 'ole book on what you left me," Newkirk couldn't help protesting, but the leutnant laughed.
"Your Colonel has called for more paper twice now, and shows no signs of slowing yet," he confided to the corporal before him. "He has written very small, also. He has a small book he consults; I could make no sense of it when he showed it to me, though."
"Cor, 'e's got 'is journal with 'im?" Newkirk gasped, shocked.
"Ah, is that what it is? It is good that he has it, then. Mein General will be pleased, and it will be better for the rest of you."
"Yeah, well, I'll believe that when I see it," Newkirk muttered under his breath and watched, otherwise silently, as the German removed his confession from the cell. To his surprise, they left the light on when they shut and locked the door, leaving him alone once more.
He'd expected to be interrogated anyway, expected that his written confession would just be the starting point, but he was left alone in his cell. He saw no one, except for the guards who brought his meals, and, to his great surprise, no one knocked him around. This was totally outside Newkirk's experience so far, and he couldn't decide whether to believe it or not. He could hear cells along his corridor being opened before and after his, but he never heard any cries of pain or sounds of distress from any of his fellow prisoners. They had tried calling to each other at first, but it was too hard to hear what anyone was trying to say, and none of them really wanted to anger their guards by making too much noise. At least they knew that they weren't truly alone in this place.
After he'd been there about a week, the guards came for him, waking Newkirk from an uneasy sleep. He was used to the routine by now: Two guards with guns came in and stood to either side of the doorway; then a third came in for—whatever. Most of the time, it was totally unnecessary, for Newkirk wasn't about to do anything to delay his mealtimes. This morning, though…Well, maybe it was a good thing that there were so many of them, for the third guard carried manacles and shackles with him.
"Up, Englander; face the wall," this guard snapped, his voice harsh to mask his nervousness. These were, after all, PAPA BEAR's men, and, as such, they were known to be very dangerous. No one would take any chances with them. And this Englander in particular was reported to have a hot temper, although none of the guards had had any trouble with him so far. But they were to be moved now.
It came as a revelation to Newkirk that the guards were actually afraid of him. He couldn't help it; his ego puffed up like a gamecock, and a grin crossed his face—safe enough, since he was facing the wall. He winced, though, when the handcuffs were clamped on tightly.
They had the shackles on in no time then, and the guard was pushing him out into the corridor. There were a lot of guards out there, he saw, which worried him again until he saw the others being brought out of their cells too. All but the Colonel. "Where's Colonel 'Ogan?" he blurted without thinking.
"Be silent, schwein!" the closest guard snarled, raising his rifle to club the insolent (but safely chained) Englander.
«Nein!» The shout cut through the background noise, freezing the offending guard in place. «You will not strike that Man for asking what all the Rest wish to know also.» The young Leutnant walked into their midst, looking over the restrained men. He very carefully ignored the muttered curse from the small Frenchman as he stopped in front of Newkirk. «Rechain that Man's Hands in front of him,» he ordered, bringing unhappy looks to some of the guards' faces. «It is too long a Ride to transport him so.
«Have you fed them yet this Morning?»
Silence fell; none of the guards cared to admit this lack.
«I see. Who chose not to feed these Men? I am sure that mein General is going to ask.» Faces paled at this statement, but the Leutnant snorted in disgust. «Never mind. Whoever is responsible can explain to General Mannheim if we miss the Train, but these Men will be fed before they leave.» He switched languages and looked at the prisoners gathered in the hallway. "I am Leutnant Weber, aide to General Mannheim. If you coöperate, you will in a civilized manner be treated, despite what you may believe. Mein General does not approve of abuse of power or privilege. So if you will go mit your guards in an orderly manner, we may get you fed before hier you leave. There is space on the morning train to Düsseldorf. I recommend that you miss it not, because a long, miserable trip by truck it would be.
"You go to a new camp there—built für those like you—gathered there you will all be, für processing für work and release. This is Stalag XVI—good buildings für you there will be.
"Your Colonel Hogan mit you will not be; he is to Berlin already left, for trial." Very carefully Weber ignored the assorted cringes as he mangled his English; at least he knew that he was understandable. He watched as the men were moved out, but stopped the English corporal before he could joint his fellows. "I have your records and your confession read, Corporal Newkirk," Weber explained before holding out his hand. "Be so good your lock-pick to give me—it was not listed as those things on you found. I will to you return it, when it is a temptation no more."
Disbelief in his eyes, Newkirk realized that this German wouldn't let him go with the others until he'd given up his pick. The longer he delayed, the less likely he'd be fed. With ill grace, he handed over the flexible sliver of metal, getting in return a polite "Danke schön" from Weber. Only then were his guards allowed to guide him in his fellows' wake.
They just made the train. Newkirk could hear angry voices up near the engine as they were loaded aboard as quickly as they could be. Still, it took a while to get the nine of them, still manacled and shackled, up into the train. Newkirk had to smile as he heard LeBeau's excited jabbering up ahead of him. Carefully in French, true, but he could just imagine what their little French chef was calling the bloody Jerries. Despite what he'd always said about LeBeau's cooking, Newkirk admitted to himself that he'd miss it now. With a sigh he settled into the seat he was pointed to and resigned himself to a long trip.
Düsseldorf was over a hundred kilometers by road, and very poor roads some of them were. The train ride, while smoother and warmer, would be over double that, although perhaps a bit faster. If all went well, it would be a four- to five-hour ride, due to some of the grades they'd have to go up.
Of course there were delays. A rockslide blocked one tunnel, a loose track was found elsewhere, so it was late afternoon before they finally reached Düsseldorf and the trucks waiting at the station to take them the final leg to their new "home." Newkirk was hungry, tired, and grouchy—they all were, even their guards. Still, they made it into the trucks without incident, by some miracle.
They were silent in the truck, no one being inclined to chance their guards' tempers. The war might be over, but they were still in the Germans' hands and would now have no recourse to the Protecting Power. Newkirk could just see his dreams for the future draining away into the dust of the rutted road they traveled.
It felt like they were bouncing to the ends of the earth, but at last the truck pulled up onto a smoother surface and drew to a stop. Newkirk heard the usual barking of orders, just as he had when he'd been brought to Luftstalag XIII. The big difference now, he realized, was that he and most of the men with him now understood what was being shouted. He knew, therefore, when they were to be unloaded from the truck; he and his companions had their few remaining possessions ready to offload. No one wanted to be pushed or pulled from a high military truck while wearing shackles. But the guards dropped the tailgate and stood back, allowing the prisoners to disembark at their own pace.
No one wasted any time. They straggled a short distance from the truck, forming up into a ragged line where their guards indicated. Then they waited; it was the same old thing, or so they expected. To Newkirk's surprise, they weren't kept waiting very long in the rapidly growing chill of oncoming evening. A very efficient-looking colonel of the Heer came out onto the porch of the Kommandantur, still buttoning his greatcoat against the chill. He stopped to look them over momentarily, then nodded.
"You will be taken to Medical for your inprocessing, since you are so late getting hier," he announced briefly. "It is cold, so I will make this short. I am Oberst Rudolph Ritter, Kommandant of Stalag XVI. This camp was built expressly to gather British and Commonwealth troops and hold them until they can be outprocessed and sent back to their homelands. It is unfortunate, but those of you who are American-born will not be leaving here with the rest; repatriation has been denied you by your former government. You have no doubt heard this as rumor before; now I tell you that it is official. Something will be worked out; you will not just be shot out of hand, as rumor has also said.
"You are all considered 'special' prisoners; as such, you will be assigned bunks in a particular barracks-building. Unlike the others here, you will not be allowed to change your quarters without receiving express permission from my office. You will be housed in Barracks 14; already others from your old camp and barracks are there, and in the barracks around yours.
"You will be given your evening meal once Medical is done with you, and then escorted to your barracks. It would be wiser if you did not cause your usual upheaval at Appell; escape is a useless waste of time, since you are going to be going home---or have no homes to go back to.
"You will be in North Compound. The officer in charge of your compound is Major Vonhoff. Your barracks-guard is Gefreiter Hermann. Do you have any questions?"
They stood there looking at him, shivering in the chill, for they had no heavy coats now; theirs had been confiscated when they'd been locked up in Hammelburg. Newkirk doubted that anyone would say anything that might keep them out in the cold any longer than necessary. He was right; silence rose up from their line.
The Oberst smiled and nodded, then ordered, «Bring them to Medical, Feldwebel.» Then he turned and re-entered the building, leaving the prisoners to be moved to their next destination.
Same old thing, Newkirk thought as he sat down to some watery potato soup, black bread, and cheese. He shook his hair back from his eyes in irritation; even his uniform cap had been taken. Granted, his kit was badly worn after all his time as a prisoner, but it had all been serviceable. The German-issue work coverall felt odd—too loose; too baggy. And nowhere near warm enough. He barely kept his grumbling to himself; Louis was doing enough complaining for all of them. No need to irritate the guards at this point.
They had gotten to Medical only to be greeted with the order to turn out their kits and strip. Naturally. A delousing shower was always the first thing to happen upon arrival at a new camp, it seemed; no one trusted that the previous camp was clean, apparently. At least the water here had been warm. Then, with only towels around their waists, they'd been poked and prodded, thumped and listened to by several doctors; they'd been weighed and measured, and all scars had been recorded. They'd been photographed again for their records. Then they'd been given the coveralls and told that their old things would be washed before being returned.
And then, at last, they'd been herded over to this mess hall and their dinner. As much as he hated to admit it, the army rations that they'd been given at lunchtime had been 'way better, and he hated those. Still, food was food, and these days he wasn't at all picky. It wasn't anything to linger over, though.
Apparently the others all agreed with him, for they were soon hustled out of the mess hall and across the open area before the Kommandantur. Before them rose a double set of gates---serious gates, set in a serious double fence around their new compound. The barracks themselves were huge, compared to the small sixteen-man huts of old Stalag XIII, and there were four rows of the huge buildings, nine in each row. A large parade ground lay in front of them, between the barracks and the main gate. The buildings were new, with that raw look that said they'd not been there for more than a month or two at the most. Newkirk had no idea how many men could be crammed into each. It boggled the mind, how many men could be penned in here. Worse yet, there was another, similar but older compound visible to their west, and a second large cleared area to their east. Obviously the Jerries meant to hold all their "keepers" in one base camp. But smoke curled lazily from stovepipes, promising at least a bit of warmth.
The cold was growing as the sky darkened; it was looking to be a cold winter this year. They moved as fast as they could without running, wanting inside as soon as possible, which seemed to suit their guards just fine. They were not allowed into any of the first row of barracks, but were directed between Barracks 5 and 6, towards the building in the second rank, labeled Barracke 14. One guard moved ahead of their group to open the door at the near end of this building, telling Newkirk that this was, indeed, their destination.
Inside, he found a common area with an iron stove for heat. Beyond that were ten sets of bunks on both sides of a wide aisle---triple-deckers, here. Many still had rolled-up mattresses, indicating that they had no one's claim on them yet. Footlockers lined one side of each set of bunks for each man's possessions; sets of narrow clothes-presses lined the wall beside the windows.
"Nice an' 'omey, like," Newkirk muttered as he looked over the living area.
"Ich heiße Gefreiter Hermann" a tall, burly guard announced, stepping away from the others. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" He looked around at his new charges and frowned slightly when two of them shook their heads. He sighed. "You vill heir stay. You vill pick t'oze bunks from. You vill kurfew…" He made a face. «Eh. Translate for the Others,» he ordered in German, glaring at the men. «You are not allowed outside the Building after Dark. Lights-out is at 2100.
«Each building has its own Showers and Latrines; Times are posted in the Showers when the Water may be used. Appell is at 0500, and again at 1700. You will choose your Bunks now; they are numbered, and so are the Footlockers and Clothes-Presses. You may not switch Bunks without Permission; any Man found in another's Bunk will get a Week in the Cooler. Breakfast is at 0730, Dinner is at 1200, Supper is after Evening Appell, at 1800. You will be back in your Barracks by 1900, or you risk being shot. Do not cross the Warning Wire, or you will be shot.» He paused to make sure that this last statement was translated correctly—his understanding of English far surpassed his spoken ability. «There is a Recreation Area, and Sporting Equipment is available for use, but must be signed out. You are responsible for your own Laundry; Tubs and Soap will be provided. If you do not maintain a minimal Level of Cleanliness, you will be sent to the Cooler.
«You will pick your Bunks now, from among these, and give me your Names.» The guard stepped back, prepared for a lengthy wait, determined not to lose his temper, but the prisoners surprised him.
Newkirk hopped up on the top bunk of one set and grinned. "I'll take this; I like t' be up 'igh. Name's Newkirk." He watched as the guard looked down the list that he carried and made a notation. There wasn't as much headroom here, he noted, but it would be livable. He was up higher, which was good. Carter was below him, in the bottom-most bunk. This was a good thing, as the young American sometimes rolled out of bed. Kinch took the bunk between them, causing the guard's eyebrows to rise in surprise. Newkirk just shook his head. They'd been through too much together to let a thing like skin color come between them. Kinch had proven himself too many times over. Things were different in here, anyway. Hogan's men weren't prejudiced, as too many on the outside were. Or like the bloody Krauts.
But his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of several young guards carrying stacks of blankets. Two for each of them, Newkirk saw with a grin: warm, thick, new blankets. Better than they usually saw, unless the Swiss were due to inspect. Glancing around, he decided that the Krauts here didn't play that game, for every bunk he could see had good blankets on it. It seemed that he would have to defer judgment on this place until he could really see how things were.
If only Colonel Hogan were there with them.
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Time passed, and the news from Berlin was very bad. German newspapers were allowed into camp each day and translations read aloud by those prisoners who could read German. Hogan was the sensation of the day, him and his highly detailed confession. Most of the men in the compound discussed this at length, for they couldn't understand why he'd rolled over and confessed everything so readily. His men did nothing to try to explain, for they knew that he was giving his life for theirs. They were determined that his sacrifice not be in vain.
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Midmorning. Newkirk hunched outside in what sun there was, actually warm in the new coat he'd been issued by the Germans. That had surprised him; he'd never known Jerry to part with any more than they absolutely had to. Again, though, the war was over; he and the rest of the prisoners here represented a respectable work force. No doubt that was why they were being treated so well.
Already Garlotti and Olsen, and two other men, had been taken out for "assignment," going to stay at a local farm as labor for the family that owned it. Better them than me, Newkirk thought wryly. He was a city boy; farm work was definitely not his cup of tea. Still he stood there, watching and waiting. Kinch and Baker had been taken out earlier, to see the Kommandant, Hermann had said. Maybe, and maybe not; Newkirk knew that he'd worry until Jerry returned the two men safely, for some of the guards still seemed to want to push the two Negro sergeants around. Most tried to protect the two radiomen, however, most notably Langenscheidt.
That had been a surprise for Newkirk, seeing the young German corporal here. Obergefreiter Langenscheidt had always been a quiet man; Newkirk had thought him rather timid among his fellows. Here, though, he didn't hesitate to stand between Hogan's men and trouble. It gave Newkirk a warm spot inside, knowing that someone was trying to look out for them.
Still, he worried about the two men until he saw them returning to the compound, along with about a dozen or so men from other barracks. Newkirk sighed, until he realized that the guards were staying with each group of prisoners when the larger group split up inside the gate. Langenscheidt, Newkirk saw, stayed with Kinch and Baker as they headed back to Barracks 14.
"What's up, mates?" Newkirk asked when the two radiomen drew close enough to hear without shouting.
Kinch looked at the Englishman, his dark eyes slightly troubled. "We're going out on assignment, Newkirk," he said, trying to hide his concern. "Baker and me, and a bunch of other guys, to repair the communications network in Belgium and northern France. The British bombers and the local resistance groups did a number on the telephone lines."
"An' you used to work for the telephone company, back in the States," Newkirk finished for him. It actually made sense, to use men already skilled in the needed task. "Better'n bein' grunt labor, mate. You know the job, at least."
"Yeah. And we'll have Langenscheidt with us," Baker cut in with a pleased grin.
Newkirk looked at Kinch. "Then what's wrong? You look a bit worried, Kinch."
"Nothing, really," the dark sergeant admitted. "I just kinda wanted to be here when we heard about the Colonel."
"You can't 'elp 'im, mate; best be seein' t' yourselves. That sounds like a decent gig."
"Oh, it is; we'll even be paid a bit for our time," Kinch hastened to assure his friend.
"I vill make sure they are vell, Newkirk," Langenscheidt spoke up unexpectedly. "I vill pick the rest ov the eskorts vith great care."
"You're in charge, then?" This surprised the British corporal, and concerned him. Langenscheidt's rank, as an Obergefreiter, wasn't all that high.
"Oh, ja, for Kinchloe and Baker. I am promoted to Feldwebel for this," the young German announced with a big smile. "Herr Oberst Ritter said that I go because Sergeants Kinchloe und Baker are known to me already. It iz a good thing, for all ov us. But they muss pack; ve haf a train to ketch." And, with a slightly regretful look on his face, Langenscheidt urged his charges on toward their barracks to pack their things for the trip to their new work assignment. He looked back over his shoulder. "They vill write, Newkirk; I vill see that their letters are sent back to you."
He had to grin at that assurance; the young guard knew how close-knit a group Hogan's men were. It was hard, though, losing more of their group, seeing their men scattered across the German Reich. He sighed and headed back to his barracks, since there was nothing he could do about the situation but grin and try to bear it.
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November 21, 1942, AM
Stalag XVI, outside Düsseldorf, Germany
The headlines of the newspapers screamed it in bold print:
NOTORIOUS ALLIED SPY 'PAPA BEAR' SENTENCED TO FIRING SQUAD
None of Hogan's men needed to read any further. The guards wisely left them alone; even Hermann gave Barracks 14 a wide berth all morning. They were under strict orders from Oberst Ritter to do nothing to provoke Hogan's men; no one wanted the bloodbath that they feared would follow this conviction. Bad enough now, the German colonel thought as he gazed morosely out his office window. The execution was said to be scheduled for dawn in three days. That was when things could get really bad.
So far, though, the men of Barracke 14 seemed to be keeping to themselves and doing nothing to provoke the guards. They'd showed up at Appell this morning, quiet and orderly, within the required time, this despite hearing a preliminary report on a radio, illegal though that was.
A shame, really; a waste of an apparently brilliant man, Ritter mused. He would have liked to meet this Hogan, if even half the reports about him were true. That was out of the question now, of course. He would just have to try to keep those men safely occupied so they could stay out of trouble. He'd heard about the deal that Hogan had made for his men's sake; it would be criminal if such a sacrifice were to go to waste due to something that he, Ritter, had failed to do. He would have to consider this carefully.
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The week went slowly by; Monday came and went, and Hogan's men held a brief memorial service for him. They still kept mostly to themselves, even the other prisoners steering clear of them. Carter and Foster were depressed; LeBeau's muttered curses could be heard continually. And Newkirk fought to keep from snapping at the guards, for he knew that their unexpected tolerance wouldn't last forever.
It didn't help matters that the Germans seemed to be reneging on their other promise.
LeBeau was one of the few Frenchmen in Stalag XVI; in fact, the only reason he'd been sent here at all was because he'd been one of Hogan's inner circle of saboteurs and spies. Thus, it was not obvious that the French, Dutch, and Belgian prisoners being held in Germany were, slowly but surely, being sent back to their own countries. They'd been going back since the seventh of November, back to try to pick up the pieces of their lives. No one at Stalag XVI knew this for a fact, though, despite what the German newspapers were printing about it.
No; the problem was that the British and Commonwealth prisoners were still there in camp. It was the 25th already, and not even the first man had been sent out. Tempers were getting frayed by the continued confinement, and the heavy snows that had started to fall on the 23rd hadn't helped the situation in the least. Everyone was convinced that the Germans were lying to them again, just as they had in the past under Hitler. So when, on the evening of the 26th, two guards escorted a well-dressed man in a German greatcoat into their barracks, Newkirk blew up.
"'Ere, now, you can't be puttin' no Kraut in 'ere wi' us!" he snapped out angrily. This was, for him, the last straw. But the man lifted his head…and Colonel Robert Hogan's laughing dark eyes looked out at his men once more.
Things changed dramatically after that at Stalag XVI. They were still mostly confined to their barracks, due to the weather, but they had enough warm clothes that they could, and did, go play in the snow the next morning. Newkirk threw and was clobbered by his fair share of snowballs; even the guards got in on the snowball fight, to the amazement of the prisoners. There were smiles to be seen in the barracks for the first time in weeks, and Newkirk and LeBeau were shown first-hand why the English troops were still being held behind barbed-wire fences. The General in charge of prisoner repatriation, the same General Mannheim that had caught them, showed Newkirk and LeBeau their files.
It was unbelievable, Newkirk fumed silently. He clearly saw the dates; his paperwork had been returned to the bleedin' Krauts six times! And for the stupidest reasons! It was as if whoever was in charge in England didn't want to bring their own boys back home again. At last he started to believe Mannheim. If his file looked like this, what did everyone else's look like?
And then the German dropped his other bombshell, but, when Newkirk thought about it, it made sense.
The Germans had to do something with all the Americans who'd come over to help fight against Hitler and his Nazis. They'd defied their own government to stay and fight; now they were forbidden to return. So the Germans, in their efficient, practical way, had decided to keep those men and use them as a labor pool to help rebuild Europe and run the farms—at least, the ones willing to work. The rest could rot behind wire; no doubt sometime in the future, those slackers would have their rations cut to starvation levels.
The Germans had worked the enlisted ranks while the war had been raging, monitored by the Protecting Power; now they could set even the officers to work. The problem was internal security.
The Germans weren't stupid, Newkirk knew. They would be crazy to let all those thousands of enemy soldiers wander at will over their newly conquered territory and throughout the German heartland. During the war, POWs had had dogtags—identity disks—and sets of papers that they'd had to carry. The Englishman knew how effective they were, being part of Hogan's forging staff when he wasn't busy elsewhere. Papers were too easy to change; disks could be too easily "misplaced." So the Germans, ever practical, had decided to tattoo each man's ID number on his person. Where it was placed wasn't clad in iron, but the right forearm was the most common location, since it was easily accessible. Captured females---mostly nurses----were exempt from the otherwise mandatory tattoo.
And it was law now: No tattoo, no going outside the wire for any American-born personnel. Those already out on assignment would have to allow it to be done, or they would be returned to confinement. Even Hogan bore such a number-tattoo, although his was not on his arm.
But the general had wanted both Newkirk and LeBeau to accept the tattoo also, due to their wartime activities. Peter had nearly refused, until the little Frenchman had declared it to be "a badge of honor" for the two of them; they would be marked just like their comrades and friends, and their leader. So he had agreed, and they had gone then and there to have it done, before they could change their minds.
Now Newkirk just waited for Hogan to return from whatever errand he'd been sent on that afternoon, so he could show off his own number. Of all the stupid things to be proud of, he scoffed to himself as he waited. It grew later and later, and still the colonel did not return. Finally, at lights-out, Newkirk could stand it no longer.
"'Ere, now, 'Ermann, what's 'appened to the Colonel?" he demanded when the Gefreiter came to check on them for the night.
The German looked at his interrogator cautiously. The Englander had been very mellow all day, his beloved CO here and apparently safe. Now? «Der Vater Bär was hurt in Town this Evening, I have heard,» he answered in German, since it was too difficult for him to render that simple statement in English, and Newkirk understood German anyway. «General Mannheim was called from Camp; I do not know anything more, Newkirk.»
Newkirk bristled. Hogan, hurt? Who would dare…?!!! But one of the other guards came running up, looking for Hermann with orders; he was to report to Herr General at the hospital for guard duty.
«I will tell you what I learn when I return, Newkirk; you can tell the others,» Hermann tried to assure the Corporal as he headed for the door.
"The Guv'nor don't need no guard on 'im!" Newkirk protested angrily, causing the German to stop once more and look back.
«Perhaps it is to protect him; have you considered that? Someone hurt him, after all.» Then Hermann was gone, leaving Hogan's loyal men to worry about their leader once more.
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"'Ey, there, Guv'nor. 'Ad yerself quite the party, we 'eard," Newkirk said softly as he was ushered into the room where Hogan lay recuperating. It was midmorning; the Doktor in town had released him from the hospital, and Newkirk couldn't recall Hogan ever looking so bad before without having had a run-in with either the Gestapo or the SS. To calm the restless natives, as the general had put it, he'd had Newkirk and Carter sent for so they could see Hogan's condition for themselves and report back to the rest.
"Y' c'd say tha'," the American officer managed to mumble through the badly swollen and broken skin of his face and mouth. "C'd y' pass me a drin'…?"
Grinning, Newkirk passed his CO a glass of water with a straw, holding it for the other man. "General Mann'eim said you were getting' another tattoo, Colonel. One wasn't enough for you?"
"D'is one's pre'y…'ell," Hogan muttered, frustrated that he couldn't talk clearly. This one's pretty, he'd just tried to say, and he couldn't even understand his own words.
"Easy, sir. The General said it were 'is coat o' arms. Told Louis an' me about it yesterday. We got one too, now," Newkirk admitted, still feeling a strange pride. "Just me number, sir; nothin' fancy."
"'Y 'e nummer y'?" Hogan demanded, mildly upset. Why'd he number you? Newkirk was supposed to be released; Mannheim had sworn it.
"'E's gonna let us go, sir," the Cockney hurried to reassure him. "'E just wants t' make sure we can be identified easy-like. I mean, considerin' what-all we got up to, wi' you. Both Louis an' me 'as 'em now, sir." Newkirk paused, thinking over what he'd just said. He couldn't ever recall saying "sir" so much in his life before this. "An' I want t' say, I were proud to 'ave been with you, too. Do it again, if I 'ad it t' do over, I would.
"Do you know, th' Krauts're callin' us die Bärenjunge—the Bear's Cubs?"
Hogan looked at his man through blackened eyes and started to chuckle. Whatever he might have said, though, was cut off by Weber's arrival.
"General Mannheim says you must leave now, Newkirk. It is Carter's turn, and then Hogan must rest. You can come back several days from now."
He wanted to argue, but he wanted to come back again. With great reluctance he said, "Yes, sir," to this young German that Hogan was actually smiling at—as well as he could smile in his current condition—then went to wait in the outer room until Carter had had his visit too.
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He was mostly ignoring Carter as the young sergeant rambled on and on, back in the barracks. Most of the other guys were smiling tolerantly; the relative newcomer to their group, a Captain Dirk Martins, listened with a bemused look on his face that eventually turned to outright puzzlement.
"Carter…Whoa, ease up a minute, Carter," he finally said. "What was your colonel doing in town, anyway?"
"'E went t' get 'im a second tattoo," Newkirk took over the conversation. They had decided amongst themselves that they weren't going to tell this new man Hogan's name, not wanting that to influence his decision. He had been singled out to fly as the General's copilot, with Hogan as pilot, and all of the "Bear's Cubs" wanted his cooperation to be given freely, if at all. That would be safer for Hogan, they felt. But Newkirk knew that if he didn't turn Carter off soon, he'd give Hogan's identity away. So far, he'd only been referred to as "the Guv'nor," "the Colonel," and "PAPA BEAR."
"A second one?" Martins looked even more confused now.
"Yeah. 'E's gonna be th' pilot for General Mann'eim, y'see. 'Is personal pilot, like. But 'is number is on 'is back, so 'e went t' get a second one on 'is arm, t' make things easier. Got th' general's coat o' arms on 'is left forearm now. Marks 'im out as real special, so's the Krauts shouldn't pound on 'im too much. That bloke in Düsseldorf what worked 'im over, 'e's in really big trouble now, for what he done t' th' Colonel." Cor, he was flapping his jaws almost as much as Carter now, Newkirk thought with a mental chuckle.
"That general wants me to fly for him, too," Martins said, his voice soft. He still wasn't certain how these men would react to that information, and so he offered it cautiously. But they just nodded and seemed to think no worse of him for it, so he went on. "You figure he's likely to make me have it, too?"
"Don't know. We don't really know General Mannheim very well," Foster cut in. "It could be just because the colonel's number is in such an awkward location."
"I think it's kinda neat," Carter began enthusiastically. "I mean, everyone has to have a number. Now you and Louis, Peter, your numbers are special too, but that second one really says this general values the colonel. It marks him out special, yes sirree, boy!"
The listening men smiled indulgently at Carter. It was actually good to see him like this again; he'd been so quiet and depressed all the previous week. "Wish we could have something special too," he ended, looking somewhat downcast again.
"But, Andre, we are not being taken by this general; only le colonel is his man." LeBeau was going to try reason first; if that didn't work, someone else would have to divert Carter's attention from the subject.
"No, we're th' Guv'nor's men," Newkirk agreed. "We're th' Bear's Cubs and special enough."
"But no one can see that," Carter argued, although he didn't know why this was so important to him.
"What, you want a big, bloody sign across yer fore'ead?" Sarcasm usually worked to divert the young sergeant, Newkirk knew, but this time it didn't.
"No!" Carter returned, looking hurt now. "I mean, we did things in secret; we should have something we could keep hidden, but we'd know it was there---our own mark of honor." He'd heard LeBeau and Newkirk referring to their number-tattoos like that the previous afternoon.
"An' where'd ye put it?" Newkirk challenged. "Tattoos are big an' not easy to 'ide, Andrew."
"It doesn't have to be," Carter returned stubbornly. "It could be small enough to…to…" He frantically wracked his brain a moment, then grinned victoriously. "It could be small enough to go under a wristwatch. It doesn't have to be really fancy, you know." And, to Carter's surprise, the others were looking at him with interest now, not the gentle derision that usually met most of his suggestions.
"And it would not 'ave to be anything very obvious," LeBeau said, his voice very thoughtful now.
"But it would have be somehow connected to what we were," Foster specified.
"We've been called a lot o' things, mates. "'How're ye gonna choose among 'em?" Newkirk's question silenced them for long moments, until finally Carter's grin lit up the table.
"How about the outline of a teddy bear?" he offered, nearly laughing at the look of outraged shock on everyone's faces. "Why not? The Germans call us the Bear's Cubs—die Bärenjunge. That's literally the bear's children, isn't it? So why not a kid's toy bear? No one else would figure out what it meant. So it'd be a great secret code-sign. Wouldn't it?" He let his uncertainty show then, for he really didn't want to be laughed at right then.
The others looked at each other in shock once more. "My Gawd, it's brilliant!" Foster found his voice first. "And it's not something that anyone else might use unintentionally, either."
"Who'd get t' wear it?" Newkirk asked.
"Why not the nine of us, that the Boche 'ad in 'Ammelburg?" LeBeau asked. "You, Peter; Andre, me, Kinch and Baker—we would 'ave to let them know about it in a letter—you, Foster; Olsen, Wilson, and Matthews, if he wants it. Anyone who went out from camp to fight the Boche; Wilson because he was so good a medic for us. We were PAPA BEAR's assault squad, after all."
"Do you think Jerry will let us do it?" Foster asked, but the question did nothing to dampen anyone's enthusiasm.
"If the Guv'nor asks that general of 'is, probably," Newkirk smirked. "'E's got 'is own aide in there, seein' t' the colonel's comfort."
"Oui. And it will be one more layer of security for us," LeBeau added darkly. "Le Boche will be able to tell who we were from them."
"'Ey, they can do that from our papers, Louis. It'll just show 'em we're not tryin' to 'ide nothin'."
"I think it'll be really neat, boy…"
"Fine. You can ask 'Ermann, then." And everyone laughed at the expression on Carter's face.
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Several days had passed, and Newkirk was back in to see Hogan, LeBeau waiting in the outer room for his turn. The American laughed when Newkirk mentioned the idea, but only eliminated Matthews from the list, on the grounds that all the other barracks-chiefs would then be eligible also. Matthews hadn't been included all that often, but Joe Wilson had definitely earned inclusion in that exclusive group. Hogan volunteered to request permission for his men, but Newkirk shook his head.
"Sorry, sir, but we've already tapped Carter for that," Newkirk said with a laugh. "It were 'is idea, after all. An' that barracks-guard, Gefreiter 'Ermann, seems to be decidin' 'e likes Carter. If 'e won't go to th' general or Ritter for us, then you can. We need to know what 'ell do for us if we ask 'im."
Hogan sighed. "You're right. I won't be here all the time to ask for things you need. I probably won't be here much at all; we're going down to Italy, I'm told, right after Christmas. That should be fun, with this." He waved his left hand at his splinted right wrist by way of further explanation.
Newkirk smiled. "Oh, you'll be mostly 'ealed up by then, Guv'nor."
"Yeah, you're right," Hogan agreed, then grinned. "And you and LeBeau will be home by then, too." He chuckled at the shock on Newkirk's face. "Louis is going in two days, back to Paris. You'll be leaving a week after that. Don't tell anyone else, Peter, not even LeBeau, yet. But General Mannheim is fed up with the games the English government is playing. We'd be going there right after Christmas, if this thing with Italy hadn't come up. Once that's taken care of, though… I'll look you up when we get to London."
"I'll take that as your oath, sir," Newkirk avowed. "But I'll 'old me tongue. I'd best be goin', sir. Got to get this final list to Andrew, since time's short."
"I'll see you before you go, Peter." Hogan's voice was soft; his eyes filled with longing as he watched the corporal head out the door. To go home again, even just for a visit… He shut his eyes, hiding his pain. But Weber, in the outer room, had heard him and pursed his lips thoughtfully as he watched Newkirk leave and LeBeau go in for his own visit.
*********
A/N: Hogan's reappearance is covered in "A Papa Bear of His Very Own."