Summary: In the days following the Allied Invasion on the beaches at Normandy, one of our heroes is called upon to commit the ultimate sacrifice.
Author's Note: ~"Dialogue"~ denotes that a foreign language is being spoken, usually German.
Acknowledgement: Once again, a special thanks to Zoey Tranor--a terrific online pal and writer's secret weapon.
Disclaimer: Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!
Copyright November 2001****
Just Another Missionby Syl Francis
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"...A man...ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether he is doing right or wrong." (Socrates)
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Wednesday 16 AUG 1944/1230hrs localBarracks 2, LuftStalag 13
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"Check."
Sgt. Kinchloe slowly looked up. His eyes traveled from the Black Knight that was so annoyingly holding his White King in Check.
To the calloused hand that was pointedly tapping the Black Knight for added emphasis.
Traveled up a sleeve of aged, brown leather, to the silver eagles pinned prominently on an open khaki collar.
To the twinkling brown eyes that were currently smiling back in triumph.
"Give up?" Hogan teased. Growling, Kinchloe placed his chin on his right hand and studied the board critically. Hogan continued talking affably. "Did you know that Chess was once called the game of kings?"
"Oh, really?" Kinchloe asked annoyed. He was only half listening, having spotted a possible opening.
"Uh-huh," Hogan chattered, his tone open and friendly--the epitome of good sportsmanship.
Kinchloe rapidly made some mental moves. He didn't buy his boss's gracious-winner act for a second. Col. Robert E. Hogan was the sneakiest, most dangerous man he knew. And while he trusted him unconditionally with his life, when it came to playing Chess against him, Kinchloe would just as soon watch his back.
"See, at one time, only royalty indulged in the game." Hogan's voice was a buzzing drone in the background. (Probably trying to make me break concentration, Kinchloe thought, amused.) "Because of the strategy involved and the taking of Kings and Queens, it was deemed too dangerous for the common man. Might make him think he was royalty's equal or something--"
"Checkmate!"
Hogan froze. His easy manner instantly changed. Kinchloe caught the briefest icy flicker in his superior's normally warm, brown eyes. He waited, wondering if he'd stepped over an invisible line. Abruptly, Hogan's face alighted in a broad, self-deprecating grin.
"You know what I hate about you, Kinch?" he asked, his tone mock severe.
"That I'm better at Chess than you?"
"At ease, Sergeant!" Hogan shot back, laughing. "One lucky break doesn't make you better, just smarter!"
"Why thank you, colonel," Kinchloe smirked. Hogan gave him a sour look.
"No, what I hate about you, Kinch, is that whenever I'm beginning to feel like I'm invincible, you always manage to bring me back down to earth." He leaned back on his chair and shook his head. "You always remind me that I can't let myself become complacent. That I can be beat."
"Sorry, sir."
"Hey...no need to apologize, Kinch. In fact, I should be thanking you." Hogan reached across the table, offering his hand. Hesitating slightly, Kinchloe took it and they shook.
"Thanks for a great game, Kinch. But most of all, thanks for keeping me in line all these years. All the crazy things we've done...some great, some not-so-great...I don't think I could've gotten through them if you hadn't been there to back me up."
Kinchloe felt overwhelmed by his Commanding Officer's words. Hogan wasn't the type of C.O. who often handed out praise. He was in the business of doing what no one else could and expected his men to accomplish the impossible, something they did more often than not.
Truth be told, Kinchloe wasn't sure that he or the others could have accomplished what they had if it hadn't been for Hogan. The colonel's steady leadership inspired his men to greatness, made them believe that they could do anything.
And now he's telling me that I was instrumental in his success. Well, I'll be...
Kinchloe looked straight into Hogan's eyes, holding them steadily for a long moment. The corner of his mouth twitching slightly, he broke into a wide grin.
"Sir, I don't know how much longer this lousy war's gonna go on, but I promise that as long as does, I'll do my best to keep on beating you at Chess."
Hogan gave him a wry look. "Gee...thanks, Kinch. Your loyalty touches me no end." He began to reset the board for another match. At that moment, a young, Black sergeant stuck his head in.
"Sir? Kinch?"
"What is it, Baker?" Kinchloe asked.
"Sorry to interrupt, but London just called. They want to talk to the colonel on the double."
****
Wednesday 16 AUG 1944/1330hrs localBarracks 2, LuftStalag 13
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"Why are they called V-2 rockets, sir?" Carter asked.
"'V' as in 'Vergeltungswaffen'--for weapon of reprisal," Hogan explained. He caught Kinchloe's eyes over Carter's shoulder. As always no words were needed between the senior officer and NCO. This latest mission had 'Suicide' written all over it.
"The Allies have been steadily advancing since D-Day," Hogan continued. "At this rate they'll be entering Paris any time soon."
"And the Resistance fears the Bosche are going raze the city to the ground," LeBeau said, his expression dark.
"Part of the Germans' scorched earth policy," Hogan said, nodding.
"And with General Choltitz just being assigned as the Kommandant of Gross Paris," Kinchloe added, "it's a cinch that Hitler doesn't intend to let the city fall into Allied hands."
"True," Hogan agreed. "Our sources say that Choltitz was handpicked by the 'Fruitcake' himself, because he's never questioned a military order in his career. Furthermore, he's covered several of the Wehrmacht's retreats, in each case, making sure that nothing was left of the cities they'd abandoned."
He sighed, running his hand through his dark hair. In his mind's eye he could see the devastation left by the retreating Germans. The thought of Paris, the beautiful City of Lights, falling prey to a similar fate was sickening. Shaking his head to clear the images, he continued.
"We have confirmed reports that the Krauts are booby-trapping the city. Factories, bridges, museums--you name it!"
"And what the booby-traps don't destroy," LeBeau hissed passionately, "Hitler plans to level with a rocket bombardment until--"
"--Until there's nothing left of the city," Hogan finished.
"What could the Krauts hope to gain by that, Colonel?" Newkirk asked.
"What does a spoiled child hope to gain by breaking a toy rather than letting another play with it?" LeBeau snapped. "It is just one more reason for all Frenchmen to hate the dirty Bosche."
Hogan placed his hand on the small Frenchmen's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. LeBeau looked up, dark eyes blazing. Seeing the warm, understanding gaze from his Commanding Officer, LeBeau dropped his eyes and nodded slowly.
Hogan turned and looked at the others in turn, his dark eyes taking on a familiar glint.
"So, while the French Resistance is responsible for taking out the booby-traps throughout Paris, our mission is to find and destroy the secret rocket launch sites that are being assembled before they have a chance to fire on Paris."
"What?" Newkirk asked, jumping to his feet. "Colonel, that's crazy! It-it'd be suicide!"
"Maybe it is!" LeBeau snapped. "But this is Paris we are talking about. Colonel, we cannot let the Bosche destroy her!"
"Louis," Newkirk began, "I understand how you feel, but we all know that Paris isn't exactly of vital military importance--"
"What do you mean, not of 'vital military importance'?" LeBeau replied hotly. "What if this was London we were talking about?"
"All right, hold it, you two!" Hogan called over them. "This isn't getting us anywhere.
"Sir, how are we supposed to find the launch sites if they're secret?" Carter asked.
The others all turned and glared at him.
"Carter, does stupidity run in your family, or is it something you've had to work at?" Newkirk asked. Carter blinked at him confusedly.
"That's enough, Newkirk!" Hogan snapped. "Carter, finding the location of these launch sites has top priority. Our flyboys are looking for them from the air, and the Underground is on full alert." He pulled down the wall map he kept in his quarters.
"Peenemunde," he said, pointing at an island on the Baltic Sea. "The Jerries' so-called 'Top Secret' rocket research facility. It's currently under twenty-four hour surveillance by the Underground."
"What are they looking for?" Kinchloe asked.
"Rail loadings...truck transports out of there," Hogan said, shrugging. "Anything that might provide us with a clue as to where they're taking the rockets." He looked up. "It's our belief that Old Bubblehead intends on launching a missile strike against Paris using their new V-2 rockets. As far as we know, they've been working on building them since January '44 when we landed at Anzio."
He shrugged. "They must've figured that sooner or later they were going to lose Italy, and after that, a European invasion wouldn't be far behind."
"And it wasn't!" Carter said. "Oh, boy, you can bet they sure got that one right!"
Newkirk glared at him. "No kidding, Andrew. Sometimes your grasp of the obvious overwhelms me."
"Gee...thanks," Carter replied, blushing proudly. Newkirk rolled his eyes and dropped his head into his arms.
Ignoring them, Hogan walked over to the open window, overlooking the main compound. He stood there for a long moment, watching the bored guards as they walked their monotonous rounds. Taking a deep breath, he turned and faced them.
"Gentlemen, all reports on the V-2s say that we won't have any defense against them. We have to find and destroy these rockets before the Krauts have a chance to launch even one. If we don't, and they're allowed to launch against Paris, the city won't survive."
He glanced at Newkirk and then he walked over to LeBeau, placing his hand on the smaller man's shoulder.
"Crazy? Maybe. Suicide? Probably. But if we don't stop them, D-Day landings or not, the V-2 rockets could turn the tide of the war."
****
Wednesday 16 AUG 1944/2030hrs localBarracks 2, LuftStalag 13
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Hogan looked up from his maps and plans when the door burst open. Kinchloe rushed in, a message in his hand.
"This just came in, Colonel," he said. "From London." Handing it to Hogan, he added, "And, sir...it's hot!"
Hogan stood suddenly as he read it. "They found it!" he said excitedly. Turning to the map, he took out a pair of calipers and protractor and quickly plotted the location, his face lighting in a smile.
"It's about eighty kilometers due south from here." His finger traced the road leading south from Hammelburg. "Near the town of Mutlangen." He studied the terrain relief carefully. "Hmmm...The town's situated on a fairly steep hill. Elevation almost 1500 meters...the launch site should be about here!"
"According to the Underground," Kinchloe said, "it's built deep inside that hill. One of our people actually got a job hauling coal to them and got a fairly good look from the inside." He grimaced, crossing his arms in unconscious imitation of his Commanding Officer.
"It's guarded by an SS battalion and surrounded by a high, electrified fence and a deep trench--a tank trap. They also have dogs and machine gun emplacements. There's only one road that leads up to it, and it's heavily patrolled." He shook his head. "It sounds stronger than Fort Knox."
Hogan glanced up at him, nodding. "It's a real bad break for us. If it weren't underground, it'd make a great aerial target for our B-17s and B-24s."
Kinchloe grinned ruefully. "That would make it too easy, sir."
"Yeah, and where would the fun be in that?" Hogan asked, his tone dry. He stared off into space, thinking of the enormity of the problem. "It'll have to be hit from the ground. Someone will have to go in and blow it."
Kinchloe nodded. "London says that a team of British commandoes will be dropped in tomorrow night to do just that."
Hogan nodded thoughtfully. On impulse, he walked towards his footlocker and opened it. Rummaging quickly through the contents, he touched a special spot, and a false bottom snapped open. He set aside a Luger with silencer, a Top Secret codebook, and a few other items he preferred the enemy not to find. Finally, he pulled out a much worn, dog-eared manual--an almanac. Flipping through it quickly, he found what he wanted. As he read, he shook his head worriedly.
"The new moon isn't due until the 18th--that's two nights from now. If the Brits jump in tomorrow night, they'll still have a crescent moon." He replaced the book and the other items in the false bottom and stood up.
"I don't like it, Kinch. It's too dangerous. They could be spotted and killed before they even hit the ground. Maybe you'd better radio London and recommend they wait one more night."
Kinchloe nodded, and was about to leave when Hogan's voice stopped him.
"Except for that, the job seems pretty straightforward: Suicide--just like Newkirk said. But that's pretty much as straightforward as things ever get for us," he added, shrugging. "Like I said...just another mission."
He gave Kinchloe a wry smile.
"The commandoes' job will be to destroy the launch site. Ours, to rendezvous with them afterwards and see them safely back to friendly lines. If there are any of them left, that is."
"It looks like for once, our job's gonna be a snap," Kinchloe said. "Escorting Allied personnel back to friendly lines is our primary mission."
"True. We've sent so many of our boys back home that we should be looking into opening a travel agency after the war." Grinning, Hogan was about to dismiss Kinchloe, when a thoughtful look suddenly came over him. "Kinch, after you sign off with London, contact the Underground. I want whatever photos, diagrams--anything they have on this place."
Raising a single eyebrow at the request, Kinchloe nodded. So much for the job being a snap, he thought ruefully. Oh, well...like the man said, 'Just another mission.'
****
Thursday 17 AUG 1944/0500hrs localMain Tunnel under Barracks 2, LuftStalag 13
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Baker jerked awake. Giving himself a mental kick, he stood up and began pacing around the crowded communications center. He was on radio watch and was supposed to be alert. He could just hear Kinchloe's quiet, reprimanding voice, reminding him again of the importance of staying awake while on duty.
He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and took a sip, scowling at the bitter taste.
The Allies better come soon, he groused, I don't know how much more of this lousy Ersatz coffee I'm gonna be able to take.
Taking another sip, he glanced around Kinchloe's private sanctum and smiled slightly. The senior radio operator didn't trust many men with his equipment. Baker was one of a handful. The younger man realized the enormity of responsibility that such trust placed on him.
And that includes staying awake, Washington! he berated himself. The sudden clicking of the telegraph key startled him. Grabbing the earphones, Baker hurriedly plugged in. Listening for a moment, he quickly transmitted a 'repeat message.'
As the transmission started again, the young radioman wrote in his quick, sure shorthand, listening intently to the regular series of dots and dashes. When he received an 'End Message,' Baker keyed the mike and spoke into it.
"Goldilocks, this is Papa Bear. Over and out."
As he signed off, Baker rolled his eyes. He still couldn't understand why headquarters changed their call sign. Col. Hogan had been perfectly happy being Goldilocks in honor of his B-17. But after having the same codename for almost two years, HQ had determined that it was time for a change.
It was funny because among the Underground network, once he became 'Papa Bear,' Hogan achieved even greater notoriety. Although highly respected as 'Goldilocks,' for some reason, almost as soon as his call sign changed, Hogan gained even more infamy.
He then thought of all the impossible missions that Allied High Command kept assigning his Commanding Officer, because they knew that Hogan would somehow always manage to succeed. Taking a deep breath, Baker hurried upstairs to wake Kinchloe with the message.
As he climbed out of the secret trapdoor entrance, he decided that maybe fame wasn't such a good thing after all. Checking his watch, he quickly made his way towards Kinchloe's bunk.
Almost time for morning roll call.
****
Thursday 17 AUG 1944/0530hrs localMain Exercise Compound, LuftStalag 13
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Hogan stood at the head of the Allied prisoners' formation, outwardly relaxed. He smirked slightly as Sgt. Schultz walked up and down the long line of prisoners counting heads, unknowingly counting two of the prisoners more than once.
Hogan's mind was on Baker and Olsen, who were at this moment rushing through the woods outside the compound to meet with a member of the local Underground. Sending them had been Kinchloe's recommendation. After two years of using the same team for all the important missions, both Hogan and Kinchloe had decided that it was time to start entrusting some of the others on solo jobs.
And the butterflies in my stomach won't stop fluttering until those two kids are back safe and sound, he added to himself.
The message that Baker had received was a relayed request from the Underground for a meeting. Watching Schultz as he strutted up and down the line of POWs, Hogan silently thanked the Powers That Be for allowing him to be shot down and assigned to a prison camp with such an 'efficient' Sergeant of the Guard.
"Re-porrrrrttt!" Col. Klink, the camp Kommandant, shouted.
Hogan glanced over at Kinchloe, who rolled his eyes. Almost two years of hearing Klink's 'warm' voice first thing each morning was beginning to wear thin. Still, it didn't hurt their mission that the camp Kommandant was as 'efficient' as his guards.
"Herr Kommandant," Schultz reported, saluting crisply. "All prisoners present and accounted for!"
Klink returned the salute and took a step forward. Smirking in triumph, he looked around at the assembled prisoners, his eyes eventually settling on Hogan. Gripping the riding crop he habitually carried under his right arm, Klink began slapping his left palm with it. Unconsciously, he slapped too hard, suddenly wincing and shaking his hand in obvious pain.
The POWs met his inept actions with jeers and catcalls.
"Hey, Kommandant!" Newkirk called, his Cockney accented exaggerated. "You should be more careful with that thing. I hear it's a dangerous weapon!" The other prisoners burst into loud, raucous laughter. Hogan smiled, enjoying Klink's discomfiture.
"Yeah, boy! I-I mean, Kommandant, sir," Carter chimed in. "I once saw a jockey use a riding crop on his horse. Oh, boy, that horse was sure mad...bucked like the Dickens and threw him--"
Aware that all eyes were on him, Carter stopped talking and looking around, cleared his throat.
"Carter, what the blazes are you jabbering about?" Newkirk asked in disgust.
"Well, I just thought that the Kommandant wouldn't want to do anything that could get him thrown from his horse."
"The Kommandant doesn't have a horse, you nitwit!" Newkirk replied, annoyed that he was having this conversation.
Carter blinked, obviously confused. "Then why does he always carry a riding crop? I mean, if you don't ride a horse, then why--?"
"Andrew--shut up," Newkirk said.
"E-nough!" Klink shouted.
"I mean...why carry a riding crop, if--?" A sudden jab to the ribs stopped any further conversation. Carter glanced up at Kinchloe who gave him a sharp shake of the head. Carter nodded and shrugged, still mentally asking why?
When the line of prisoners finally quieted down sufficiently, Klink's whole demeanor became that of a preening peacock.
"I have just received a report from Berlin that the glorious forces of the Third Reich have mounted a bold counteroffensive and are breaking through the vastly inferior Allied lines. We expect within any day to have pushed the Allies back to the beaches of Normandy and into the English Channel!"
A low rumble of mutterings from the line of prisoners met his announcement. Smiling proudly, and looking like he'd grown two feet, Klink glanced over at Hogan.
Meeting Klink's eyes, Hogan hooked his thumbs in his jacket pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels.
"That's all very interesting, Kommandant," he said. "I guess the rumors that the 'glorious forces of the Third Reich' are in full retreat from St. Lô and Coutances are false, then." Klink stiffened, his jaw quivering in anger. Before he could respond, Hogan continued, an impish look on his face.
"Oh, and it must be an out and out lie that the 'vastly inferior' Allied forces landed in Southern France just two days ago and are currently pushing your 'superior forces' all the way back to the Siegfried Line!"
Hogan's comments were met with cheers from his men. Klink looked like he was about to explode with apoplexy.
"And it must also be a lie that the Allies are just days from entering Paris--" LeBeau shouted, his clenched fist raised. "--to finally drive out the filthy Bosche!"
Klink whirled on the angry Frenchman, his expression thunderous. Fingering his monocle, he glared at LeBeau, shaking in fury at the POW's look of derision. Taking a deep breath, Klink visibly calmed himself and smiled coldly. "Do not be too certain that there will be a Paris left for the Allies to enter!"
At his words, LeBeau leaped towards the Kommandant, shouting a long string of French invectives. It required both Kinchloe and Newkirk to hold the diminutive Frenchman back.
"Sgt. Schultz! Sixty days in the cooler for that man!" Klink shouted.
"Sixty days!" Hogan protested. "Kommandant, that kind of punishment is cruel and unusual, and you know it!"
Klink turned on the senior POW and stomped towards him. Stopping less than three feet from him, he waggled his finger at the American. "Col. Hogan, be careful what you say, or you may end up in the cooler with him."
Unperturbed, Hogan stepped forward until he was almost nose-to-nose with the camp kommandant. Leaning even closer, he spoke in a low tone that only Klink could hear. "Kommandant, need I remind you that Allied tanks might be rolling through these gates any time soon? And prisoners have a lo-onnng memory."
"Col. Hogan, need I remind you that I am still camp kommandant. That cockroach was disrespectful. Sixty days in the cooler is the standard punishment--"
"Is that what you'd like my men to remember, Kommandant?" Hogan asked. "That when a young, hotheaded Frenchmen shouted something patriotic about his country, you chose to punish him unfairly--"
"It is not unfair! It is the standard--"
"--Or would you rather they remembered how you let the incident go with just a warning?" Seeing Klink's resolve begin to waver, Hogan added softly, "I know how I would like to be remembered if I were in your shoes, Kommandant."
His jaw working with his inner uncertainty, Klink finally nodded, facing away from Hogan. "Very well...I shall let it go this time, Col. Hogan." Unexpectedly, he turned and added in stern warning, "But you must give me your word as an officer that you will remember this incident, and report my fairness and compassion for all prisoners."
His eyes glinting coldly, Hogan nodded. "Oh, you don't need to worry about that Kommandant. Believe me, I'll remember everything exactly as it happened. You have my word as an officer on that."
Nodding curtly, Klink faced the line of prisoners, his eyes falling on LeBeau. "Just this once, I am going to show that I am not without compassion. Cpl. LeBeau, instead of the cooler, you are restricted to barracks for ten days--all privileges revoked!"
His 'kindness' was met by low mutterings from the prisoners. Saluting stiffly, Klink yelled over their rumblings, "Dis-missssed!" Spinning on his heel, he stomped back to his office.
Hogan and Kinchloe again exchanged glances, this time their eyes smiling in triumph. Slapping the senior noncom on the shoulder, Hogan nodded towards the barracks. "Come on, Kinch. Baker and Olsen should be back soon."
****
Thursday 17 AUG 1944/0930hrs localBarracks 2, LuftStalag 13
****
"Report." Hogan returned Baker and Olsen's salute, his outwardly serious demeanor hiding his amusement. Both men were standing at rigid attention. Oh, brother! Hogan sighed, mentally rolling his eyes. "At ease, fellas," he said. The two men exchanged uneasy glances, clearly anything but at ease in his presence.
Hogan looked askance at Kinchloe, giving him a 'Help me out here' look. Putting on his best Senior Noncom mask, Kinchloe faced the two nervous soldiers.
"Baker, Olsen!" he said sharply. "The colonel ordered you to 'Report!' So...Report!"
Baker and Olsen again exchanged panicky looks. Olsen seemed to be nudging Baker with his eyes. Finally, he hissed, "Well, go on!"
Swallowing, Baker nodded agitatedly. "Right," he said, hurrying to the map.
This was the first time he'd briefed his Commanding Officer and the others. Sneaking out of camp was easy, facing these guys wasn't. Glancing worriedly at Kinchloe, he caught the senior noncom's look of encouragement. Feeling a sudden infusion of warmth spreading through him, he straightened to his full height and proudly faced Hogan.
"Sir, Rapunzel reports that a large convoy of transport trucks left Peenemunde late last night."
"Last night?" Hogan asked. "Why did they wait this long to tell us?"
Baker shrugged, feeling deflated, as if it were entirely his fault. "Rapunzel's contact didn't have a radio on him, so he decided to follow the convoy to determine their heading." He stopped and swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
"Well?" Newkirk asked impatiently. "Where are they headed?"
"Southeast," Baker said, managed. "Or at least they were until--"
"Colonel!" They all turned as Foster rushed into Hogan's quarters. "This just came in. From London!" Foster glanced at Baker, noting the perspiration on the sergeant's forehead. Better you than me, buddy, he thought fervently.
Hogan snatched the message, and reading it quickly, he nodded, releasing a long breath. "Allied HQ wants us to intercept and destroy the truck convoy before it reaches the rocket base." He tapped the message on his open palm, his mind racing.
"Baker, you said that the convoy was headed southeast. Did Rapunzel tell you where it was last seen?"
"Yessir," Baker replied hoarsely. "It was headed towards Dessau, traveling southeast from Berlin. But, it was stopped just on the other side of the River Elbe."
"What happened?" Hogan asked.
"The bridge is out," Baker explained, a wide, boyish grin suddenly brightening his features. "Remember the Allied bomb run over Berlin two nights ago?" Hogan nodded. "Apparently, the bridge was taken out that night as part of a secondary mission."
"That's a break for us, Colonel," Kinchloe said.
Hogan grinned. "I'll take good news anyway I can. Baker, did Rapunzel say which way the convoy's been diverted?"
Baker nodded vigorously, his confidence growing. Pointing at the city of Dessau on the map, he traced the road back north towards Berlin. "The convoy doubled back in same the direction it came. Then it turned west--here--" He traced an East-West road towards Hannover. "--at Hannover, the convoy then turned south--along here!"
Baker next traced a road, heading due south from Hannover. "The latest reports had the convoy stopping for refueling at Bad Hersfeld--"
"--Bad Hersfeld!" Newkirk interrupted. "Colonel, that's only a few kilometers north of here!"
"The convoy's heading this way," Hogan said, suddenly animated. "How long ago did they stop, Baker? D'you know?"
"No sir," he said regretfully.
"That's okay, son," Hogan said studying the map. "Hmmm...look here," he said. "The road they're traveling on crosses the River Fulda at this point." The others nodded. Picking up his pointer, he pulled down another wall chart, that of a bridge. Grinning slightly, he looked over at Newkirk. "See, Newkirk...I told you that one day we'd need this."
Newkirk grinned back. "I never doubted you for a minute, sir."
"Oh, boy--you sure did, Newkirk," Carter interrupted. "I remember when you'n me reconned it." Carter glanced at the others, grinning animatedly. "Boy, some of the things you said! Colonel, if you'd been there, you probably woulda just taken his stripes--"
"Never mind, Carter!" Newkirk complained.
Hogan glanced at Kinchloe, who rolled his eyes, shaking his head. Quirking a single eyebrow, Hogan grinned slightly. What would I do without you, Kinch?
"Okay, knock it off, you clowns!" Kinchloe snapped. The others immediately quieted down, but Newkirk continued to glare daggers at Carter, who impishly grinned back at his best friend.
Hogan immediately got down to business. "Carter, can you make up enough charges to take out the bridge?" He pointed at the detailed diagram of the cantilever bridge that Carter and Newkirk had drawn up almost four months previously. It was over 200 meters in length, and almost 850 meters high, from the river gorge to the elevated crossing.
Carter nodded eagerly. "You bet, boy--uh, I mean, sir!" he said. "On the last supply drop we received new detonator caps, fuses, and C-4 plastic explosives! Enough to blow up ten bridges--"
"Thanks, Carter," Hogan interrupted. "I knew that I could count on you." Turning to Baker, he slapped the younger man on the shoulder and smiled warmly. "Baker...Olsen, you men did well. Good work!"
The young men dropped their eyes and shuffled slightly, embarrassed by the accolade. The others grinned over their heads, knowing exactly how they felt.
"Okay, fellas," Hogan said, returning to the map. "We've got a lot of work to do if we're gonna intercept that convoy." Nodding at Kinchloe, he jerked his head towards the door. "Kinch, you know what to do--uniforms, weapons...oh, and we need a truck from the motorpool."
"And I know just the Kraut who can be bribed into giving it to us," Kinchloe replied, a wicked glint in his eye. He began herding everyone out the door to allow Hogan some quiet in order to finalize his plans.
About to follow Olsen out the door, Baker suddenly stopped and hastily pulled a large envelope out of his battledress jacket. "Sir! I almost forgot!" He handed Hogan the envelope. "Rapunzel said to give this to you. She said it's the info you asked for."
Breaking the envelope's seal, Hogan carefully dumped out the contents onto his field table--photos and diagrams. The others quickly gathered round and exchanged dubious glances when they realized what they were seeing--exterior and interior snapshots of the underground rocket base.
"Double bloody charming!" Newkirk muttered.
****
Thursday 17 AUG 1944/1330hrs localCantilever Bridge over the River Fulda
****
The bridge hung, suspended over a deep gorge. The fast-moving waters of the River Fulda raged far below, the debris from recent rains carried along in its wash.
Hogan stood on the far side of the bridge on lookout, keeping watch over the steep, hillside road. Readjusting his field glasses, he scanned the bend on the road once again. The two-ton truck borrowed from the Stalag 13 motorpool was parked a few feet away from him, near the edge of the bluff. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the road for almost a mile. Any approaching vehicle would be easily spotted.
He glanced over his shoulder. His men were carefully laying out the C-4 charges under the watchful eyes of Carter, who insisted on checking each detonator cap and fuse to ensure they were properly installed.
As the team's explosives expert hopped from soldier to soldier, adjusting a connection here and a wire there, Carter commented excitedly on the upcoming blast.
"Boy! Just you wait!" he told Newkirk. "This thing's gonna blow so high, the weatherman will be reporting falling bridges for the next coupla days!"
"Lovely, Carter. Just lovely," Newkirk intoned dryly.
"Carter, I think that you are a very sick man," LeBeau added. "I recommend you seek immediate help, mon ami--before it is too late."
Scratching the back of his head, Carter cocked it to the side. "But I feel fine, Louis. Honest!"
Newkirk and LeBeau rolled their eyes, LeBeau throwing up his arms in disgust. Baker and Olsen exchanged amused glances at the byplay. Kinchloe stood back, hands on hips, his expression sour.
"Get the lead out, you clowns!" Kinchloe growled. "Unless you want this bridge to be your final resting place!" The others immediately turned back to the task at hand. At that moment, Hogan spotted the lead vehicle of the convoy, a half-track.
"Oh, swell!" he muttered. Those things are armed with a turret-mounted, 20-millimeter cannon!
Hurrying to the truck, he opened the driver's side door and shouted, "Kinch, get these men moving on the double! The convoy will be here any sec!" As Hogan climbed in the truck, Kinchloe waved in acknowledgement. Starting the engine, Hogan began driving back across the bridge.
"Carter!" Kinchloe yelled. "Get cracking! You heard the colonel! The Krauts will be here any minute!" As he shouted, Kinchloe ran towards Carter to ensure that the younger, accident-prone sergeant didn't suddenly become careless and inadvertently send them all to Valhalla.
"All done!" Carter announced.
Hogan pulled up in the middle of the bridge and moved over to the passenger side, making room for Newkirk behind the steering wheel. The others quickly climbed in the rear, all that is, except Carter and Kinchloe. It was Carter's job to walk down the line and do a final, visual check of the charges.
It was Kinchloe's job to keep an eye on Carter.
Newkirk drove the truck several meters beyond the bridge and pulled it off to the side of the road. The others climbed out, quickly taking their positions. Baker and Olsen unloaded a red and white roadblock sign and placed it at the bridge exit.
"Man...I don't ever want to handle that stuff again," Baker muttered, meaning the plastic explosives.
"Yeah," Olsen agreed fervently. "It sure ain't like any modeling clay I ever played with when I was a kid."
"That is because you two had normal childhoods," LeBeau commented, pointing at Carter with his chin. "Unlike our friend over there."
"You can say that again, mate," Newkirk replied. "When it comes to Carter, there ain't a bloody normal thing about him--"
"--Hold it!" Hogan interrupted. Spotting the lead vehicle approach the far side of the bridge, he pointed. "There they are!" He waved Baker, Olsen, and LeBeau into the woods. As the three men disappeared, he called out, "Kinch! Carter! Move it!"
Kinchloe came running up to him, his expression grim.
"We have a problem, Colonel." At Hogan's look, he continued. "Carter says that some of the fuses are defective. He's trying to replace as many as he can before the convoy crosses."
Hogan felt his adrenaline shoot up. Seeing the half-track slowly lumbering towards the midway point, the first of six transport trucks less than fifteen meters behind it, he blew out the breath he didn't know he was holding. The rest of the convoy was evenly spaced out, at approximately the same distance between each vehicle.
Each of the transport trucks had a two-man team, armed with automatic weapons, riding shotgun on the top of the cargo trailer. The long trailers were covered with a green/brown-camouflaged tarpaulin. Hogan's trained eyes could make out the distinct, tube-like shapes of the German rockets. The next instant he spotted the rear vehicle--another half-track!
And another 20-millimeter cannon.
"It's too late," he said, shaking his head. "We'll have to take our chances. Call him in."
Kinchloe nodded curtly and sprinted to where Carter was still fumbling with the defective fuses.
As the lead vehicle crossed the midway point, Hogan began counting down mentally. Every convoy stop he and his men attempted was fraught with danger. Usually, he had to contend with a motorcycle or staff car bearing armed guards. Stopping armored vehicles with turret-mounted weapons was not his idea of a good time.
Hogan's heart beat rapidly as Kinchloe and Carter quickly, yet carefully rolled out the detonator wire. At the last minute, they discovered that they didn't have sufficient wire to run it to the woods. Momentarily disconcerted, Carter pointed at their truck and looked at Hogan for confirmation. Nodding vigorously, Hogan waved them both towards it.
He could feel the sweat begin to trickle down his back. This August had been unusually hot in Germany--both figuratively and literally. The Allied victories on the Western Front had frayed the Stalag 13 guards' already volatile tempers, while the hot August days only added to their short fuses.
At the moment, the sweltering heat was causing Hogan to regret his choice of disguise. The heavy SS uniform jackets were considered all weather by the Germans, but were proving to be quite uncomfortable in the afternoon sun.
With the lead vehicle less than twenty meters from the roadblock, Carter and Kinchloe dove underneath the truck, taking their positions. From the corner of his eye, Hogan saw Carter feverishly wiring the detonator. About to turn away, he saw Kinchloe suddenly slap Carter's hand and jerk the detonator away from him. Hogan rolled his eyes when Kinchloe began rewiring the connectors.
One of these days Carter's gonna give me a heart attack, he groused. If the Krauts don't kill me first. His disposition a match for the outside temperature, Hogan waited impatiently for the half-track to finally come to a stop.
"Halt!" Hogan yelled, his arm upraised. Newkirk stood next to him, his Schmeisser at port arms. The half-track stopped, still on the bridge. Ignoring the muzzle of the 20-millimeter cannon, which was pointed straight at him, Hogan took slow, measured steps, until he was directly in front of the vehicle.
Glancing down, he noted that the toes of his boots were mere inches from the bridge. Then again, I might just get myself killed instead. Looking up, he locked gazes with the turret gunner, a boy of about seventeen whose apricot complexion had probably never been touched by a razor. His collar insignia identified him as SS.
The soldier's too-old, unflinching eyes held Hogan's. The American glared back. They stood this way for what seemed a long moment, when unexpectedly, the muzzle of the large gun moved slightly to the left, until it was no longer aimed directly at Hogan.
His knees suddenly weak, Hogan felt a drop of perspiration wend its way down his right cheek. Inside, a thrill of relief washed over him. So you blinked first, eh, kid? So much for the super-race.
A young lieutenant soon joined the gunner in the open turret.
"Heil Hitler!" Hogan crisply saluted the junior officer. The lieutenant snapped to attention and returned the salute.
"Herr Oberst, vas ist denn los?" he asked. "~Why are we stopped here--in the middle of the bridge? Is this not dangerous? May I not move the convoy off the bridge first before--~"
"~Enough!~" Hogan shouted. "~Leutnant--?~"
"Leutnant Weisser, Herr Oberst."
Hogan nodded curtly in acknowledgement. "~Leutnant Weisser, I am Oberst Hoganhoffman! My orders are to stop all vehicles on this road to warn you of heavy Underground activity in the vicinity. We have reports of ambushes further south, near Steinach.~"
"Jahwohl, Herr Oberst!" Weisser shouted, saluting. "~I will ensure that the guards remain alert at all times--~"
At that moment, the first of the charges went off near the middle of the bridge. Newkirk immediately brought up his submachine gun and fired a burst at Weisser and the turret gunner. The two men screamed as they fell over the sides.
The bridge was instantly engulfed in chaos--explosions, flames, and smoke adding to the overall confusion. Screams of agony and shouted warnings could be heard over the tearing metal, sending cold chills through the Allies. Hogan and his men rapidly took up positions behind any available cover, firing on anything that moved.
Several more of the charges went up in a spectacular display of pyrotechnics. Catching sight of several men being blown clear of the bridge, Hogan's jaw tightened as they tumbled into the angry waters below. Within moments of the first explosion, the bridge began to slowly collapse under its own weight from the midway point, taking the half-track and three of the transport trucks with it.
"Sir! Look!" Carter yelled, horrified. "The bridge isn't going over completely. The explosives on the other half aren't going off!" He next words were self-castigating. "It's the fuses. I didn't get all of the defective ones!"
Hogan ran to the edge of the cliff at a crouch. Staying low, out of range of the small arms fire still coming from the far side, he placed his hand on one of the remaining bridge supports. The steel alloy was torn and warped from the high stresses placed on it, the edges sharp and jagged.
"Blimey, Colonel--Look!" Raising his head from a prone position, Newkirk pointed at the remaining trucks still on the bridge.
"Holy cats!" Kinchloe muttered.
"Sacre chat," LeBeau whispered.
His eyes glued to the far side of the bridge, Hogan tightened his grip on the bridge support, the razor sharp ends cutting into his palm. He could only watch helplessly as the remaining vehicles slowly began backing off to the safety of the other side.
****
Thursday 17 AUG 1944/1440hrs localOn the Hammelburg Road
****
The long drive back was done in almost complete silence. LeBeau sat with his arms folded on the stock of his weapon, his head resting on his arms. Baker stared, unseeing, at a spot on the bed of the truck. Olsen sat with his legs splayed out, his head thrown back and eyes closed.
Carter sat apart from the others, refusing to look at any of them. In the silence, the truck swayed to the rhythm of the turning wheels, the rocking motion whispering 'Failure...failure...failure...' across the endless kilometers.
Kinchloe worriedly kept his eyes on Carter. The young sergeant's usually effervescent personality had taken on a sudden turn to the dark side. Kinchloe had not seen Carter this despondent since the younger man received a 'Dear John' letter shortly after his capture.
Arriving at a decision, Kinchloe moved next to Carter. Ignoring the others, he concentrated on his favorite explosives expert.
"Andrew," he said softly. Carter jerked, startled by the voice next to him. When the younger man turned, Kinchloe caught sight of his anguish, noting that his normally bright, blue eyes appeared shadowed and sunken.
"Want to talk about it?" he asked.
In a fit of anger, Carter grabbed his helmet and tore it off his head, flinging it across the cargo-hold. To his surprised dismay, it narrowly missed LeBeau.
With a low growl of anger, the small Frenchman leaped at Carter, shouting a string of insults in his native French. Baker and Olsen just as quickly jumped up and grabbed the much shorter man by the arms, dragging him back to his seat. Kinchloe caught a few of the choice words that LeBeau was spewing, and winced as his ears burned.
Carter jumped to his feet, his initial hurt expression changing to one of belligerence. "Oh, yeah? Well...same to you, buddy! Whatever you said!"
"Knock it off, LeBeau!" Kinchloe ordered.
"That--that completement debile blew the mission! Because of him, the Bosche will still be able to destroy Paris!" LeBeau struggled hotly against the others' firm hold. Looking at Carter disgustedly, he asked nobody in particular, "Why do we trust him with important missions anyway?" Jerking his arms free from the others' grasp, he turned away, muttering to himself, "He always finds a way to foul up everything!"
Catching this last comment, Carter grabbed LeBeau by the shoulder and spun him around.
"Oh, yeah? You think you could've done any better, pal? Well..." Carter thought rapidly, trying to remember a phrase that LeBeau had painstakingly taught him. "Well...je crois que non. So there!"
"'I think not'?" LeBeau sneered. "Is that the best you can do, Carter?"
"I said, 'Knock it off,' LeBeau!" Kinchloe snapped.
Still seething, LeBeau plopped down as far away from everyone as he could, muttering under his breath in his native tongue.
Carter stood uncertainly, swaying to the rhythm of the moving truck, 'Failure...failure...failure...' echoing in his head.
"But that's all the French I know," he said. When LeBeau failed to respond, he turned beseechingly to Baker and Olsen. Unable to meet his pain, they looked away.
"I guy can't do more than that, can he?" Feeling a warm hand on his shoulder, he looked up at Kinchloe. "A guy can't be expected to do better than he knows how--can he?"
Kinchloe shook his head. "No, Carter. A guy can only be expected to try his best."
Carter hung his head, shaking it in desperate denial. In his mind he could see the rockets bombarding the city of Paris. His shoulders began trembling.
"It'll be all my fault, Kinch." Slowly, he lowered himself until he was sitting down again. His head bowed, he repeated, "It'll be all my fault."
Kinchloe sat down next to him and placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Carter...what happened was no one's fault." Scowling at LeBeau, he added meaningfully, "And nobody's blaming you."
LeBeau looked up, glaring defiantly. He and Kinchloe wordlessly stared at each other, their dark expressions mirror images. Glancing at Carter, LeBeau felt a sudden stab of guilt pierce him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he brought his hand up to cover them and then ran it through his hair.
Taking a deep, heartfelt breath, he said apologetically, "Carter, Kinchloe is right. What happened was not your fault...And no one blames you. I was out of line." He then extended his hand to Carter.
After a long moment, Carter slowly raised his head. He turned first to Kinchloe, and then LeBeau. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly in a half-smile of acknowledgement for their efforts. Taking LeBeau's hand, he shook it.
Smiling sadly, LeBeau settled back and closed his eyes, feigning sleep.
Baker and Olsen exchanged looks of relief, and believing that the brief rift between the two friends had been healed, followed suit and went to sleep.
Feeling Kinchloe's eyes on him, Carter gave him a quick smile to reassure him that he was all right, and he too leaned back on his seat, his eyes closed.
Keeping his thoughts to himself, Kinchloe watched the German countryside recede in silence.
****
End of Part 1
(To Be Continued)