Field Marshall WHO?

This is my entry in 96Hubbles 4th annual Hogan's Heroes Short Story Speed Writing Contest.

Disclaimer: I don't own HH or anything belonging to it. First line is from It's Me Again by Donald Jack.

A/N: For the purposes of this story, Schultz's hometown is Munich and Stalag 13 is a day's ride on the train. Also named kids, complete with personalities. Oh as for how long it takes for a truck to stop on a slippery rainy road? I based that off the California Department of Motor Vehicles Driver's Handbook I'm studying from currently. I don't know how to drive yet, never been behind the wheel and I don't go out in storms so please excuse me if I made mistakes. Enjoy!

On my way back to the front, I ran over a general. I know what you're thinking. Schultz how could you do such a thing? No doubt my little boy Ernst would look at me with big blue eyes and ask, "Papa why?" Perhaps I should explain what happened before you call Major Hochstetter to arrest me. It all started when I earned a week's pass to see my family. Kommandant Klink had been in a very good mood lately. The boys hadn't pulled any monkey business in a while; at least not the kind that got the big shot in trouble. My men did their duties well for a change, and if one of the prisoners got replaced by a stranger I simply reported the proper number were here. I see nothing and I know nothing. That's how I like things. And no other big shots stopped in to see Stalag 13, not even General Burkhalter which meant the Kommandant wasn't raising his blood pressure trying to please the man. So I received a week off, to see my Gretchen and the kinder.

Munich is nice this time of year. In June, the flowers have bloomed, and the trees are full of summer foliage. The city is riddled with ruins of buildings from the Allied air raids but I'm sure it will be rebuilt in time. Thankfully my house is in a district that hasn't been bombed, and my family is still alive.

When I arrived, the children were happy to see me. They hadn't seen me in six months and it was a long time for them to not see their Papa. My oldest Friedrich who is sixteen had been working nights at the neighborhood pub to earn some extra money for the family. I send home pay as much as I can, and Gretchen works shifts in the factory but times are hard and it is difficult to get everything needed for such a large family. If only I had my factory still. After Friedrich, are fourteen years old Marta and the twins Hans and Gretel who are ten years old. The youngest is Ernst who is just eight years old. The four youngest must stay in school and study hard but I worry about them. About what Herr Goebbels has taught in schools across the Fatherland. Such nasty ideas and I worry my children will turn out like the Nazi's. I'm not a Nazi you know but a Social Democrat. But when I'm home, I sit and talk with the kinder, to teach the right ideas and Gretchen does a good job too. Friedrich helps too, for he has a lot of good sense and he is like the man of the house in my absence. I arrived after the children returned from school and I was treated to many stories of adventures. Friedrich would not leave for his job for a few hours yet, and he told me all about his working in the pub.

It was all very pleasant, and for the afternoon I pretended there was no war, and I did not spend my days guarding dangerous prisoners. I know they did not choose to be there, and I feel sorry that such nice young men cannot see their parents, sweethearts or children like I can. But I am rambling. I helped the little ones with homework, watched as they did chores and watched them play afterwards. Then my Gretchen arrived home. She worked the day shift at a cannon factory and she had been in a foul mood lately. Twice the factory had been partially damaged by air raids, and the noises of construction distracted her as she did her job. She was positive the next time the Allies came, the factory would be blown to bits and with her luck she'd be inside.

"Sweetheart how are you?" I cried when she came into the living room after changing out of work clothes. She dressed as a man to work in the factory because women were supposed to stay home with the children and we needed the money. Luckily nobody paid much attention to her and she was successful for now.

Gretchen gave me a sour look for somebody who hasn't seen their husband in six months. I thought she would be happy to see me, but boy was she grumpy! "Hans what are you doing here?" She rubbed her temple as she spoke.

"Papa is on a week's leave Mama. He came on the train and got here a few hours ago." Marta spoke up happily.

Friedrich decided to step in. "Yes, and he brought some money too. He's been helping the little ones with homework and watching the chores get done. He even suggested we begin preparations for supper so you could put up your feet. Why don't you sit by Papa, and Marta can cook tonight."

For a second Gretchen wavered, obviously torn between supervising supper or resting after a long day. Her exhaustion won, and she sat on the worn armchair next to mine. She reached for the sewing basket she kept next to it, and began mending somebody's shirt. "I'm sorry Hans. My supervisor increased the quota today and we could not leave until it was completed."

I sat and listened to her, as she poured out tales of her work and I suddenly remembered why I had fallen in love with her, all those years ago. Her graying hair was pulled back into a sharp bun now, and her face was creased with worry lines but I saw the golden hair and smooth skin of her youth. Around us the twins played chess and Ernst fiddled with a little puppet I had carved for him at his birth. Marta went into the kitchen, and soon the cheerful sounds of banging pots resounded as she cooked the evening meal. Friedrich made his apologies and left for his shift at work. He worked six to midnight as a waiter. I questioned where he found the energy to work, come home to sleep for six hours and then go to school all day.

That first evening has become my favorite memory in a long line of favorite memories but I treasure it so because it happened in the midst of war. All around us, death and misery occurred yet in my snug house we had the illusion of peace. Even now, as I relate this tale to you I think of that evening and smile. I know in the coming winter, when I march in the cold I shall think and smile. But if every day was like that, then this would be heaven and not earth.

The rest of the week went downhill after that. June sometimes brings summer storms, and the weather that week proved it. Every day got hotter, and more humid. As the land dried, the tension rose in people. It was common to see fights break out between friends and my family was no exception. Gretchen was previously in a sour mood, and the weather only increased her snappiness. She came in sweaty and so bedraggled, I wondered how she still passed for a man in public. Even the children were in sour moods. Ernst frequently whined, dragging his feet whenever he was asked to do anything and the twins got in several small brawls. Gretel wasn't afraid of using her fists when her temper rose, and Hans could be quite wild when he wanted to. The prisoners can tell you, I am a jolly man normally. I do not get upset too easily, and I prefer to stay away from fighting. But when my children are fighting each other, and the weather is so hot my patience is short. I hate to punish them, but they must learn not to fight like so. If that were not enough, Friedrich and Marta got into several small quarrels themselves. My fourth day home, Marta snapped at Friedrich nastily.

"Where are you going? You haven't finished cleaning the kitchen." Marta pursed her lips in an uncanny imitation of Gretchen.

Friedrich scowled. "I have to work, Marta. Somebody around here has to make money and you're nothing but a useless lump. Besides it's not a man's job to clean the kitchen. That's women's work."

"Just because you work at a smelly pub all night does not mean you can shirk your chores. I'm not asking you do something complicated like cook. Just finish wiping the table and take out the trash." Marta tapped her foot and her blue eyes glittered dangerously.

I sighed and intervened. "Marta, kindly stop nagging your brother. Friedrich please finish cleaning before you go to work. Both of you apologize for insulting each other and if you cannot speak nicely to each other than you may not have pocket money for two weeks. Just because there is a war on, does not mean you have permission to have one at home. Is that clear?" I fixed them with a stern glare. The boys in the barracks have better manners than these two right now, I thought.

Like I said, the family was in a foul mood that got only worse and by the time my last day arrived, I was glad to leave. I thought longingly of Stalag 13 and how far it was from the whining children and sullen wife. I kissed them all goodbye, hoisted my bag of freshly laundered clothes and departed for the train station. I took in the sights and smells of Munich for the last time in a while. I had the feeling I would not see it for quite some time-especially if Colonel Hogan planned some more monkey business I did not see or know about. The train ride passed uneventfully although I did have the misfortune of sharing a compartment with two very drunk Privates on their way back to combat from leave in Munich. They were loud, obnoxious and eyed my Sergeant's uniform with great dislike. The shame was, they weren't much older than my Friedrich and yet they were fighting in this war. Another thing to chalk up to Herr Hitler and his brilliant regime.

When my stop in Hammelburg came, I quickly left the train. The Privates were to continue east. I wondered suddenly if they were on leave from the Russian Front. It certainly explained their drunken state. I'd be drunk too if I had to return to Russia after escaping for a week. Alighting at the station, I noticed the weather here was very much like that of Munich. The storm must have been huge to spread this far, yet it held back. I eyed the sky uneasily. While I would love for it to break and cool the area, I'd rather be back in camp when it did. Nearly fifty years of living has taught me the first summer storm is not something to be caught out in.

Just as I looked around, a slightly quivering voice rose above the crowd and snatched my attention. "Sergeant Schultz!"

I turned and made my way to Corporal Langenscheidt. I would recognize that voice if I lay dying in the Russian snow. "Langenscheidt, what are you doing here? Why are you not back in camp with the big shot?"

"I came to pick you up Sergeant. The storm is going to break any day and I did not want you to walk back in it. Besides, the Kommandant sent me to buy some items from town for his party." The skinny Corporal explained.

I frowned. The big shot was having a party and did not invite me? I was his official food tester! "Danke for your concern Corporal. What is this party about? Is the Cockroach making the food?" I climbed into the small truck the Corporal had requisitioned for the trip.

"Jawhol, he is cooking and some prisoners from Barracks 2 are waiters. Colonel Hogan has been invited because this is an officer's party. The party is actually General Burkhalter's party and he has invited many staff officers from High Command. He is making the Kommandant pay as usual. There is supposed to be some generals and other officers coming." Langenscheidt climbed in and started the truck. He had already grabbed the supplies and put the boxes in the back.

I salivated at the thought of food, but my vision of wunderbar French cooking was interrupted by the thought of the Kommandant. No doubt he would be upset and very frustrated by putting up with General Burkhalter's demands. The muggy weather probably wasn't helping his mood. My own mood plummeted at the thought of insults and humiliation bound my way. Suddenly my haven had become the front, and I wondered if it wasn't too late to go to the Russian Front with those Privates. "We'd better return before the Kommandant has us shot." I commanded gloomily.

The trip through town was uneventful, and I listened as Corporal Langenscheidt regaled me with tales of the camp in my absence. The first couple days had gone smoothly but then General Burkhalter had arrived and had been driving the Kommandant nuts. Surprise inspections of the men, tightening up of camp security, and frequent roll calls for the prisoners were just some of the nuisances Stalag 13 endured. The prisoners were sullen, on edge and seemed to be on the verge of breakdown. This party and the storm had everyone inches from madness.

I glanced up at the rumble of thunder. The truck was now in the countryside, going through the woods. The sky had darkened and I felt goose bumps rise on my skin. Within moments of my glancing upwards, the rain fell in hissing clumps of water. Soon, the road and world was obscured by thick sheets of rain interspersed only by roaring thunder and crackling lightning. "Be careful, Corporal!" I shouted over the storm. The last thing we needed was ending up in a ditch gravely injured-or worse.

"What?" Langenscheidt yelled back. He grabbed the steering wheel and wrestled with it as a strong gust of wind threatened to steer the truck into the side of the road.

To my right, a tall oak was lit on fire by an arcing branch of lightning. I jumped and uttered a prayer to Gott for safety. Thankfully we drove past the oak before it came crashing down in a groan of branches and old wood. Previous thoughts of dread upon my return to Stalag 13 were replaced by a sincere desire to get there as quickly as possible. I was drenched, shivering and frightened by the storm and I knew Langenscheidt had to be feeling much of the same.

While I would have to liked to speed as quickly as the speedometer allowed, Langenscheidt kept it to a slower speed to allow for the road conditions. I might have praised his safe thinking except I was in no mood to drive modestly. I glanced up as lightning lit up the world just as we came around a sharp curve and my eyes bugged out as I saw a twisted hunk of metal that could only be a staff car of sorts half in a ditch, and half on the road. A fallen tree lay nearly parallel which explained how the car came to be in a mess. I opened my mouth to shout a warning to Langscheidt but he saw the scene too and jerked the steering wheel to the left to avoid the scene. Luckily we had slowed more to come around the curve or what happened next would have immediately resulted in a firing squad for me and the Corporal. A loud crunch clipped the truck on the right and the truck came squealing to a stop a few hundred feet later.

Corporal Langenscheidt's bony face was pale as he turned to look at me. Obviously a survivor of the wreck wanted to flag us down and we had hit them instead. It was equally obvious from the way his eyes looked at me, that I would go out to investigate.

I wanted to yell in protest, "Why does it have to be me?" but I knew it to be no good. I was the Sergeant, he was the Corporal, and any accidents were my responsibility as the ranking officer. So I groaned and climbed out of the truck. Putting an arm up to shelter my eyes, I made my way toward the scene of the crime. Thankfully lightning flashed enough nearby, I could see some. What I saw though made me gasp.

A uniformed figure lay bloody and limp, just where we had hit him. The shiny medals and braid on the uniform made me pale. This was a Field Marshall of the Third Reich and I was responsible for his being injured. I knelt down to try to assess the state of the damage. I'm no doctor or even a medic but battlefield experience in the Great War taught me enough to determine a few simple things. The limbs looked to be all there though one leg looked twisted and sickly out of place. There was blood dribbling down from under the cap, though the water thinned it and made it hard to tell how much was coming. I checked his pulse and found a steady one. He was alive but for how long I didn't know. I would have to take him back to Stalag 13 and hope there could be better care there. The hospital would have been best but it was too far. Maybe the man wasn't as injured as I thought and it would be alright. Didn't the prisoners have a medic? I suddenly remembered the staff car wreck. The man must have had a driver and he might be worse off. I found my way to the car, grateful for the lightning. It was getting closer by the sound and I knew we should get out of here soon. When I got to the other car, I found the driver. He was half in, half out of the car flung through the windshield. There was no pulse. I spared a prayer for his family. For all I knew, he might have children and a wife or perhaps elderly parents that depended on his paycheck. I dragged the body out, and lifted it up. I couldn't leave a man behind in this storm, no matter if he were a perfect stranger. I took him back to the truck and put him in the back. I shook my head at Langenscheidt before I left, so he wouldn't think the man was alive. Then I carefully scooped the officer up. I tried to be careful because I didn't know the extent of his injuries and took him to the back. I climbed in and waved to Langscheidt to start the truck. It would be better if I stayed back here, and kept an eye on the officer.

Despite the storm, the trip passed uneventfully. Not long after, the truck drove onto a smoother if muddier ground and I glimpsed a tall fence complete with flashing lights. I had returned to Stalag 13.

Arriving at the Kommandant's quarters, the Corporal jumped out and went for help. Other guards came and took the body in, and then the officer on a stretcher. The goods were unloaded, and I dragged my canvas bag of laundry with me. It was damp from the rain blowing into the back and I shook my head at the waste of my wife's efforts to clean it. Once inside, I found the place curiously empty of guests save for a few majors who had come a few hours early for the party. The storm had probably discouraged more from coming and I doubted any would come immediately after for the state of the roads left something to be desired.

The prisoners were dressed smartly in red jackets save for Colonel Hogan who was dressed in his dress uniform. He raised an eyebrow at my bedraggled look. "Schultz didn't your mother teach you not to go out in the rain without rain gear? You're going to catch cold."

I frowned at him. My life was on the line while that Field Marshall was being examined, and he was making jokes! "Jolly joker. You try driving in a blitzkrieg of a storm and hitting a general. See how you like it."

His reply was interrupted by a voice raised in anger from the other room. "DUMPKOPF! This is all your fault!"

"But Herr General how is it my fault?" A sniveling voice pleaded.

"If your idiot Sergeant hadn't gone on leave and you hadn't sent that whining Corporal to town for supplies this would never have happened!" General Burkhalter's voice boomed.

"But Herr General you insisted we needed more wine and caviar. I had to send Langenscheidt and Schultz had to get back somehow." Kommandant Klink was probably cringing as he spoke.

"Don't try to pin this on me! It's your fault for the Field Marshall being injured and his driver being dead! DUMPKOPF you realize what the High Command is going to do when they hear about this?" General Burkhalter roared.

The voices lowered but I was in shock now. I was dead, I knew it. I turned to see Colonel Hogan frowning thoughtfully. Somehow I wasn't surprised that he understood German. "Colonel Hogan what am I going to do? They'll kill me and I didn't do it on purpose!" I babbled in English.

"Don't worry Schultz, we won't let you get sent to the Russian Front or shot." He flashed me a grin.

Corproal Langenscheidt walked up and tapped me on the shoulder. "Sergeant, I got a look at the Field Marshall…you won't believe who it is." He whispered the name and I gulped.

"Field Marshall WHO?" I squeaked. When I said I hit a Field Marshall, I wasn't expecting to hit the desert fox*! Why did General Burkhalter have to invite him to the party?

I won't bore you with details on what happened next. The camp medic, Sergeant Wilson came to take a look at him being the doctor was too far out to come in the storm. Luckily Field Marshall Rommel only had a concussion and a broken femur and when he came to the next morning, he didn't remember what happened. Everyone convinced him he got injured in the same crash that killed his driver. And with a few words from Colonel Hogan, Langenscheidt and I were let off the hook for hitting the Field Marshall. Kommandant Klink wasn't even blamed and the three majors that showed up to the party was sworn to secrecy to never reveal the truth after General Burkhalter threatened them with a transfer to the Russian Front. So now that you've heard my tale, I hope you won't call the Gestapo. I know I said some things against the government but I know you're a nice person. Why else would Colonel Hogan recommend you to tell the tale to?

EL FIN~

A/N: Desert Fox was Field Marshall Rommel's nickname for leading the Afrika Corps of the Werchmacht. North Africa was lost after the Allies defeated them in 1943. In the HH timeline this is after the episode Crittendon's Commandos. El fin is Spanish for the end.