Hammelburg, Germany, Spring 1944
Robert Hogan, Colonel, USAAF, was out of uniform. Crouched behind a bush, dressed all in black with burnt cork smeared on his face, he did not now play his official role of American air corps pilot. Nor did he play the role the Germans had assigned to him of prisoner of war. Instead Hogan chose his own role, that of spy, saboteur, and general purpose troublemaker.
Tonight he sought out some other troublemakers. Rescuing downed fliers and bringing them to Stalag 13 was old hat at this point. Having the Underground send him a puzzled message about some who might be downed fliers, or might be German agents, was something new entirely.
"There they are," Sergeant Kinchloe whispered to Hogan. Down the road marched a ragged line of American fliers, eight of them, all with their hands clasped on top of their heads. Escorting the prisoners were two Germans, one a sergeant, the other a major.
Faster than their targets could react, five black shadows moved out of the woods, surrounding the Germans and the prisoners. Hogan jabbed his pistol in the major's back. "Don't move," he hissed.
"Wouldn't dream of it," the major said in perfect American English. He surrendered his gun and raised his hands as the prisoners lowered theirs, grins spreading across their faces. Cautiously, the German major turned his head to peer at Hogan. "Colonel Hogan… I hope?"
Not even a twitch of nervousness shown on the young man's face, Hogan noted. Only a trace of amusement twinkled in his dark eyes. Hogan had to admire that. Anyone who could stay cool, and keep a sense of humor about him, was certainly one to impress Hogan.
Shoving his gun harder into the German's—the possible German—back, Hogan demanded, "Convince me who you are. And you better make it good."
The man's grin grew even broader. "Captain Daniel Briggs, sir. I certainly hope you remember me. I was a green lieutenant when you commanded the 504th."
The unflappable fearlessness… that wasn't unique among the young fliers Hogan had commanded, but the twinkle of amusement in his eyes… yes. "Nice to see you again, Briggs," Hogan said, lowering his gun. The rest of Hogan's men also eased up on their ready stance. "Who's your cohort?" Hogan asked, gesturing to the 'German' sergeant.
"Lieutenant James Phelps," Briggs answered. "My co-pilot. And this is the rest of my crew," he said, gesturing to the 'prisoners'. "I heard rumors you might be able to give us a hand getting back to England." He gave an up-down look at Hogan's black attire and pistol. Though his expression remained impassive, amusement shone in his eyes again. "I'm guessing those rumors might be correct, sir."
"So, Lieutenant Phelps," Hogan asked sternly after they'd all arrived in the tunnels beneath Stalag 13, "how old are you?" Truth be told, they all looked incredibly young to Hogan, but Phelps in particular appeared well below recruitment age.
"I'm twenty-one, sir," Phelps answered without hesitation, holding Hogan's eyes firmly as he said it. Beside him, Briggs held a perfect poker-face as well. Among the other eight, however, there was some uneasy avoidance in the gazes and some uncomfortable shifting.
"The truth, Lieutenant," Hogan ordered in the tone not even Newkirk dare disobey.
"Twenty-one, sir," Phelps answered again without a twitch. Interesting, Hogan thought, very interesting, indeed. Phelps and Briggs were naturals in the art of deception and lies.
Separating Briggs and Phelps from the others, Hogan led them aside. "I'm considering having you two reassigned when you get back to London. Work a bit more… subtle, let's say, than just dropping bombs. But first, I need to know I can trust you."
A glance flicked between Briggs and Phelps; a communication without words.
"I'm eighteen, sir," Phelps admitted. "Um… almost eighteen."
"I see," Hogan said coolly. Seventeen years old? Good heavens. There were kids in the Underground that young—younger even—but could Hogan draw someone into this line of work at that age? Certainly flying bombing raids wasn't exactly a safe occupation, but it didn't generally include the possibility of being tortured to death by the Gestapo if caught.
Studying the two closely, Hogan said, "Tell me how you two pulled off this last little deception with your crew this deep in Germany."
"…so as creepy as it's been listening to these two talking German at each other over the headsets while we're on our way to bomb Germany, it sure as heck worked out," one of Briggs' crew told the tale excitedly as LeBeau poured cups of coffee in the barracks above.
"Yeah," another cut in. "They snowed those Krauts completely. Had 'em convinced they were secret agents just returned to the Fatherland. Can you imagine that? Captain Briggs did that 'Heil Hitler', heel-clicking thing so good it scared me. Thought maybe they were spies for a minute myself. Then they smacked those Krauts and took their uniforms." He raised his cup in an impromptu toast.
Aside from the mob, Hogan asked Briggs and Phelps, "You both speak fluent German?"
"I do, Colonel," Briggs answered. "And Russian, Polish, French, and Yiddish." He shrugged. "Family history," he offered as explanation, with a shrug.
"And I learned German and French in school," Phelps added when Hogan turned his attention to him. High school, Hogan thought dryly. "Then Captain Briggs drilled me until I was completely comfortable with them."
"I'm teaching him Russian next," Briggs said. "He's a natural with languages."
Hogan nodded thoughtfully, exchanging a meaningful look with Kinchloe. Step one to being a successful spy was being able to move easily within other countries, and that meant complete ease with the local language. These boys showed promise, indeed. Yes, indeed, Hogan was going to have to have a little talk with U.S. intelligence in London about the future careers of these two.
New York, New York, U.S.A, July 1956
Robert Hogan, no official rank, no stated branch of service, lingered in the bedroom doorway, watching his children sleep. A few more weeks and they'd be gone again, back to boarding school. Still, he had a few more precious weeks with them, assuming, of course, other obligations didn't get in the way.
Settling down into a leather easy chair, Hogan gazed out at the glittering skyline past Central Park. He put his feet up and sipped his cognac. He reached for a cigar, a fine Havana, then put it back. Little Lisa didn't like the smell, and she was rather emphatic about it. Smiling fondly, he thought about his daughter's endearing, but sometimes argumentative, manner. Almost eight years old, with curly red-gold hair like her mother's, and a temper to match. She ordered him about just like her mother used to. Remembrance of Tiger brought, as it always did, a sad reflection.
The phone ringing interrupted Hogan's reverie. It rang once and stopped. Hogan froze, staring at the phone. It rang again only a few seconds later. Hogan answered on the second ring. A casual, yet cryptically calculated, set of responses had the caller hanging up with apologies for calling the wrong number. Hogan stood for a moment with his hand on the telephone receiver. He stared out the high-rise window, over the blackness of Central Park to the city skyline beyond, then glanced up toward his children's bedroom, torn between his sworn duty and the duties of fatherhood. Then he heaved a sigh and accepted his required role.
"Good evening, Mr. Hogan," the voice from the recorder at the blind drop greeted him. His control agent's voice—a voice processed into unrecognizability of a man never met in person—came through the small speaker like those over the radio from London to Stalag 13 used to, giving instructions, assigning missions.
"Last month," the smooth voice went on, "an uprising in Poznań, Poland against Soviet oppression was crushed in a bloody clash. This uprising, however, has sparked further protests in Hungary. Your mission, Rob, should you decide to accept it, is to encourage the Hungarian revolt, leading—it is hoped—to the ultimate collapse of the Communist government in that country. Should one country manage to free itself from the Iron Curtain, it is hoped others will be able to set themselves free." Hogan shifted, studying the newspaper clippings, reports, and spy photos of various dissidents. Overthrow a government? 'Think small' never occurred to these people, did it? Of course, that was one reason Hogan liked this work, he allowed.
His mind already racing, Hogan barely heard the end of the tape telling him, as it always did, "Should you or any of your force be caught or killed…"
Back in his luxurious apartment, paid for by mysterious but generous means, Hogan removed his black leather folder from its secure location. He sank back on the sofa and opened the clasp. The first photograph that stared back at him was of James Ivan Kinchloe, once and always his primary right-hand man. Hogan tossed the photo onto the coffee table. Peter Newkirk's followed. Andrew Carter's he put aside. No explosions were needed this time, and Carter never had mastered multiple languages with the finesse needed. This would be a long mission, months long. Carter could stay home this time, with his sweet, plump wife and their swarm of happy children. A faint frown traced over Hogan's expression, followed by a glance upstairs. Spies shouldn't have families.
Shoving those thoughts aside, Hogan hesitated over Louis LeBeau's photo and dossier, also picking up the one beneath it—Marya's. He'd never fully trusted her nor her allegiances; always suspected she remained connected to Russian intelligence. She'd be immensely useful in this area, but on a mission like this? One in direct opposition to the 'Rodina', the 'motherland'? No… he couldn't risk a wild card like her. LeBeau's and Marya's photos he tossed on top of Carter's.
Dan Briggs and Jim Phelps… he tossed their photos on top of Kinch's and Newkirk's. They had shaped up into prime agents, both. Now in their early thirties, they were approaching the top of their game. Hogan paused over the photo of a splendid young woman—Cinnamon Carter. She was young, still, only twenty-five, but with a cool sultriness she could shift into deadly resolution at the drop of a hat, or the drop of her dress. She reminded him of a less jaded Marya. Yes, Cinnamon would be an asset on this mission; a perfect contact for the University students and professors driving the dissent forward.
Closing the folder, Hogan set it aside, his eyes pausing over the gold embossed words: Impossible Missions Force. A smile crossed his lips every time he read that. Kinch had named them so, based on Hogan's tendency, when handed a ridiculous mission, to rage, "Impossible, can't be done… And here's how we're gonna do it."
With the photos spread out before him, Hogan contemplated. Not having them standing before him, as he had always had in Barracks Two, it helped to look at the faces in the photos and mentally play out their roles in the mission. Timing, courage, audacity, cleverness, and always—always—over-elaborate planning.
Novosibirsk, U.S.S.R., late December 1956
Hogan paced the cold, dank cell. He'd missed his daughter's birthday. Staring up at the narrow, bar-shadowed shred of light that provided his only relief from the gloom, Hogan considered he'd be missing his son's birthday, too. Probably forever.
He paced back the other way, pushing futilely again at the iron door. William and Lisa spent the remainder of their summer vacation on the lake in Wisconsin with their Opa Wilhelm, who sourly informed Hogan yet again he was thoroughly crazy. From there…? They were probably back at their boarding schools, one in France and one in Switzerland. They'd never know what happened to their father. Whatever tale they were told about his demise would be a lie. All they'd really know of their father would be of a man who sat out the war as a POW, then roamed aimlessly since. They were young, they'd forget him, by and by. God knows they'd seen little enough of him throughout their lives as it was.
Was it Christmas Day yet, Hogan wondered? He'd lost count of the days. There'd been some questioning sessions with electricity, and at least one with drugs. Most had just involved good old-fashioned hitting, though. All the fun had blurred the days.
The mission had succeeded. And failed.
The Hungarian revolt had been huge, proclaiming loudly what the people really thought yet seldom dare say. The Communist government had toppled. For a brief, glorious moment, there had been success… until the Soviet tanks rolled in.
Separated from his team by the necessity of the mission, chance had betrayed Hogan. An East-German agent for the KGB who spotted him in Budapest had good cause to have his eyes widen in recognition at the sight of Hogan. Pruhst… formerly Major Pruhst of the Gestapo, Hochstetter's lackey who'd nearly caught Hogan once before, now had his revenge.
Running his hands over the filthy, damp stone, hunting for any weakness, Hogan wondered if this was to be Hochstetter's ultimate revenge, too, from beyond the grave. His aching body forcing him to stop and sit down again, Hogan considered, too, how the Gestapo had nothing on the KGB for ruthless interrogations.
Yet, he hadn't talked. And wouldn't. It didn't matter. They knew he was an agent and his fate was sealed. Hogan's team probably didn't even know he was here. The message from the unseen voice he'd always ignored now played over and over in his head, "…should you or any of your force be caught or killed… disavow any knowledge of your actions…" That was the way it had been in Germany more than ten years ago, and that's the way it was now. The way it had to be.
Hogan huddled on the thin cot, wondering when the end would come.
"My orders come from the highest authority!" a strident female voice sounded so loudly it even penetrated the thick walls of Hogan's cell. He sat up abruptly, grimacing at how it felt. "You will open the door immediately!"
Hogan knew that voice. He'd heard it many times before, in German shouting commands at Nazis, in English shouting commands at Hogan and his men, and in French shouting commands at her husband. Now he heard her in her native Russian and didn't know whether it was a good sound or bad.
The key scraped in the lock and Marya swept into the cell in a cloud of heavy perfume and smoke emitted from a harsh Russian cigarette in a long holder. She waved the cigarette holder in the air and posed, one arm sweeping back her long military-style cloak to reveal a Soviet uniform underneath. As he'd always suspected… Near behind her on one side stood a guard, and on the other Hogan's chief tormentor, Pruhst, once a major in the Gestapo, now Colonel Pruhst of the KGB, still with his Hochstetter-like sneer.
"Hogan, darling," Marya proclaimed, but her tone and the look in her eyes was decidedly cold and menacing. Unbidden, Hogan took half a step back. Well, she scared him. How little Louis wasn't terrified of her remained a source of constant amazement. "Ha! You do not throw yourself into my arms with passion and joy this time." She turned to Pruhst. "You see, Comrade, how the American spy fears us."
Hogan didn't let his reaction show on his face this time. "I'm not a spy," he said evenly. "I keep telling you, I'm just a tourist who got a little off track." Ever alert to every opening, every subtlety, Hogan took in how Marya looked in that uniform. He'd seen many Soviet women in uniform, but no other wore it quite so well. None fit it so sleekly. Marya's uniform had been professionally tailored, he realized, not shoddily churned out by indifferent factory workers. It was a tiny observation, but one that brought Hogan to a heightened alert. Meeting Marya's eyes he thought the question. Her harsh expression flickered slightly and she gestured with her eyes toward the guard at her side.
Giving no hint of recognition, though his heart leapt, Hogan found himself looking at a face he'd not seen since 1942—Vladimir Minsk! Russian soldier, tailor, and one-time prisoner of Stalag 13. He hoped Minsk remembered him kindly, and not as the one who failed to save him from the misery most Russian POWs suffered at the hands of the Nazis.
Throughout Marya talked on, delivering stock proclamations of Communist superiority, insulting the decadence of the West. "…you, of course, have been sentenced to the death of all such spies." Hogan focused closely on her. Though they hadn't told him, he knew it was inevitable. Waving her cigarette about, Marya said, "One night, you will not know when, we will come into your cell, handcuff you, and take you to a room where you will be shot in the back of the head." Yup, Hogan thought, that's how they did it… how they'd do it. Fast and without warning. No ceremony. No priest or minister to speak words of solace. No consideration for the condemned man's journey into the next life given in this country whose government had decreed its people had no souls. Behind her there was bloodlust in Pruhst's eyes as he glared at his doomed spy.
Continuing to pontificate, Marya went on, "…as the great General Kinchmeier once said…" Though giving no outward sign, Hogan almost strained himself listening to Marya's words. She rambled on in disjointed passages of Communist ideology. Colonel Pruhst nodded continuous agreement. Turncoat, Hogan thought with contempt. Didn't he used to nod along to Fascist ideology the same way?
"But as we are a merciful people," Marya said, winding down, "you have been granted consideration for your help returning our pilot, Comrade Igor Piotkin—" That troublesome Russian who bit! "— to us during the Great Patriotic War." A pardon? Had Marya somehow wrangled a pardon?
"You shall have," Marya concluded, swinging her voluminous cape off with a grand gesture, "warmth and comfort for your final nights!" She thrust the cloak toward him.
"You're too kind," Hogan said dryly.
Marya stalked away without another word or glance. Colonel Pruhst bowed slightly toward Hogan, his eyes glittering. "When next we meet it shall be the last," he said. "At long last." The cell door slammed with a resounding echo.
Letting out a long breath, Hogan sat back down on the cot, running the words and code phrases through his mind. There was no doubt the message came from Kinchloe; they were in a code only he and Hogan used. Cloak… red star… swap… And the most important part was be ready… tonight. He pulled the red star pin off Marya's cape, staring at the hollowed point of the needle. Then he searched the hem until he found the thin rolls of flesh-covered rubber.
Colonel Pruhst froze in shock as he stepped into Hogan's cell and found himself staring face-to-face with himself. Marya swept her cloak up in a huge gesture. While the guards' view was blocked, Hogan stepped forward. He jabbed the red star pin into Pruhst's neck, depressing the star. The drug momentarily froze him as it paralyzed his vocal cords. Eyes wide with horror and alarm, Pruhst could make only strangled whimpers as Hogan quickly pressed the rubber Hogan-mask over his face. More theatrics by Marya, her cloaked arms swept wide over the doorway, covered the uniform jacket change. Smearing some filth from the cell wall onto Pruhst's shirt, Hogan spun them around. Colonel Pruhst in Hogan's face now stood in the cell, while Hogan in Pruhst's face stood in the doorway.
"Take him," Hogan snapped in a perfect imitation of Colonel Pruhst's voice. Heaven knew he'd heard it enough during those endless interrogations.
The guards grabbed Pruhst, handcuffing him as he struggled. Down the corridor they marched, the man with Hogan's face fighting his doom with admirable realism. To an empty room with blood-stained walls they went. Pressed against the wall, Pruhst whimpered as the executioner pressed a pistol into the back of his head.
Hogan and Marya strode out before the echo of the shot died.
Flanked by two aides—Newkirk and his understudy, Rollin Hand—who discretely helped steady the ersatz Colonel Pruhst, Hogan and Marya strode down the steps of the prison to a waiting Zil. Squeezing into the backseat of the scrawny Russian car, Marya flung her arms around Hogan as soon as Rollin Hand hit the gas.
"I sense you didn't trust me," Marya whined pathetically. "Why can you not have the pure faith of my small one?"
The Pruhst mask smiling with him, Hogan lied smoothly, "I'll never doubt you again.
Through an airstrip gate guarded by Vladimir Minsk and Igor Piotkin, they dashed up to a waiting plane. The jet was small and sleek. Rollin Hand pulled the ladder and door up behind them, shouting, "Go!"
In the cockpit, Hogan saw Briggs and Phelps move swiftly into action. At a massive array of electronics Kinchloe sat next to his protégé, Barney Collier, barely sparing a glance and grin for Hogan.
"Jamming their radar," Kinchloe announced.
"And their radio," Barney added. "Let's get out of here."
Helped to a seat by Newkirk and Hand, Hogan sank down gratefully, sore and exhausted. Across the aisle, Cinnamon Carter smiled sweetly at him, saying, "Good to see you again, sir."
Reaching up, Hogan pulled the mask off, returning the smile. "Good to see you too, Miss Carter. Your uncle Andrew isn't along for some explosive mayhem?" he asked, glancing around the plane. The ground dropped away. He could tell they were flying low and at maximum speed.
"He wanted to, but it was thought more subtly was needed," she said with a hint of amusement.
"No, no, my dear," Marya flung herself into the seat next to Cinnamon. "When you welcome a man you must make him believe you are promising him the most glorious…"
Hogan tuned out the on-going lesson in how to bait a honey-trap, scanning around the plane with a warmth spreading through him. They were a good team. A damned good team.
New York, U.S.A., 1963
The living room of the posh apartment was seldom so full as it was this evening. No mission this time. No briefing. No plotting or scheming. The atmosphere was light and social, yet with a hint of tension underneath.
Calling for the attention of all gathered, Robert Hogan stood studying and memorizing their expectant faces.
"We squeaked through the Cuban missile crisis without anyone throwing any nukes around," Hogan said, "but the Berlin Wall is cutting that city in half, keeping people locked behind it. Then there's the president…" A sad murmur passed through the room. Clearing his throat, Hogan went on, "The man who assassinated him had ties to the Soviet Union, though whether he acted alone or not we can't yet say." He couldn't suppress a sigh. It wasn't the sort of uplifting speech he wanted to give on this occasion, but the world was the way it was.
"The war goes on," Hogan continued. "It may be a 'cold' war, but it's a war nonetheless, and it needs to be fought. We want to keep it 'cold', so it remains our fight. Those of us who are unseen, unknown, and unrecognized. Our work may prevent another generation of brave young men from being sent into a meat-grinder. We'll never have medals, nor monuments. Our names will not be remembered. But we'll know what we did made a difference. Unsung heroes." He took another deep breath and turned to Kinchloe. "Set?"
Kinchloe nodded. "Barney has bought out my electronics company. He's teaching me things now. He's ready. And I'm ready for a break." Barney Collier nodded his assent.
"Newkirk?"
"Rollin may be a Yank, but he's bloody good with his hands, and even better at makeup and disguises than I am," Newkirk said. Hogan could see the mutual admiration passing between Newkirk and Rollin Hand.
Around the room Hogan went with the changes in the primary team members of the Impossible Missions Force. Marya endorsed Cinnamon as being able to stop any man in the world in his tracks. But it was Louis LeBeau's choice of replacement that had Hogan using all his skill in control to keep a straight face. How diminutive LeBeau settled on huge strong-man Willy Armitage was a mystery, yet Willy fit perfectly into the new team.
"And Dan Briggs will be in command," Hogan told them. Briggs nodded coolly. "Should anything happen to Dan, Jim Phelps will take over. Though hopefully that won't be for a long time." He looked at the new leader of the IMF. "You're in charge, Dan," Hogan said quietly, formally handing over command. "Though you won't recognize my voice, you'll know it's me on the other side of the messages, offering you missions." Solemnly, Hogan handed over to Briggs the gold-embossed Impossible Missions Force case.
Epilogue
Retirement.
Hogan had known all along this day would come. Settling back on his sofa, Hogan looked out over the city, sipping his brandy while a cigar smoldered by him. He reflected on the years and the adventures he'd had. It hadn't been the life he'd expected when he was young and starting out in the world. And it wasn't the life he'd thought he'd have when he'd walked out of Stalag 13. Yet, on the whole, it had been good. It still would be. He wasn't really retiring, there'd just be no field work. Well… usually no field work, he allowed. Couldn't let the kids have all the fun.
Maybe he'd even get more involved with his 'company', the business that provided his cover. Traveling the world arranging the sales and purchases of used aircraft had its own reward, aside from a means to gather information and contacts. Already he had quite a bit of money pouring in from the venture. Maybe he'd start delivering the planes personally. It would be good to fly again, with no shooting involved.
Behind him the apartment door opened. The neighbor lady, a delightful widow still gorgeous in her early forties, gave Hogan a wave and a meaningful wink as she left Hogan's daughter, Lisa, at the door.
Crossing to the sofa, Lisa settled in close beside her father. At fourteen, Hogan could still see Tiger in his lovely daughter. Her hair had enriched to a deeper auburn, but the bright eyes with their spark of resolution and defiance shown out from a face that shared Tiger's contours. She was going to be a beauty, he thought with both pride and alarm.
Lisa snuggled close, peering up at him as though reading his mind. "I know you're a spy, Daddy," she murmured.
Too well practiced in the art of revealing nothing, Hogan didn't tense or twitch at her statement. "Now who told you such a silly thing, my little tiger cub?" he asked, giving her a teasing tweak on the nose. Who indeed? His team knew full well such a thing was never to be said to Hogan's children.
"I've always known," Lisa said patiently. "For as long as I can remember Opa Wilhelm has been telling us stories about you and how you made fools of the Nazis." Klink always did have a big mouth, Hogan thought. Lisa looked up at him with that Tiger sparkle in her eyes. "And Mama was in the Resistance. Papa Bear and Tiger. He told us it was because of him you were able to operate a spy ring out of a POW camp. The stories are all terribly exciting."
Well that's true, Hogan thought with amusement, though the truth was almost certainly not the way Klink passed the tale on to the children, with his own role inflated beyond any sense of reality.
"Okay, sweetie…" Hogan admitted. "Your Mama and I did those things during the war, it's true. But that was a long time ago. Now I'm just a salesman, traveling around the world arranging deals for used airplanes. Nothing exciting about it."
"Sure, Daddy," Lisa said with a secretive smile. "That's all you do." She rose up, hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. "And I'm going to do just the same when I'm grown up. You be sure to tell Mr. Briggs and Mr. Phelps that."
Now Hogan did react, his arms stiffening around her. "Lisa," he began warningly.
Cutting him off, Lisa added, "But I'm not going to be able to call myself Lisa Hogan. I'm proud of your name but I expect it might be a little dangerous to use." She stood up, looking down at him like a sweet, innocent pixie, while Hogan fought a swelling sense of panic. "I'm going to call myself Lisa Casey."
She danced away up the stairs. It occurred to Hogan to be more emphatic in telling her "no!", but then it hadn't worked with Tiger, either.
Hogan smiled. He suspected retirement wasn't going to be tame.
The End
Notes:
Hogan's Heroes—Episode 1, "The Informer" with Vladimir Minsk, Episode 74, "A Russian is Coming" with Igor Piotkin, and Episode 166, "Hogan's Double Life" with Major Pruhst.
Mission: Impossible—Season 1 leader of the I.M.F Dan Briggs, Season 2-7 Jim Phelps. Primary characters Barney Collier, Rollin Hand, Cinnamon Carter, Willy Armitage. Lisa Casey (played by Lynda Day George) joined the cast in 1969. Ages are based on the actors' ages at the time of the show.