I climb out of the tunnel and head over for the sink. Davis hits the panel on the bunk that closes up the entrance to the tunnel for me, since I have oil on my hands I need to get off. I'm not one of the skilled guys on the team: can't speak German fluently, not specially trained in munitions, don't know how to work a radio transmitter or send in Morse code, can't sew all that well as a tailor (though I'm getting a little better at that), can't cook worth a darn. But I can do odd jobs of all kinds, and I can fix any kind of engine over in the motor pool. Comes naturally to me, having grown up with a dad who bought and ran a service station. Once the war's over, I'll probably go back to helping him, take it over when it's too much for him to do.
But what's become my regular job for the special team here in Stalag 13 is cleaning the firearms. Colonel Hogan insists that the pistols and rifles that we have be cleaned and lubricated regularly, so that they're always ready for any mission that comes up. They do get fired sometimes, but storage in the tunnel is hard on them with all the dirt, plus it's kind of moist down there sometimes. Even the cases we've made to protect them can't keep all the damp out.
So that's what I've been doing this afternoon, down in the tunnel: doing the regular maintenance on them. I don't mind the work: it's cool and quiet down there, and I like the feeling that I'm doing something real, something a little bit important, to help with the success of our missions. But we don't have a tap down there, of course, so I need to clean my hands when I get up to our barracks.
Newkirk is sitting at the head of the table dealing out cards as I head to the sink to wash up. Looks like he's in a mood for poker tonight, but I'm better at gin, so I'm not planning to play. It's a sure bet I'd lose my money. Kinch, LeBeau, Carter, and Chapman are settling in to play a hand, though, as Colonel Hogan comes out of his office.
I look up at the Colonel and smile. "Just finished cleaning the firearms, sir," I tell him, drying my hands on the rag that serves as a towel.
"Thanks, Barnes," the Colonel says back, smiling back and clapping me on the back. He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't need to—he wasn't just saying that by rote. I can tell he means it.
"My pleasure, sir," I tell him, sincerely. His eyebrows rise up a little and he studies me for just a second. I can tell the Colonel knows I mean it, but he doesn't add anything, just rests his hand back on my shoulder for a moment and squeezes a little bit before moving on towards the stove. That feels good, getting his approval.
He lifts the coffeepot on there and fills his mug. "Do you want some?" he asks, still holding the pot and gesturing with it.
"No thanks, sir." I shake my head: I really can't stand the ersatz coffee we have to drink. LeBeau tries to mix some of the small supply we have of real beans in it so it has some coffee flavor, but it's hardly worth drinking, except in the winter when I'm cold and need something hot inside me.
Colonel Hogan moves over to the table and stares down at Newkirk's hand. Whatever he sees makes the left side of his mouth quirk up before he takes a sip of his coffee. Davis sidles up next to me.
"You really like cleaning the firearms?" he asks. His voice isn't loud, but I see Colonel Hogan's head turn towards us, just a fraction, though his gaze stays on the game at the table.
"Sure. Comes naturally to me—I did it often enough growing up," I tell him. "My dad and I hunted deer each fall, wild turkeys too. During the lean years of the Depression, sometimes all the meat we'd get for months on end was what we hunted. So I learned how to take care of a rifle, and side arms aren't really that different."
Davis shakes his head. "First gun I ever touched was in basic training. But boy was our sergeant determined to make sure we knew how to take care of it: break it down, clean it, load it, the works. He'd time us on it."
Newkirk grunts from the table, "I guess that don't vary much between armies, then. Mine had the same ruddy idea."
"Oui, mine also. I think it is the same in all armies," LeBeau sighs, looking down at his cards. He lays them face down on the table. "I fold."
"Me too." Chapman sets his down with the air of a man who's not sure he's making the right decision but doesn't dare do otherwise.
"Call," Kinch says, looking steadily at Newkirk.
Newkirk's glance slides to his left, away from Kinch. "Andrew, we haven't got all day," Newkirk says. "You going to bet or fold?"
Carter is staring at his hand, like he can't make up his mind. "Fold, I guess?" He puts his cards down on the table.
Newkirk puts his cards down and smirks. "Three Queens, gents, including the Queen of Hearts o' course, thanks to Lady Luck."
Kinch smiles. "And a straight beats it." He lays his hand on the table and scoops the pot towards him while Newkirk frowns like he can't quite understand what just happened.
Carter slides his cards over to Newkirk, who starts shuffling, a dismal look still on his face. Then Carter looks up at Davis. "You never even held a gun till you were in the army? I got my first air rifle when I was ten. 'Course, it had been my cousin Johnny's first. He gave it to me because he'd gotten a shotgun for his birthday, and mine was just a couple weeks later so he gave me his old one. I practiced my aim on old cans for ages before I was allowed to go hunt prairie dogs."
Davis grins. "My dad wasn't much for that sort of thing. And you can't do much hunting in a city like Chicago."
"I guess that'd be true in London and Paris too," I say, looking at Newkirk and LeBeau, who both nod.
"Hunting's for country toffs," Newkirk sniffs derisively.
"Didn't you want an air rifle, though?" I can't help asking Davis.
"Oh sure. Begged for one over and over, starting at nine. My parents got me a cap gun instead." Davis shakes his head. "Not quite what I'd envisioned, but I had fun with it, and it made plenty of noise."
Colonel Hogan chuckles. "I'd have loved that. No such thing as a cap gun when I was the right age for it. I had to depend on my imagination when playing cops and robbers—but I always had plenty of that."
None of us doubt that.
"You play the robber designing the heist or the cop that goes after the bad guys, sir?" Newkirk asks, grinning up at our CO. I'd never dare ask that question!
The Colonel just laughs. "Whichever we needed at the moment," he answers lightly, grinning back.
"I had a cap gun too. Boy, I loved it," I remember nostalgically, then I start to laugh.
"What's so funny about it?" Carter asks.
I grin—this is one of my best stories, and I realize I've never told the guys here.
"My little brother and I loved playing cops chasing gangsters. I would read all the stories in the papers about Baby Face Nelson, and John Dillinger, Machine Gun Kelly, and Doc Barker—he'd even done crimes in Oklahoma, not far from where we lived. And my mom's dad had even seen Pretty Boy Floyd one time in Missouri, in a bank, no less—though it wasn't during a robbery, fortunately.
"So when we got cap guns, Dickie and I would chase each other all over the neighborhood, one of us pretending to be a gangster, the other a cop chasing him, firing our cap guns at each other. But one of our neighbors didn't like our cap guns, complained to my parents about the noise and how it wasn't good for boys like me and my brother to play gangsters. So then we were only allowed to shoot caps when the neighbors weren't home.
"Well, my grandparents had a farm in northwest Arkansas. My folks tried to take us to see them at least once every year or two, and one of those visits was right after me and my little brother had gotten our cap guns. So of course we took them with us, intending to play with them on the farm. Plenty of space and no one to bother out there. We couldn't wait.
"Now, my Granddad had been diagnosed with a stomach ulcer, and the doctor had told him he should drink goat milk for it. They lived out in the country, in the Ozarks, so that meant getting a couple of nanny goats. I still remember the first morning on the farm going down with Granddad to watch him milk the goats and seeing a floppy-eared white goat kid with a brown head and a white blaze on its forehead lying on the straw in the barn with a little fluff of a ginger kitten nestled up next to him, just like that baby goat was a mama cat. Granddad showed me how to milk the goats. I thought it was fun, so he told me I could do it every day I was there. Somehow it didn't occur to me that he was getting out of a chore during our visit.
"So that afternoon my brother Dickie and I go into the pasture to play. Since this is mountain country, it's full of rocks, no good for raising crops but fine for grazing cattle—and a couple of goats. Dickie and I play cops and robbers for a while, though we're careful about how many caps we use. Mama and Dad had told us not to be wasteful, that they couldn't buy us new rolls of caps very often. So we use a few, then we put them on a bigger rock with a little rock on them to hold them down so they won't blow away in the wind, and we go on playing without them for a while. We're throwing rocks at an old can, and Dickie's complaining because I'm a lot better at it than he is because I'm the big brother. He's just griped at me, 'Could you possibly try not to hit every single one!' when suddenly I hear this strange noise behind us, and I turn around and see one of Granddad's nanny goats eating our caps!"
I hear snorts of laughter from all sides of me, but I'm not done with my story, so I go on.
"Well, Dickie and I are horrified. We rush over to her, but she just takes off across the pasture, the end of the roll of caps still trailing out of her mouth, and it's gone inside her in just a moment anyway. I'm not sure whether to be more worried about the goat or our caps, but Dickie takes off howling for the farmhouse. I follow slower, because I'm the older brother and I just know I'm the one that's going to get in trouble for this.
"When I get into the living room, Dickie's bawling to all the adults: 'The goat ate our caps! The goat ate our caps! We don't have any more caps!'
"Granddad just shakes his head. "Dern goats'll eat anything. But don't take on so, boy. Cotton or wool won't hurt 'em.'
"I know I have to step in then. 'Not our hats, Granddad. Our caps!'
"Granddad just looks confused, but Dad gets my meaning right this time. 'You're telling me, son, that the goats ate the caps for your cap guns?'
"I nod, still terrified of how much trouble I must be in. But Dad just roars with laughter and says to Granddad, 'Your goat milk's going to be a mite peppery tomorrow morning!'"
Finished with my story, I pause to savor the effect on my audience. The Colonel has his hand up to the bridge of his nose, balancing his elbow on his left hand like he often does when he's exasperated, but this time he's shaking with laughter. LeBeau is leaning on Kinch to prop himself up because he's laughing so hard, and Kinch is pillowing his head on his hand the table and his shoulders are shuddering. Carter and Newkirk both have tears coming out of their eyes, Garlotti is pounding his bunk where he's lying on his stomach, and Davis is leaning against the bunk post to hold himself up.
Yep, I told this one right. We all need to laugh like this sometimes: let the craziness inside us out because if we don't go crazy like this once in a while, we'll all go crazy—I mean seriously crazy, right when we can't afford to. I feel good about making everyone laugh so hard. I remember my Dad telling me that the trick to telling a story with a good punchline is like shooting a gun: "Aim true and time it right."
ooOoo
Author's Note: The episode of the goats eating the caps really happened to my father and uncle when they were boys in the early 1940s, when their grandfather was keeping goats on his Ozark farm to get milk for his ulcer. (Another family story is in here too: my mother's father did actually see Pretty Boy Floyd in a Missouri bank, too, according to family lore.) The heyday of cap guns was the 1950s, playing on the popularity of movie and television Westerns, but they were highly desired toys for boys in the 1930s too, when heroes like Dick Tracy fought gangsters in the pages of comic books and actual gangsters occupied headlines in newspapers all over the country.
I have loved Hogan's Heroes since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy. I acknowledge their ownership and that of Bing Crosby Productions and intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story.