I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story.

Cover image: Henri-Paul Motte (1846-1922), "Les oies du Capitole" (detail)

Of course, the idea of buying a goose for Christmas dinner originated with Corporal Hinkelmann. This should have been warning enough for Karl to have no part of it.

There were two problems with Hinkelmann. The first was his imagination, which was just too active for an enlisted man; the second was his entirely inexplicable confidence in his own culinary abilities. The truth was, he'd been assigned as head cook in the officers' mess partly because he was rumoured to have a way with pigs' feet, but mostly because of his incompetence in every other area of military service.

Even leaving all these matters aside, it was wise to be cautious, since the only place Hinkelmann was likely to get a fresh goose was from one of his shady black market contacts.

So when Sergeant Schultz sidled up to Karl, who was on patrol in the prisoners' exercise yard, and told him a share in Hinkelmann's Weihnachtsgans was available for an investment of only a few marks, Karl's first instinct was to claim exemption on vegetarian grounds. But it didn't pay to offend the sergeant of the guard by being too blunt; better to hedge a little, avoid making any promises, and hope the whole idea would just go away.

However, Karl couldn't resist asking the one question he knew he shouldn't: "How will it be cooked?"

"Roasted, of course," replied Schultz, his face brightening in anticipation, "with onions, carrots, thyme and bay leaf, and served with Bratäpfel and red cabbage."

It sounded so good! Just like the roast goose Karl's grandmother had served up every Christmas, except Oma had flavoured hers with marjoram instead of thyme. Even though it was years ago, for a moment Karl could almost taste the rich, tender meat, the sharpness of the apples and the clear aromatic juniper berries in the cabbage. It took some effort for him to steel himself to further resistance.

"Five marks is a lot of money, Sergeant," he said.

"You think a good fat goose can be bought for pfennige?" Schultz uttered a scornful grunt. "You don't get nothing for nothing, especially in wartime. And that's another thing, the war. What good is money, when we might not live to see another Christmas? Take it from me, Langenscheidt, you should make the most of every chance of a good meal, because it might be your last."

"Yes, sergeant," mumbled Karl, too timid to point out that for soldiers like them, assigned as guards in the toughest prisoner of war camp in Germany, the dangers of war were actually pretty far away.

"So, shall I tell Hinkelmann you are in?" Schultz's head was nodding in encouragement, and Karl felt his resolve ebbing away. Even if the cost was exorbitant and the provenance questionable, and even if Hinkelmann wasn't much of a cook, a goose was still a goose.

"I am in," said Karl.

Schultz beamed with satisfaction. "Wunderbar! Oh, it will be such a fantastic meal. Of course, it will have to be kept secret from the other guards, and the prisoners, and especially the Kommandant. The only ones who know about it are you and me and Hinkelmann, and Sergeant Kristman, and Max and Moritz from the officers' mess, and the boys in the motor pool, and the quartermaster, and the quartermaster's clerk. So not a word to anyone else."

It occurred to Karl that if Hinkelmann could feed so many hungry men with one goose, it would be a Christmas miracle, and that at five marks a head somebody, somewhere, was making a substantial profit on the whole affair, but he couldn't withdraw now.

"Oh, and by the way," Schultz added, "Hinkelmann needs the money right away. He has to pay his supplier in advance."

The approach of a couple of prisoners brought the conversation to an end, and Schultz, with a consciously nonchalant air, shouldered his rifle and waddled off. Karl, being on duty, stayed where he was, his face burning with embarrassment at the clearly audible comments of the prisoners:

"What do you suppose the dirty Boche are up to now?"

"No bleedin' idea. But whatever it is, I bet it's dodgy."

The Engländer was probably right. Karl had a feeling Hinkelmann's scheme was somehow going to get them all into trouble. All the same, as he contemplated the prospect of a Christmas dinner of roast goose with apples, he told himself it would be worth it.

Hinkelmann didn't waste any time. Only a few days later, on his return from a supply run to Hammelburg, he parked the lorry behind the officers' mess, unloaded the contents, and sent his kitchen hands Max and Moritz – nobody could ever remember their real names – to summon any other syndicate members who weren't otherwise engaged. As it happened, Karl was once again on patrol in the yard; easy enough for him to divert his regular beat when he saw Schultz hurrying towards the mess kitchen. He entered almost on the sergeant's heels, to find Hinkelmann, his two acolytes, Sergeant Kristman and the quartermaster's clerk, all standing around a large wooden packing case.

As Karl joined the circle, Hinkelmann held up his hands. "All right, I admit it's not exactly what I expected…"

"Why? What is the matter?" demanded Schultz.

Hinkelmann gestured towards the box. "It's the goose. My supplier seems to have misunderstood the order, or maybe my instructions weren't clear…"

A loud, angry thud from inside the box interrupted him. By reflex, Karl stepped back, then blushed and glanced at his comrades. He needn't have been embarrassed; Kristman was halfway to the door, and the quartermaster's clerk had taken refuge behind the ample shelter of Schultz.

"Don't!" squeaked Max. But it was too late; Moritz had already undone the catch which held the box closed. The front panel fell with a clatter, and their prospective Christmas feast came waddling forth.

It stopped right in the middle of the kitchen, fixed a beady, reptilian eye on the cook, then stretched its neck and gave its wings a good flapping. Kristman retreated even further.

"Well," said Hinkelmann, breaking the petrified silence, "at least it's fresh."

The goose swivelled its head to peer at him, uttering a menacing hiss; then, apparently wanting to make its opinion know in a more direct manner, launched an unprovoked attack on the hapless Moritz, who gave a girlish shriek, tried to leap out of danger whilst simultaneously fending off the vicious beak threatening his most treasured attributes, and cannoned into Max. As the pair of them fell in a heap on the floor, the bird looked around for the nearest escape route, only to find its path blocked by an oversized obstacle in the shape of Sergeant Schultz. It ruffled its feathers, clearly prepared to wreak instant and final destruction.

Schultz boggled, and dropped his rifle. "G-g-guhhh... g-g-guhhh... g-g-guhhh..."

The sound acted on Karl in the most unexpected way. He'd never been particularly plucky in a crisis, nor was he by any means fond of Schultz; but that incoherent whimper sent him forward, without thinking, to place himself between the goose and its intended victim.

"Oh, you'll make it angry!" wailed the quartermaster's clerk.

But the bird, after a few heart-stopping seconds, uttered a soft, inquisitive murmur, waggled its rear end, and tilted its head to study this new object of interest. Karl hesitated, then held out a tentative hand, and giggled as the goose nibbled at it, very gently. It tickled.

"Um Gottes Willen!" whispered the quartermaster's clerk. He sounded as though he'd just witnessed a miracle.

"I think it likes you, Karl," observed Hinkelmann, watching with interest. "Isn't that sweet? You must be the one to kill it."

Karl, fully absorbed in his new acquaintance, barely heard him. "He just wants to be friends. Oh, you're a good goose, aren't you? See, he...what did you say?"

Hinkelmann shrugged. "Well, I can't cook it like that, can I? It needs to be... prepared..."

"And nobody else can get close enough," added Kristman. He had crept a few steps nearer, eliciting another warning hiss.

"But...but I can't..." Karl faltered.

"Well, of course not. Not here, anyway," said Hinkelmann. "It might attract attention. You'll have to take it out into the woods where you won't be heard."

"Oh, no! No, it's impossible. How could I possibly..?" Karl couldn't say it; but Hinkelmann could.

"Kill it? Shoot it, with your rifle."

"Between the eyes," added Moritz, with a malevolent gleam in his eye.

"Or bayonet it," added Max.

"Wring its neck."

"How about poisoning it?"

"No," said Schultz, holding up his hand. "Nobody will want to eat a poisoned goose."

There was a moment of silence, then Hinkelmann shrugged. "In that case, Karl, you must get an axe, and chop its head off."

At that very moment, the goose had turned its head to stare at Hinkelmann with what appeared to be an air of quizzical curiosity. It was too much.

"Nobody is going to chop his head off." Anger swelled up in Karl's breast. He looked Hinkelmann right in the eye before sweeping a defiant gaze around the rest of the syndicate. "Nobody is going to hurt this goose. I won't have it."

An astonished silence fell across the group. Karl felt himself blushing under their wide-eyed scrutiny, but he squared his shoulders and held his ground; at least, until Hinkelmann gave a shrug, and said, "All right, Karl. But you'll have to explain it to the boys in the motor pool. They're going to be very disappointed."

Instantly, the bubble burst. Karl could feel himself shrinking in stature. "The...the boys in the motor pool..."

"Yes, they're really looking forward to a wonderful Christmas meal."

"It's true," said Schultz. "It's all you hear them talking about."

"And they've paid five marks each. They'll be really upset about it. It could get ugly."

Kristman gave an uneasy laugh. "Good luck, Karl. I wouldn't like to be the one to tell them."

"Uh...well..." Karl's voice trailed off. The goose, now quite docile, nibbled at his hand again. "Can't you give them their money back?"

Hinkelmann rolled his eyes, and blew out his cheeks. "You will have to discuss that with my supplier. But I warn you, he doesn't like giving refunds. Not good for business." He regarded the unhappy Karl with a fair assumption of sympathy. "Of course, if you really feel strongly about it, you could always pay the motor pool boys back out of your own pocket."

"And the rest of us, as well," added the quartermaster's clerk. "That's only fair."

Karl did the calculations in his head, accounting for his meagre savings as well as his pay for the foreseeable future. Then he looked down into the goose's eyes, and sighed. "I won't use an axe," he said.

Ten minutes later, Sergeant Schultz marched up to the gate nearest to the mess kitchen. He eyed the two guards, both new men, with a degree of scorn. "Achtung!" he bellowed. "What do you think you are doing?"

"G-g-guarding the gate, Sergeant," stammered one of them.

"Oh? Is that so?" When he felt like it, Schultz could be quite intimidating. "You think this is an easy job, do you? You think keeping the prisoners from escaping is simple? You think – Eyes front! Pay attention when I'm talking to you!"

His two victims did their best to comply, while behind them Karl, followed by his goose and accompanied by Sergeant Kristman, stole towards the gate, eased it open and slipped out. As they made their way into the woods, they could still hear the voice of Schultz, as he warmed to his role. "Let me remind you, this is the toughest prisoner of war camp in the whole of Germany! So shape up! Chest out! Heads up! Eyes front!"

Kristman stopped after a little while. "We should be far enough now. I'll wait over there while you...you know, Karl...take care of things." He was not very happy about being here, but it had been decided that someone had to go along to keep Karl up to the mark, and Kristman had drawn the short straw.

Karl gave him a pleading look, but he was already retreating to a safe distance.

The goose regarded his executioner with dark, inscrutable eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," said Karl. "I can't help it. You are a goose, which means at this time of year... I promise, it won't hurt. Oh, please, don't look at me like that."

Shortly afterwards, Kristman, waiting anxiously, heard a single rifle shot.

"Karl?" he called, peering between the trees. For almost a minute, he waited. Then Karl emerged from the dimness, carrying nothing but his rifle.

"Where is it? What happened?" asked Kristman, staring.

"I missed," said Karl. He blushed, thinking he could see a hint of skepticism in Kristman's eye, and added hastily, "He moved his head, just when I pulled the trigger, and I missed. And...and he ran away – I mean, he flew – I mean, when the rifle went off, he...well, anyway, he escaped. I would have gone in pursuit, but I didn't see which way he went."

"Maybe we should let loose the dogs."

"No – no, it's too late. He's probably halfway to Switzerland by now." Karl went even redder. He was not very good at telling lies, and Kristman was sure to become suspicious.

But Kristman, after one searching look, merely shrugged. "We're going to have some explaining to do," he said. "At least, you are. Come on, we'd better go and tell them what happened."

Karl followed the sergeant back to camp. He was not looking forward to the reception awaiting him there. And yet, there was an unintended spring in his step, and a sense of peace in his heart. He couldn't feel ashamed of himself for turning his rifle to the treetops at the last second, and letting his goose go free.

Even if it took him the rest of the war to pay back the rest of the syndicate, it was worth it.

Notes:

Sergeant Kristman appears in "Anchors Aweigh, Men of Stalag 13" (Season 1). The spelling of his name is as shown in the episode credits. Corporal Hinkelmann is mentioned, but never seen, in "An Evening of Generals" (Season 3).