Act Four
Scene One
"Evil is unspectacular and always human; and shares our bed and eats at our own table." W. H. Auden. And is now at Stalag 13.
Certain characters have been borrowed with permission from the writings of Mel Hughes (Dress Rehearsal) and LaVerne Cash (NewBeginnings). If you are interested in reading those works, please email me.
Theater of War: Act Four was originally published as a digest-sized book zine in 2003. It is an amateur publication for the enjoyment of fans. The copyright covers only original material, and in no way intends to infringe upon the privileges of the holders of copyrights, trademarks or other legal rights for the Hogan's Heroes universe.
Act Four, Scenes 1 and 2, thus far, is the last written Act in the HH saga. Eventually, there will be an Act 5 and an Act 6.
If you have any questions or comments about the stories thus far, feel free to email me. Thank you for reading.
Chapter 1
The war continued. The once seemingly invincible Third Reich was shrinking away. Hungary, Rumania, the Baltic States were no longer under German control. Soviet troops had made their merciless way into eastern Prussia, on their way to Berlin. In the West, the Allies were approaching the western bank of the Rhine. To keep the Allies from crossing that ancient barrier, bridge after bridge was destroyed or mined to be destroyed by the retreating Germans. The Allies held nearly a million German prisoners and cities inside Germany itself were awaiting invasion. Some of Hitler's staunchest supporters could see the coming doom, even if the Führer remained blind; Himmler and others were already planning to sue for peace on their own. And at Yalta, the Allies had decided on the Allied occupation and division of Germany — a decision that would have enormous, and unforeseen, consequences for Germany and Europe for decades to come.
Unimaginable numbers of people moved across the landscape — vast armies numbering millions of men, even greater numbers of refugees fleeing ahead of invading armies. Thousands of others were herded like cattle onto trucks and trains — slave laborers, men, women, children — sent away from the advancing armies, not for their safety, but rather for their destruction. Despite their losses, despite the advancing armies, the Nazi death machine kept moving, killing thousands. In spite of the certain death that awaited them if they were caught, or perhaps because of the probable death that awaited them at the end of the line, some managed to escape. Some like the gaunt, worn man with grizzled gray-black hair who had seized a momentary opportunity and fled.
He had staggered blindly through the dark woods, not knowing where he was going, only knowing that he had to keep moving. He had stopped thinking long ago; he was driven only by the need to survive. But even that need could carry him only so far. In the end, his malnourished, exhausted body could go no further. And he fell to the unforgiving ground, pale as death and as still, beside a road, as luck would have it, that led to a bridge, that led to another road, that led to a prisoner of war camp called Stalag Luft 13.
...
For a man who hated meetings, Colonel Robert Hogan was spending far too much time in them lately. Hell, he'd called this one, as he had most of the others he'd been forced to attend. And been forced to call. With the camp's population now at twenty-five hundred plus, he didn't have a choice. The days when he could pawn off administrative problems to the few other officers in camp were long gone. But if he couldn't avoid these meetings, at least he could keep them short. He and the four captains in the camp had been at this meeting for twenty minutes and they were nearly done.
"Okay," Hogan said, "that takes care of the work details. Martin, how's the food situation?"
Captain Edward Martin(1), a thin blondish man in his late forties, grimaced. "About the same, Colonel. We finally got a shipment of Red Cross packages yesterday. That's it."
"What about the supply truck a few days ago?" Hogan asked.
Martin made a face. "It didn't help. Half of the produce was inedible and the rest didn't look much better. Langenscheidt(2) is trying to work a deal with the local farmers — trade the inedible produce that can be used for animal feed or fertilizer for foodstuffs. The problem is the farmers aren't doing good either. It's been a hard winter and they don't have much in the way of stored provisions. And Hammelburg is in worse shape than we are."
"Which means?" Hogan asked.
"Status quo, Colonel. The Red Cross packages are our primary food source, except for potatoes. Makes for boring meals, but we're not starving."
Hogan nodded. "Not yet. Now for my bad news. Klink said we're not getting any more supplies or Red Cross packages." The captains looked at each other more grimly. "So, how long will our supplies hold out?"
Martin did a quick mental calculation. "Well, thanks to the supplies we got from Baumann's cache(3), the Red Cross packages that Klink husbanded, and this last shipment — and as soon as it gets warmer, we're going to have the fellas start food gardens; we can trade some of our coffee and sugar for seeds — I figure we can make it through the summer. Hopefully the war will be over before we get really hungry!"
Hogan smiled faintly. "Hopefully. Okay, that leaves our problem children. How are they doing? Mitchell?"
It was Captain John Mitchell's(4) turn to scowl. The camp's "problem children" were primarily newcomers, primarily infantry, with a low tolerance for Germans and authority, American or German. Mitchell, a tall, eagle-faced man with black hair, had an edge in his voice. "For the most part, they're just annoying, Colonel. Getting in front of others, walking into the middle of games, 'accidentally' tripping guys, stuff like that."
"How many are there?"
"Thirty to forty. And from what we can gather, they're pretty much confined to Barracks 79."
"Who's the barracks leader?"
"Sergeant Virgil Yeager."
"Yeager? Don't recognize the name."
"He's the guy who barreled into Klink when he first arrived(5). After the fire."
Hogan frowned at the memory. "How did he get to be barracks leader?"
Mitchell shrugged. "After he got out of the cooler, he started hanging around with the malcontents. Rumor has it he took on Chaykin(6) who'd been the barracks leader. Not that Chaykin was any prize either."
"We've been lucky for a long time, Colonel," Martin said. "Your extracurricular activities used up a lot of excess energy and relieved a lot of the boredom, especially in the early years. But now with the overcrowding and a lot of the new guys not really knowing or believing what's been going on, and the fact that most of those activities have been shut down, well, guys are getting antsy."
"And," Captain John Witton(7), a dark-haired American in an RAF uniform and now the senior captain in the camp, added, "the fact that conditions in this camp are much better than in other camps has helped exacerbate the problem."
Hogan raised a brow.
Witton smiled humorlessly. "Starving, sick POWs don't have the energy to cause trouble, Colonel. We have POWs who are in decent shape with energy to spare. They need an outlet. And for some, the classes, reading and sports don't cut it."
"Those are the ones that Chaykin and Yeager appeal to," Mitchell said.
"And, Colonel," Captain Jerry Warren(8), the youngest of the four, looked at Hogan evenly, "not everyone is thrilled with your relationship with Klink. Especially some of the newcomers."
Hogan could feel himself bristling, though he kept his voice even. "Even when that relationship makes things better for the camp?"
Witton nodded. "Some see it as making things better for you."
"But," Martin said hurriedly as Hogan's face darkened, "they're in the minority. A very small minority. The rest of the camp ignores them."
"Or ignores them as much as they can," Mitchell said. "As I said, right now, they're just annoying."
"I think I'll have a talk with them," Hogan said.
The four captains looked at each other.
Hogan raised a brow. "Is there a problem?"
"Yes, sir," Witton said. "We don't think that's a good idea. If you get involved, it might lend some credence to their complaints."
Hogan thought a moment before replying. "Okay. But if they start disrupting the camp, then all bets are off."
"They won't," Witton said firmly. "We'll make sure of that."
"Okay," Hogan said with reluctance. "I'll leave it to you. For now."
Witton nodded.
"Anything else on your minds?" Hogan asked.
The captains shook their heads.
"Status quo, Colonel," Witton said. "We're just waiting until the end of the war."
Hogan nodded. "Then, dismissed."
The captains rose, picked up their notes and left.
Hogan stood, stretched and walked over to the window. Another typical late winter day, cold, damp, windy. There were few men walking about the compound, and those few were hurrying between the buildings. Would spring never arrive? Would the war never end? Would his life get simpler? A sharp laugh. Why should things get simple now? They never had before!
Of course, if he were honest with himself, Hogan had to admit that he'd made things more complicated than they needed to be. He didn't need to do what he had done. He could have been just a plain 'ole POW, not running an escape service or blowing things up.
And if he were a plain 'ole POW, he'd have gone nuts. Sitting around just wasn't his style. Never had been. So, he could thank his lucky stars, God, whomever, that Klink had decided he needed an officer to keep the POWs in line. Otherwise . . . Otherwise . . .
Hogan rubbed a crick out of his neck. Otherwise, given his propensity for not sitting still, he'd probably be dead like those fifty men who had been murdered after their mass escape from Stalag Luft III last year(9). That was exactly the kind of thing he would have done — if he hadn't come up with his escape and sabotage operation instead.
Would that have been his fate? Murdered by the Gestapo or the SS?
Naw, not him. Not Robert Hogan. He was too smart, too slick, too good, too . . .
Too stupid if he kept thinking that way. The men who had been killed were as brave, as smart, as he — and they were dead. Even the Stage(10) knew it could happen to him. Hogan smiled wryly. He was finally able to admit it. For a long time, he'd thought he had been invincible. Now he knew better. He got away with his antics partly because he was smart and partly because he was lucky. But also because he was at Stalag Luft 13, the most unusual POW camp on the planet, the camp run by Colonel Wilhelm Klink — the camp run by the most notorious Resistance leader in Germany, the Stage.
Hogan smiled. It had been deflating to realize the truth. In hindsight, he had to admit that it wasn't as if there were no clues. Looking back, he could see instances where someone had to have been watching his back. God knows he didn't always do a good job of that himself. He found himself shivering. How many times had the bad guys found out about him?(11) And it was sheer luck, or their greed, that had kept him from being shot on sight or taken away. He knew of two instances where the Stage had directly intervened.(12) How many others were there? One day when the war was over, he and Klink could have a long talk. He really wanted to know. God forbid there would be another war; God forbid, he'd be captured again. But if it did happen again, he wanted to do things smarter. Luck would only go so far. The men at Stalag Luft III had proven that!
Enough thinking for the day, Robert. You've got work to do. Now, where was that . . . ?
A commotion at the front gate got Hogan's attention. Lt. J. B. Miller's(13) work detail was back. But they were supposed to be gone for the rest of the day, working on the road by the rebuilt Adolf Hitler Bridge(14). What were they doing back this early? Then he caught sight of the cars following the truck . . .
Hogan stiffened and shot out of his room.
"Trouble," he announced, gesturing to his men. Five men, grabbing jackets, followed him out into the cold.
"They're back early," Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe, a tall mustached black man, observed.
"Something must be up," Hogan said as the truck stopped a few yards inside the gate. He watched the prisoners spill out of the truck in a hurry, and watched as the work detail was surrounded by SS men who'd poured out of the two cars that stopped just behind the truck.
One of the SS men fired his machinegun at the ground, effectively stopping the prisoners from leaving. Everyone turned to stare at the SS men, some with fear on their faces.
"There's an extra man in that detail, Colonel," Sergeant Richard Baker, a slightly shorter black man, murmured.
Hogan nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kommandant Wilhelm Klink coming out of his office, followed by his second-in-command Captain Fritz Gruber(15).
Klink, his eyes sweeping the frozen tableau, walked over to the SS men. "What is going on?" he demanded loudly in German.
One of the men, an SS captain, turned to him and saluted. "Heil Hitler! I am Hauptsturmführer Schiff, Herr Oberst(16)," he said in accented English. "We are after an escaped prisoner."
"We have no escaped prisoners, Hauptsturmführer," Klink said. "No one has ever escaped from this camp."
"He is not your prisoner, Herr Oberst," Schiff said. "He is ours."
Klink looked at him evenly. "That does not explain what you are doing in my camp."
"I believe he is hiding here."
Klink looked disdainful. "There is no one hiding here, Hauptsturmführer."
"Your men were in a hurry," countered Schiff. "Why?"
Klink turned to rotund Sergeant Hans Schultz.
Schultz gulped audibly. "Lt. Miller was ill, Herr Kommandant. So we came back."
Schiff snorted. "What does it matter if a prisoner is ill? It is immaterial. Your sergeant is lying and your prisoner is lazy."
"That is for me to judge, Hauptsturmführer," Klink said. "Not you. Take your men and — "
"Our prisoner is here. There was no other place for him to go!"
"Who is this missing prisoner of yours?" Klink asked.
"A dangerous man. We were moving a truck full of prisoners to another camp."
"You are free to check the truck, Hauptsturmführer."
"We will! And your prisoners as well!"
"You will not find anything," Klink said.
"We will see."
Schiff motioned to his men. The SS men walked over to the truck as Hogan strolled over to Miller. Hogan's eyes swept the detail; he easily found the extra man.
"I'm sorry, Colonel," Miller whispered. "I — "
"At ease, Miller," Hogan said.
"What do we do?"
"Stay calm and don't say anything."
After a few minutes, the SS men were finished with the truck.
"Did you find anything?" Klink asked.
"Nein." Schiff scowled. "He is among the work party."
"I know every man on that party, Hauptsturmführer," Klink said. "I allow only men I trust out of the camp."
"You can identify them?"
"Yes. Which appears to be more than you can say."
Schiff flushed. "He is a worthless Jew. His appearance is immaterial."
"Then it will be rather difficult to identify him, won't it, Hauptsturmführer?"
"He is spiritless, thin, with short black hair and dressed in rags."
"That description matches a good number of the men in this camp," Klink said.
"He is wearing a yellow star."
"Which was thrown away the moment he was out of your sight. And why would he escape from one prison into another?"
"Because he would think himself safe. He is hiding among your work detail, Kommandant!"
"That remains to be seen. Since you seem unconvinced, I will identify the men. Will that satisfy you?"
"Jawohl."
"Schultz, line up the prisoners."
"Colonel," Miller began in an alarmed whisper to Hogan.
"At ease, Miller," Hogan said. "Everyone keep it relaxed," he ordered as the men reluctantly lined up. He glanced at Klink quickly.
Klink, accompanied by Schiff who had produced a small notebook, walked down the line of prisoners. "Lt. J. B. Miller," he intoned. "Corporal Jacques Dubois, Private James Dunbar, Private Christopher Mulcahy, Private Thom Mulcahy, Private Lester Carr, Corporal . . . "
Klink continued down the line. In the middle of the line, he looked at a pale man with dark brown, watery eyes. "Private Philip Wagner," Klink said clearly. The man's eyes closed as Klink walked past him.
At the end of the line, Klink turned. "Satisfied, Hauptsturmführer?"
Schiff bowed curtly. "My apologies, Herr Kommandant. We will continue our search."
"Colonel Hogan."
"Yes, sir?" Behind Klink, Hogan could see Schiff's cynical smile as he put the notebook back in his pocket. Hogan forced himself not to frown as he faced Klink.
"Take the men into your barracks for a report."
"Yes, sir." Hogan saluted and gestured to the prisoners.
"Are you going to Hammelburg, Hauptsturmführer?" Klink asked Schiff.
"Jawohl."
"You may not know," Klink said. "There is no longer a garrison at Hammelburg; a fire destroyed most of the town a few weeks ago."
Slowly, the men began moving into Barracks 2. Hogan looked back at Klink; the Kommandant was still talking with Schiff. Hogan felt himself relax. Klink's manner was nonchalant; he even had that old smile that used to drive Hogan crazy. No problems there. Hogan turned away and walked into his barracks.
Into a noisy chaotic mess. Most of the regular occupants of the barracks were on their bunks or in the far corners. The twenty men from the work detail had taken over the common area gesturing wildly or talking loudly. In the middle of it, looking confused, was "Philip Wagner". Wagner was painfully thin, his face haggard, his gray-tinged black hair cropped short, his age indeterminate. No, Hogan amended, Wagner didn't look confused; instead, overwhelmed. And even that word wasn't good enough. Wagner was managing, just, to sit straight on the bench, oblivious to the chaos swirling around him.
"How 'bout some tea, mate?" RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk pressed a tin cup into Wagner's hand.
Wagner managed what could only charitably be described as a smile. His shaking hands cupped the cup; Hogan wondered if he had the strength to raise it to his lips.
The noise was giving Hogan a headache. "Quiet!" His voice was lost in the bedlam. "That's enough!" his voice rose to no avail. His lips pursed and a shrill, ear-piercing whistle cut through the noise.
Silence finally fell, and the men turned to look at him.
"Thank you," Hogan said. "Okay, Miller. Give me the short and sweet version. The really short and sweet version."
"Yes, sir." Miller took a deep breath. "We were on the road just past the Adolf Hitler Bridge when we stumbled across," he gestured at Wagner. "He was asleep in a ditch beside the road. After we shook him awake, we got him rigged up in some of our clothes and into the truck. Then I told Schultz I wasn't feeling well and we needed to get back here right away. Schultz was going to argue until he spotted Wagner. Then he was shooing us into the truck and we lit outta there."
"Where did you pick up the SS?"
"About a mile from here. We just beat 'em to the camp."
"Okay. What about Wagner's clothes?"
"Threw 'em out when we crossed the bridge."
Hogan nodded and started to turn away.
"Colonel," Miller said, "Klink lied."
"Yeah, he did."
"But . . . why?"
Hogan smiled. "You're a bright boy, Miller. I'm sure you can come up with a couple of reasons."
Miller's mouth opened and then snapped shut.
Hogan grinned and turned to the others. "As for the rest of you, the story is that Wagner came in with the last batch of prisoners; that's why he looks so ragged. He was with the First Army, captured last year. That's all you need to know. Got it?"
The men nodded.
"Okay. Now get out of — "
The door opened and Klink came in. His eyes swept the assembled men and settled on Miller. "Are you feeling better, Lt. Miller?"
Miller smiled weakly. "Much better, sir."
"You will be able to go back to work this afternoon?"
Miller sighed audibly. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Klink turned to the others. "The rest of you as well?"
The men of the work detail nodded.
"Good." Klink turned back to Miller and froze. "Lt. Miller." Klink's voice was unusually soft. "The next time," his hand reached toward Miller's jacket pocket, "you decide to hide something," Klink pulled a yellow cloth from Miller's pocket, "please do a better job."
Miller gulped noisily as he stared at the yellow star in Klink's hand. "Yes, sir," he finally managed to whisper.
Klink nodded and crumpled the star in his fist.
Hogan stared at Klink's fist and shook himself mentally. That had been too close. If Schiff had seen that, they would all have been in trouble. "Good thing Schiff was blind," Hogan muttered and turned back to Wagner. The poor guy was barely holding it together; he sure didn't look well. "Sorry about that," Hogan said. "We're normally more careful."
Wagner managed a shaky smile. "I was not worried," he said in a soft accented voice.
Hogan blinked. That was an oddly confident comment, a thought he could see reflected on the faces of the other men. "O-kay." Hogan turned to order the other men out.
"Everything will be all right now, mon ami," French Corporal Louis LeBeau said as some of the members of the work detail began leaving.
"Ja," Wagner continued in that same soft voice. "I knew when we reached camp."
"Weren't you scared?" young American Sergeant Andrew Carter asked.
"Nein. God would not let me die now." Wagner's eyes were on Hogan.
No, not me, Hogan realized. He turned to see Klink looking at Wagner with a puzzled expression.
Newkirk snorted. "I'm not sure God cares, mate."
Half of the men from the detail were still there, including Miller and the Mulcahy twins.
"Anything we can do for you, Kommandant?" Hogan asked.
"Yes." Klink cleared his voice. "It seems the paperwork on Private Wagner is incomplete. We are missing items such as birth date, serial number and the like. If you would . . .?"
Hogan smiled. "No problem, Kommandant. So, Private Wagner," he quipped, "when were you born?"
"July 15, 1910," Wagner said.
Hogan felt Klink move closer. He glanced back; Klink had the oddest look on his face. Then Hogan looked at Wagner. Wagner was now standing, his trembling fingers braced on the table, and he was staring intently at Klink. The air was suddenly thick with a tension Hogan didn't understand, a tension felt by everyone in the room.
Wagner took a step toward Klink. Hogan backed away from the two men, keeping his eyes on Klink.
The silence dragged on. Klink had a look on his face that Hogan had never seen — part confusion and part . . . what?
Wagner took another step toward Klink, away from the table. "I once said it would take better men than they to kill me. God saw fit not to strike me for my arrogance."
Shock distorted Klink's face. "Binyamin?"
Wagner smiled wanly, took a step forward, and collapsed. Klink caught him before he hit the floor and cradled him in his arms.
Hogan knelt beside them. "Get a stretcher!" The look on Klink's face . . .
"I saw them shoot . . . I thought he was dead . . . " Klink mumbled.
Two men appeared with a stretcher; Wagner was laid on it. Hogan and Klink stood. Klink stepped and turned away while Wagner was carried out in total silence.
Hogan looked at Klink. Klink was standing alongside the right wall, his eyes on Hogan's door.
Who was Binyamin? Hogan wondered. What was his connection to Klink? Klink was too still . . . What's he thinking?
"Kommandant?"
Klink stirred. His eyes dropped to his clenched fist. His fingers opened slowly, revealing the yellow star.
Hogan looked at the star; he knew the star identified Jews. He remembered reading about it years ago when he was more interested in paying his dues and getting into flight training. Jews were banned from Germany, that he remembered. Put into refugee camps or something. Didn't he see something about Jews being relocated to another country? Madagascar or someplace? Hogan opened his mouth . . .
And nearly jumped out of his skin. Klink's fingers had closed around the star and tightened into a fist that lashed out, striking the mirror above the sink. The mirror shattered.
My God, he's going to lose it! Hogan took a step toward Klink and stopped. Klink's body was a quivering line, his eyes blazed with naked fury. He can't! If he does, he won't be able to go back. Kommandant Klink would be gone forever. Leaving who? The Stage? Wilhelm Klink?
Hogan was very afraid that only the Stage would be left. He wanted desperately to say something. But he couldn't find the words.
The seconds passed agonizingly, seconds where nobody in the crowded barracks seemed to breathe.
Finally, Klink, his fist still against the broken mirror, stirred. He took a deep breath; the quivering stopped. Slowly his fist lowered.
Klink opened his fingers and looked at the star again. The anger was gone, replaced by a deep sadness. Holding the star loosely in his hand, Klink walked over to the stove. He opened the door and tossed the star into the fire. He turned to the barracks door and paused. Then he spoke in a voice most of them had never heard before. "Please get the paperwork on Private Wagner to Fräulein Hilda as soon as you can, Colonel Hogan."
"Yes, sir."
Klink nodded and left.
The silence continued.
1 "The Gold Rush"
2 "Hold That Tiger"
3 Act Three
4 "The Big Gamble"
5 Act Three
6 Mel Hughes: Dress Rehearsal 2: Encore, used with permission.
7 Act Three
8 "The Flame Grows Higher"
9 A fictionalized version of the event is in the movie The Great Escape
10 Act One
11 Two glaring examples were in "Two Nazis for the Price of One" and "Diamonds in the Rough".
12 Act One
13 "The Meister Spy"
14 "German Bridge Is Falling Down"
15 "Don't Forget to Write"
16 Colonel in German