And the Angels SingPRIVATE

It was a warm summer evening in southern Germany. The sky glowed in dusky pinks and oranges. The twilight gave even the somber confines of Stalag 13 a cheery, light ambiance. Or at least thought Col. Robert Hogan, senior POW, as he took a deep drag on a cigarette and sat down outside his barracks to read his latest sandalwood-scented letter from Miri. She'd written on average about once every two weeks since she'd returned to Britain, and over the course of their correspondence, he'd seen her wildly mercurial personality settle down. She'd really shown herself to him—well, as much as the censors would allow--and he'd returned her trust, letting down barriers he seldom lowered. Their flow of mutual affection had become a real source of joy for him, and he eagerly read this epistle in the dwindling light.

So engrossed was he in the letter--full of local and family news, literary, musical, and travel interests, not to mention intimate emotions--that he failed to notice Sgt. Hans Schultz sidle up to him. "You're up late, Colonel. And you know you shouldn't be outside after lights out."

Hogan jumped at the sergeant's words, almost dropping his cigarette. "Good grief, Schultz. You took six months off my life." Hand and letter were pressed against his heart.

"I'm sorry, Colonel Hogan. I didn't mean to startle you." Schultz spied the letter and caught a whiff of it as the flyer finished reading it. "Ah, your lady friend in England. She has such nice perfume." He closed his eyes in appreciation.

Hogan smiled fondly. "She sure does. And what I would like best is to smell it on her--in person." He sighed before continuing. "It's on nights like this that I really miss the front porch swing. I'd be sitting there, swinging gently, Miri curled up next to me, head resting on my shoulder...."

Schultz interrupted Hogan's gentle fantasy. "You're in love, Colonel Hogan, but you need to be in the barracks. Go dream about your lady in your bunk."

Punctured, Hogan groused as he ground out his cigarette. "Schultz, you're a spoilsport."

"No, the Big Shot has been on my case. I would like him off. So, please, be a good boy, and go to bed, colonel?"

"What's up with the kommandant?" This was bad news. Light thoughts of love and summer disappeared.

"How should I know?"

"Oh, come, you know everything in this camp." He gave the sergeant an impish grin.

"No, no, no!" he whined. "Please go inside now. Dream about your lady friend. It will make me happier."

"Okay, Schultz. Good night." Though he kept it cordial, he was worried. They had an escape in progress. This may have been their 914th, according to Newkirk's reckoning, but that didn't change the fact that they had 5 guys in the tunnels. This was no time for Klink to get regulation happy. He'd have to find out what was going on--tomorrow. As Hogan tiptoed through the barracks, he mumbled to his sleeping men, "How can you guys sleep on such a glorious evening?"

HH HH HH

The next morning, Hogan sauntered into Klink's office. Fraulein Hilda, the gorgeous blonde secretary, typed furiously. Hogan frowned. At that rate, she'd break a fingernail. Sure enough, Hilda stopped suddenly and stuck a finger in her mouth.

"Can I kiss it and make it better, Hilda?" he offered affectionately.

She looked up at him and glared. "No, thank you. I've too much work, courtesy of Herr Kommandant, to have time for your schemes." She sounded more put upon than hurt.

"What's going on, Hilda? Has the Rusted Eagle been swooping down on you?"

"General Burkhalter called yesterday to tell Herr Kommandant that he's bringing a big shot industrialist here tomorrow."

The American cocked his head and wiggled his nose as he sat on the edge of her desk. "So that's why everything is by the book."

"Yes. I've six months' worth of reports to type up. Aagh."

"Well, this should cheer you up." Hogan pulled 3 pairs of nylons out of his jacket pocket and handed them to her. "Consider it a down payment on what I owe you."

She took the stockings but looked suspiciously at him. "To what do I owe this sudden repayment?"

He gave her a brilliant smile. "I actually have them. For once. And so, I thought I'd pass them on before I forgot. Again."

The explanation seemed to allay her suspicions, but if Big Mouth Schultz said anything about Miriam, well, Hilda could become a problem. And in fact, Miriam was the real reason he was settling up with the secretary.

"So, is he in?"

"Not to you. He left specific instructions not to let you in."

Hogan got off the desk and marched over to the door. "We'll see about that!" With jovial defiance, he entered Klink's office where he breezily greeted the kommandant.

Col. Wilhelm Klink, monocle firmly planted in the left eye, looked up from the paperwork piled high on his desk. "I don't have time for your nonsense, Hogan. Dis-missed!"

"Is that any way to talk on such a beautiful summer day? Besides, you should be excited about such an important visitor coming."

Klink eyed him with thinly veiled hostility. "What do you know about that?'

"Well...."

"Never mind. All prisoners will be confined to barracks after this evening's roll call. No exceptions, Hogan." There was an unusual nervous snap to Klink's voice.

"Who is this bigwig?" The American tried for a cigar but nearly lost a finger instead. Making innocent eyes at the camp commander, he muttered, "This guy must be really important to get you so bent out of shape."

"Jean-Marie Auverne is an important Vichy industrialist who is relocating his factory to this area."

"Yeah, well, with the Allies pushing toward Paris, who could blame him?" Hogan chuckled to himself. "Of course, putting a factory here will only give the Allies something new to bomb."

Klink wiped any humor from the situation. "Colonel Hogan, for your impudence, you're confined to barracks for 30 days. Dis-missed!"

Returning the salute, Hogan left, disgruntled but informed.

He met Sgt. James Kinchloe on the way back to the barracks. "Get on the horn to London and ask them for everything they know about Jean-Marie Auverne."

"Nice work, colonel."

"Well, it cost. Klink's confined me to barracks for 30 days. Right in the middle of summer. Geez!"

"What happened?"

"Oh, I ran my mouth, and Old Blood and Guts was in no mood for it."

Their conversation ended as they entered the barracks. Kinch went to the radio room while Hogan laid his hands on Cpl. Louis Lebeau's shoulders. "What's for dinner?"

"Salade Niçoise and roast chicken with 40 cloves of garlic."

"Yum. And what do you know about Jean-Marie Auverne?" A spate of rapid-fire French flew from LeBeau. Hogan only caught 'sale cochon' but assumed the rest was in the same general vein. "En anglais, Louis. And something useful, not envenomed."

"Auverne is from Paris, is very tight with Pierre Laval, runs a large munitions works, and operates on the black market. That's all I can tell you, mon colonel, except that General DeGaulle would like him shot as a traitor."

"We could arrange that for the good general," commented Peter Newkirk from behind his latest edition of The Times. It was only 3 months old.

LeBeau looked up at his mate, shaking his head. "I don't think you quite understand how we French feel about Vichy collaborators."

Cutting off the cross-Channel rivalry before it could flare up again, Hogan asked, "Anything else?"

"Oh, and he's something of a dilettante."

"What do you mean 'dilettante'? What does he do? Dabble in oils?"

"No. He collects singers. He likes to play patron."

Kinchloe was suddenly at Hogan's elbow. "London knows all about Auverne's plans. They're sending an agent in specifically to deal with him, and she'll make contact with us sometime in the next 48 hours."

"She?" asked Hogan. He was seized with an unpleasant, sneaking suspicion.

Kinch looked dumfounded. "Yes, sir, she. What's wrong with that?"

He handed the orders to Hogan who read the rest, crumpled up the message, and began swearing under his breath. "Dammit!" He headed off for the radio room, Kinch in bewildered tow. Not ten minutes later they came back up, Hogan cursing, "Damn, damn, damn, damn!" as he went to his office and slammed the door behind him.

HH HH HH

Puzzled looks abounded. Sgt. Andrew Carter looked at his fellow sergeant and asked, "What gives, Kinch?"

"Major Broadbent rides again."

"Parbleu! Just what we need! Mme. Defarge!"

Kinchloe tapped LeBeau on the shoulder. "And just what makes her Mme. Defarge?"

Before LeBeau could respond, Carter cut in. "Maybe she doesn't even knit." Newkirk tipped Carter's cap into his face, but the demolitions expert was undaunted. "I wonder if the colonel's reaction has anything to do with those perfumed letters he's been getting on a regular basis?"

On one hand, the men around Carter were shocked. Colonel Hogan, for all his informal command style and genuine regard for his men, was an intensely private man--one who guarded that privacy fiercely. He'd nearly bitten off Newkirk's head when the latter had finally questioned him on one of his outrageous sob stories involving his mother. While they'd learned the colonel was the oldest of five children and that his mother really was a widow--since 1930--they'd all decided that the price for asking was too high. On the other hand, Hogan's behavior made it clear he liked the ladies, and given he was a colonel, a pilot, and a bachelor, that was pretty normal. And God knew they'd gently and not so gently teased him about Fraulein Hilda or lipstick on his face. But if he were really in love? They'd have to tread carefully.

Kinchloe asked Carter directly, "How do you know about these letters?"

"They were sitting on his desk, all tied up with blue ribbon. I saw them when I was cutting his hair. I smelled something different in the air, and asked what it was. Colonel Hogan said it was sandalwood. I just assumed it came from the letters." Carter craned his head forward. "The colonel was in a really good mood, too. He didn't even yell at me when I nicked his ear." He looked round at the guys, silently defending the truth of it.

Newkirk took a deep breath before commenting, "Well, whatever's goin' on, we'd better not let 'im 'ear us making any comments about 'er. Just in case." He looked meaningfully at LeBeau. "None of your 'Mme. Defarge' cracks, if you please."

Carter chimed in seriously. "Yeah, we could be talking about the future Mrs. Hogan."

"Mon Dieu! I hope not."

"Or we could be making erroneous assumptions and jumping to conclusions." Kinchloe shook his head

HH HH HH

The bright afternoon sun made for warm and cheerful working conditions, even if the prisoners didn't particularly care for the repairing the road. At the least, it did get them out of camp. Newkirk stopped and leaned on his shovel. He'd barely broken a sweat. One of the guards, Corporal Langenscheits, came over and ordered him back to work.

"In a minute, mate. Can't you see, I'm takin' in the scenery?"

He'd originally meant the woods around them, but just then a lovely young fraulein hove into view. He gave a loud wolf whistle, turning Langensheits' attention from his goldbricking. The German corporal's eyes nearly popped as the lady approached.

The young lady--she couldn't have been more than 25--wore a summery green linen dress, strappy brown sandals, and a wide, floppy, straw hat that hid her hair. A picnic basket dangled from one hand. All the men stopped work to frankly admire her. She smiled broadly at them as she strolled by. Suddenly, she seemed to crumple. Colonel Hogan, closest to her, saw the ankle turn and quickly strode over to catch her before she fell.

As he put his arms around her, pulling her toward him, a heady whiff of sandalwood assaulted his nose. The fraulein, who seemed positively tiny to Hogan, turned dark, luminous eyes up to his face. Her quick wink startled him as much, if not more, than the swell and pressure of her linen-covered breasts against his bare arm. As soon as she righted herself, he released her.

"Danke, mein Herr," she said softly, flushing slightly.

Hogan tipped his cap, bowing slightly from the waist. "Colonel Robert Hogan, at your service, meine Fraulein," he responded formally.

Smiling, she waved at him and his men as she went on her way.

He watched her retreating back, and when he was sure she was out of earshot, he spat, "Brazen little hussy," and read the note she'd left in his rolled up sleeve. His face settled into angry lines.

HH HH HH

Carter and Newkirk had watched the interaction between their colonel and the fraulein, smiling with knowing amusement, but the colonel's comment had shocked them. When their inaction caught his eye, they bent to their work with a will. After Hogan had walked on, Carter whispered to Newkirk, "Have you ever seen the colonel so angry?'

"No, mate, I 'aven't, and I ain't about to ask, neither."

"You don't suppose that woman was Major Broadbent, do you?"

"Wot! Walkin' out in broad daylight, right in front of God and the Gerrys? Don't be daft, Andrew. Even she's not that crazy."

"Well, you know what Kipling said: Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun."

Gray-blue eyes rolled upwards. "Oh, leave off."

HH HH HH

That night, while his men finished processing their 5 escapees and getting them out via Schnitzer's dog truck, Hogan went out to meet his contact. He practically had to creep and crawl in the bushes to avoid Wehrmacht patrols. In the process, he missed seeing Miriam Broadbent leaning against a fir tree, virtually invisible in her black attire.

She stepped out from the branches, and said, in her best Marlene Dietrich voice, "Halt, soldier." Hogan whirled around, pistol drawn. She didn't blink. "Is that any way to greet your own Lili Marlene?"

He waggled his eyebrows while giving a slight toss of his head. A twig snapped somewhere, forcing them to crouch down behind a bush. Given the opportunity afforded by the patrol, Miri threw her arms around Hogan's neck and kissed him—deeply. His arms encircled her waist, pulled her closer to him, and overbalanced them. Still in their tight embrace, they fell into the cool grass, invisible to most and oblivious to all. When they came up for air, the patrol was long gone.

Rather breathlessly, Hogan remarked, "We'd best not hang around here."

Equally winded, she merely nodded in agreement.

The walk back to Stalag 13 allowed Hogan's head to clear. Once they were in the safe, well-lit confines of the tunnel-system, he angrily opened up on her. "Just what the devil was that stunt?"

Broadbent unknotted her black scarf, setting her hair free. She nonchalantly unbuttoned her light sweater, and she answered him. "I wanted to greet you well." A little gold crucifix hung in the hollow of her throat.

Hogan's mouth opened and shut like a gasping fish's. Retaining some measure of control, he managed to choke out, "I meant this afternoon's performance—walking out in broad daylight with all the Gestapo looking for you!"

"I needed to make contact with you, to arrange this meeting, and to brief you on this mission." Her voice was melodic, with an amused undertone. "One of my pet theories is that the best place to hide is right under someone's nose. So many people ignore the obvious."

She raised a black eyebrow. "And since you are less than observant this evening, I should like to direct your attention to the fact that I hardly look like the middle-aged Lt. Col. Schmidl." Not an ounce of gray corrupted her black, shoulder-length hair. "It is amazing what a good dye job and seven months at home can do for you. I've gained a stone1, thanks to Angharad."

"All right, so you've changed enough to keep me from recognizing you until you were under my nose. I doubt that'll be enough to save you from the Gestapo." He moved over to lean against a table. He sighed as he stared into the darkness a moment before returning his gaze to the diminutive, but now svelte, British major. "Whose bright idea was it to send you back to Germany, Miri? Every Gestapo agent from Paris to Berlin has got orders to be on the lookout for you. If they catch you…."

He didn't have to continue. They both knew—and she better than he—that those animals would not be gentle with her. She would more than likely die of the experience, but God knew what she'd tell them before she did.

She broke the oppressive silence. "That's a definite concern, my Robin." He cocked an eyebrow at her pet name for him, a standard English diminutive for Robert, but said nothing. "But as I was trying to say before you began your sermon, I've created an identity which fits the assignment very well."

"Ah, yes, that. Just what is the assignment? London was positively cryptic about that." He pushed his hair back. "Why do I have the feeling that the brass hasn't made up its feeble mind about it yet?"

All trace of humor had left Broadbent. "That one I'll have to concede. This mission is subject to change." She snorted. "I didn't liked the idea overmuch when I first heard it, but London's given me great discretion in approaching Auverne."

"Marvelous."

"Who said it was a convenient war?" She spied the coffeepot. "Someone was very thoughtful."

"Sgt. Kinchloe," he said as he reached for a cup.

After taking a slug of the strong brew, she launched into her explanation. "I'm here in Hammelburg as Marie-Jacques Duval, cabaret singer, born and raised in St. Mâlo, Brittany. Since I speak French with a Welsh accent, the Breton cover makes sense because Welsh and Breton are linguistically close." She paused to let that sink in.

"Mlle. Duval is 28, is utterly indiscriminate in her associations because she seeks fame and fortune. Political affiliations are meaningless to her. Her last engagement was in a sordid little club in Pigalle that even Auverne, with his low taste for playing with second-rate singers and actresses, wouldn't have frequented." She took another swig of coffee. "I've established myself at the Hauserhof in town. I've been there a week, and I have landed a 3 month engagement, singing 5 nights a week. Pity you missed my act, my Robin. I think you'd've liked it."

Hogan had been giving her a serious assessment during her layout of her identity. So far, it seemed to fit the bill. "Okay, you've got an identity. Do you have a plan, or are you just singing for your supper?"

She ignorec the sarcasm and answered the question. "The Allies, if all goes as expected, should take Paris by the end of the month. Auverne is important because he's working on something secret—London suspects a genuinely long-range rocket--that might delay or prevent that. That's why he's here building a factory. For the moment, the plan is to ingratiate myself with Auverne, gain his confidence, and pull as much information out of him as possible—about all his nefarious operations. The factory lasts only until it is ready to go into operation. But that's your mission. And after that, who knows?" She shrugged.

"We'll think of something," he snorted. He rested his chin on thumb and forefinger. "I assume you can actually sing or are you going to growl your way through?"

She hummed a moment before singing softly, "There'll be bluebirds, over the white cliffs of Dover/Tomorrow, just you wait and see./There'll be love and laughter/and peace ever after/Tomorrow when the world is free.'" Her voice was pure; the melody, accurate. "Vera Lynn, I'm not, but I do all right."

A slight smile played around his lips, even as he returned to business. "How do you plan to make contact? According to Klink, he'll be here," Hogan looked at his watch, "later today. Auverne will be trying to get camp guards for the factory. And undoubtedly, Klink will invite our pigeon to dinner." Hogan smirked. "A dinner by LeBeau—always a good way to suck up to important visitors."

Her eyes lit up. "Good. See what you can do to get Klink to mention the new French singer to Auverne. It should whet his appetite."

"LeBeau can always drop a word to Auverne."

Broadbent wagged a slim finger at Hogan. "The only thing Louis LeBeau is going to drop to Auverne is a plate of poisoned Chateaubriand." She yawned. "With regard to you—you're my liaison with London. Weekly contact should suffice, but do not send the same man twice and vary the days. Try to keep it to the hotel. If I am unavailable, if you have to contact me outside the hotel, my apartment is right around the corner from the club. 215 Martinstraße 7."

"And right across the street from Gestapo headquarters." Real anger rode under his words. "Do you have a death wish?"

Wearily, she leaned against a wall. "Oh, very well, Robin. What is the matter with you?"

He sprang forward, his voice raw with emotion. "What's wrong with me? Here you are, back in Germany on a deep cover mission. And a dangerous, open-ended one at that…."

"And you don't want me here."

He closed his eyes while pinching the bridge of his nose. "No," he admitted. "I'd be a lot happier if you were in England."

She shot back with equal intensity. "And I'D be a lot happier if you were in England, my Robin."

"My mission is here, Miri."

"And so is mine," she fumed, fixing him with a steady gaze.

Slowly, he turned away from her, took a deep breath, and muttered, "You're the most frustrating woman…."

"Because I won't stay home and wait for you to come back to me? That's not me, my Robin, and you know it." She moved to him, reached up and touched his shoulder.

He swallowed hard. "You don't make this easy." He looked down on her; his hand cupped her cheek, tilting her head up towards him. "I love you, Miriam. I want you safe."

"Your need and desire to protect me is conflict with my need and desire to live my own life, make my own choices." She gazed into his face. "How would you like it if I asked YOU to go home and fly a desk for the rest of the war?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"I would be seeking to protect MY LOVE from harm."

"It's not the same."

"Because you're a man. Ah, the double standard. If MY asking you to retreat to safety," she placed a small hand over his heart, "is ridiculous, then pray tell me, why is the reverse not equally true?"

"Because it isn't, Miri." His voice hardened, warning her that this discussion was closed.

"Answered with commendable logic, my Robin."

HH HH HH

A large black staff car drove into Stalag 13. The men were confined to barracks, but that didn't stop Sgts. Carter and Kinchloe from monitoring the situation. Carter, on the periscope in the sink, watched the rotund General Burkhalter and an equally portly, but shorter, man emerge from the car. Klink greeted them effusively and ushered them into his office. Carter yelled to his counterpart, "You're on, Kinch."

The African-American radioman plugged in the coffeepot. Klink's voice came through loud and staticky. The sergeant from the phone company gave LeBeau a dirty look. "Must you use this thing for an actual coffeepot?"

The Frenchman looked wounded. "I didn't. Colonel Hogan must have used it when he needed an immediate transfusion."

Kinch raised an eyebrow at LeBeau. "I doubt that."

Carter remarked, "It's convenient to blame the colonel since he's not here." The oddity struck the chemist. "Speaking of that, where is he?"

"Gone fishing. Left right after roll call with Newkirk. Now can we get back to business?"

The colonel had left them—meaning Kinch in particular--with the strict orders to get down everything they could concerning Auverne's operation. LeBeau had already been volunteered for chef duty—with explicit instructions not to poison Auverne. After all, Hogan had predicted, he would be dining with Klink and company, and as he told his chef, he didn't feel like expiring somewhere between the fish and the soufflé.

The men had missed all of the obsequious pleasantries. Just as well. They'd heard it all before. "Kommandant Klink, let me come directly to zee point," an unctuous voice crooned. There was a hint of a lisp lurking in the background. "I would be obliged if you would provide guards for my factory and a place to store materiel until we ave our own facilities."

"Well, Monsieur Auverne, I don't know. We are spread pretty thin here at Stalag 13. And I must maintain security. This after all is the toughest…"

"…prisoner of war camp in all of Germany. There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13," chorused the men in Hogan's office.

"Klink," snapped Burkhalter,"you'll render Monsieur Auverne all assistance. His mission is vitally important to the war effort." Burkhalter sighed, and a glass landed heavily on the desk. "What I am about to tell you is top secret. It does not go out of this room."

Carter looked at Kinch and LeBeau. "Are we out of the room?" His face was completely deadpan. His companions ignored him.

"General, you honor me." They imagined the thin chest puffing out with self-importance.

"Oh, shut up, Klink, and listen. Monsieur Auverne is working on the V-3, which flies further and carries twice the destructive power of the V-2, which we haven't even unleashed yet. The object with the new rocket is to hit the United States. The Americans have thus far been mostly immune to the war. They won't be so eager to continue the war if we repeatedly bomb their eastern seaboard."

Klink was silent, as were his eavesdroppers. "Wait till the colonel hears this," remarked Carter in wonder.

"Incroyable," muttered LeBeau. Kinch just nodded.

"So you zee de importance of my work, mon colonel." Hearing that oily lisp made the guys at the coffeepot giggle. He sounded so unbelievable.

"Whatever you require, Monsieur Auverne, is yours. May I offer the services of my French chef this evening, sir?"

LeBeau closed his eyes and shook his head. "Klink's French chef! C'est trop ridicule!"

Auverne responded hesitantly. "That would be delightful, mon colonel, but 'e would 'ave to be supervithed carefully. I am deathly afraid of poison."

"Absolument," hissed the Free Frenchman.

"Easy enough, Monsieur Auverne. We shall simply invite the senior POW officer to dinner. Unless I am very much mistaken, Corporal LeBeau will not poison Colonel Hogan." They could hear Burkhalter salivating as he spoke.

"Touché, mon colonel," Louis sighed with regret as Kinch unplugged the coffeepot. The tall sergeant looked at his buddy with real understanding.

They started to leave Hogan's office but were met by the colonel coming in. Their commanding officer stood before them barefooted with trousers and sleeves rolled to the knees and elbows. He handed LeBeau several freshly caught fish. "Dinner's on me, gentlemen. Newkirk's out front with some more."

Hogan glanced meaningfully at Kinch who gave him the report. Hogan whistled silently.

Newkirk was sitting at the table nursing a cup of tea and a cigarette. There were more fish spread before him. LeBeau gathered them up.

Carter asked, "Are you all right, Peter?"

"No, I'm not," the Englishman replied tartly and emphatically. "I ruddy 'ate fishin'. Absolutely borin'. And the colonel makin' all that blinkin' noise. Singin' 'e was."

"I didn't know the colonel could sing."

"'E can't, mate. That's me point. I reckon the Gestapo was too afraid to approach, not 'aving any big game guns." He shot a disgusted look toward Hogan's office. "'E gets this way every bloody summer."

"And every bloody summer, you wish for the immediate return of winter." LeBeau smirked at Newkirk while mimicking him.

"Absolutely, mate. Anything to settle 'im down." He frowned at the fish now hanging from the rafter above the stove. "Gawd, I 'ate fish."


1 A stone is an old British unit of measurement. 1 stone 14 pounds.