Disclaimer: I don't own or make any money from my writing, and all characters herein (except for Clare, whom I am claiming as my own) belong to Bing Crosby Productions/Viacom and the heirs of the Capt. W. E. Johns estate.
I have read a lot of really, really good Hogan's Heroes fics since I became hooked, and thought its about time I tried writing one of my own. There's no denying that the series is a comedy, but leave the canned laughter and the caricatures aside, there is a lot of drama and a huge amount of tension in each episode. One can only imagine what it would have been like to live in a constant state of fear and tension, and I hope I can emulate some of that drama while still remaining at least partially true to the essence of the series.
Broken Wings
Chapter 1- A Routine Mission
The bunk clattered, revealing the secret entrance. Kinch climbed out rubbing his eyes. He'd been woken up from a restful sleep by the beeping of the radio and still wasn't entirely awake. He was fairly sure that he had written down the message correctly, even though he'd been doing it on auto pilot.
A sleepy voice from the bunk above protested at the disturbance.
"What is it this time?" Lebeau asked, "Don't they ever sleep in London?"
"Apparently not," Kinch said, "I've got to wake the Colonel, this is code 1A urgent. Go back to sleep."
"Why bother," Lebeau muttered, "We'll all be up and about in a few minutes any way when le Colonel gets up."
"What's up this time, Kinch?" another sleepy voice asked from the other side of the barracks as Carter woke from a lovely dream of fireworks.
"We'll know soon enough," Kinch said and headed for the officers quarters. He knocked once and went in, turning on the light as he did so. "Colonel Hogan, a message from London," he reported.
From his position of solitary splendour on the top bunk, Colonel Robert Hogan, USAAF, sat up. "Not again," he grumbled. "Another message from London?"
"Yes, marked code 1A," Kinch said and handed it to him.
Hogan took the current code book of his shelf and flicked to the correct page. A few moments later he threw back his blanket and slid down from the bunk. "Wake the others, we've got to move fast on this one."
"We're already awake," Newkirk said from the doorway, rubbing his stiff neck. Carter and Lebeau were behind him.
"Come in and close the door, we don't want any guards bursting in on us," Hogan said.
They did so and gathered around their commander.
"The message says a plane has been shot down about six miles from here- according to the coordinates given in the last radio transmission from the pilot," Hogan said as he quickly dressed, "We're to find the crash site, render assistance if we can and destroy the plane."
"Destroy the plane?" Newkirk inquired.
"That's what it said," Hogan answered. He looked at his watch. "I make it 2200. We've got seven and half hours to get there and back before morning roll call. Get ready, we move out in ten. Kinch, stay by the radio and keep and ear out, Carter, get some incendiaries together."
Ten minutes later four black clad figures slipped quietly through the woods surrounding the prisoner of war camp designated Stalag 13 towards the wreck of the plane. As they drew closer, Hogan heard the unmistakable sound of a chase crashing through the forest, and it was coming their way. He pulled Lebeau in to cover, Newkirk and Carter quickly following suit.
"D'you think they've found the pilot?" Newkirk asked.
Shouts of "Halt! Halt!" echoed through the woods followed by shots, all far to close for comfort.
"If the pilot comes this way, grab him before the krauts do," Hogan whispered to his men.
They weren't that lucky. There was one final crash of gun fire and cacophony of shouts, followed by relative calm. They ducked down as a patrol of soldiers went past, dragging a struggling figure still dressed in a flight suit with them. There was nothing they could do, there were too many soldiers, and they were all too heavily armed for the four men to take on. All they could do was hide and watch as the pilot was escorted from the premises.
"There goes that part of the plan," Hogan said. "Let's see if we can find his plane before the krauts do."
The plane, as it turned out, was over a mile from were the pilot was captured, tangled in the underbrush into which it had nose dived.
"That's a Lissy," Newkirk said as he looked at the mangled plane.
"A what?" Carter asked.
"A Westland Lysander," Newkirk elaborated. "Bloody useless as a combat aircraft."
"But great for clandestine operations," Hogan said. "Able to land on rough terrain and if fitted with long distance tanks, able to get from England to Germany and back again in one day. Carter, get those incendiaries in place, I want this in ashes by day break. The krauts first priority was the pilot, but you can be sure they'll be back looking for the kite."
"Why destroy it, Colonel?" Lebeau asked as he helped fit the explosives.
"Lysanders are used for dropping and picking up SOE agents among other things," Hogan explained, his eyes searching the forest for any sign of German soldiers. "It's safe to bet that whoever the pilot was, he was on his way to extract an agent. He'll be safer if the krauts don't know he was flying one of these babies, otherwise he's likely to be in for a rough time."
"Can we rescue him?" Carter asked.
"Not a hope. He's going to have to chance it," Hogan said. "All set?"
His crew nodded.
"Right, set the time for five minutes and let's get the hell out of here."
They were already some distance away when the charges went off. A fireball rose majestically into the night sky and then settled down into a steady burn. Hogan paused to watch the glow for a few moments.
"I'd call that a job well done, at least half well done," he said. He was sore that they hadn't managed to get to the pilot before the patrol. If they'd been just a few minutes faster they might have been able to save him.
"It'll be well done by the morning," Newkirk said, "No medium rare on that that bird."
Hogan gave a small, grim chuckle. He was still thinking of the pilot and hoping that the interrogators wouldn't be too hard on him. "Back to camp, we've got to report to London."
"Word just came back from London, Colonel," Kinch said several hours later after they had returned, reported, washed and changed back into uniforms.
Hogan took the message pad. "Good job on the plane, rescue of pilot will be handled by other agents." He slammed the pad down on the bench. "In other words, you screwed up."
"Come on, Colonel, we couldn't have gotten there any faster, and the German patrols were already in the area," Carter said.
"I know," Hogan said with a heavy sigh, "I just can't help thinking of what's going to happen to the pilot."
The five men all thought back to their own capture, interrogation and eventual transfer to Stalag 13, some by more circuitous routes than others. All of them had been through the Dulag Luft- the interrogation centre- and all of them remembered the tiny pitch black cells, the threats and in a couple of cases, the persuasive techniques used by the interrogators. Both Hogan and Newkirk had been through the wringer, Carter and Lebeau had been lucky enough to be overlooked while their friends and crew-mates had been singled out for special attention, and Kinch had been shunted off as being inferior and thus not worth the effort of questioning. That had not, however, stopped the guards from demonstrating their 'racial superiority' in the most unfriendly ways.
The pilot of the Lissy would be in for a rough time no matter what- there had been no bombing raids, or dog fights for cover, so he had to be a pilot on reconnaissance or a special mission. Once the krauts figured that out they would try their best to find out what the mission was.
"Well, here's to him, whoever he is," Hogan said. "May the fates smile kindly on him."
"Amen," Newkirk whispered.
Authors note: This is sort of cross over between Hogan's Heroes and the Biggles books, both are operating in the same time period, and both involve aviators, spies and secret missions. As such the two fandoms mesh beautifully. Please let me know what you think.