Act Three
Scene One
Theater of War: Act Three – "I Have Played the Fool" – The First Book of Samuel – is set in the Hogan's Heroes' universe. It was originally published as a digest-sized zine in 1998. This is an amateur publication for the enjoyment of fans. This 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.
– One –
Europe 1945 — World War II still raged on. The Battle of the Bulge, that seemingly endless quagmire that had cost the lives of tens of thousands of German and Allied men, finally ended, ended with the Allies victorious. From both fronts, the Allies continued their relentless march toward Germany. Warsaw, Krakow, Lodz and other Polish cities had already been taken by the Russians who continued on to Berlin. Auschwitz, a name not yet known to the world, had already been liberated. Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill and Josef Stalin were preparing for a meeting that would determine the fate of postwar Europe. The feeling among the Allies was that Germany would be defeated sometime in the summer.
In Germany, conditions kept deteriorating. German cities continued to be bombed by the Americans during the day and the British during the night. Thousands of tons of bombs, including incendiaries, rained on helpless civilians, reducing centuries-old cities to rubble. Men, women and children took to the countryside to escape the bombs and the invading armies. And they were not the only ones. As the Allies approached, tens of thousands of concentration camp inmates were sent on forced marches to camps in the interior of Germany. Thousands died. Also on the march were thousands of "Kriegies"(1) or prisoners of war, evacuated from POW camps by the Germans. The evacuees faced not only the harshest winter in years, but also a lack of adequate clothing, food and shelter as they made their way into Germany. They also faced the constant danger of bombing raids by the Allies if they were transported by rail, and strafing runs by fighters if they used the roads. Throughout war-torn Europe, it seemed as if the death and destruction would never end.
But, in time, they would, bringing peace, bringing changes, good and bad.
Changes.
Colonel Robert Hogan, the senior POW officer of Stalag Luft 13, a small POW camp not far from the town of Hammelburg in northwestern Germany in an area near the Ruhr River Valley, walked across the compound after supper.
He'd been thinking about the events of the past few weeks lately. About the changes in the camp, most of them not particularly pleasant, and about the change in his relationship with the camp kommandant, Colonel Wilhelm Klink.
The biggest change in the camp was the increase in the number of prisoners. There were over nineteen hundred men in a camp originally built to house twelve hundred. And as the camp's population continued to swell, the budget shrank. Food and other necessities were stretched to their limits. In the past, Hogan and Klink had been able to buy food and other supplies from Hammelburg and the surrounding countryside. But as the war disrupted transportation and supply lines, the town of Hammelburg was feeling the pinch as well. Once common items had become luxuries — still available, if one knew the right person and had the right currency. Hogan, thanks to his links with the underground, had the right currency and the right connections. But he chafed at having to pay exorbitant prices for once commonplace items. And he realized bleakly that, in time, those items might no longer be available, regardless of the price or his connections.
The greatest change for Hogan was in his relationship with the camp kommandant, Wilhelm Klink. For years, Hogan had thought of Klink as a pawn, a means of running his escape and sabotage organization. To keep the Gestapo, SS and Luftwaffe from discovering his operation, Hogan had used Klink, unofficially of course, and without Klink's seeming knowledge. As a result, Hogan had had to develop a relationship with Klink that went far beyond the normal camp kommandant-senior POW relationship that existed in other camps. It had become a relationship that pretty much gave Hogan a free rein in the camp and an open door to Klink. And in the course of that relationship, Hogan found himself closer to Klink than he'd ever been to any other person.
And it had frightened Hogan. Outwardly, Hogan was a social being, a natural wit, a charming companion with women, a friendly sort with men. He was a friend to everyone and everyone liked him. But his relationships with others were casual. He'd known what he wanted to do with his life since he was a kid. And that put Hogan on a fast track in school and in his career. Third in his class(2) when he graduated from flight training, he was a squadron leader in his early thirties and frocked to a full colonel at thirty-five when he went to England with the Lend-Lease planes. He seemed to lead a charmed life and even managed to talk himself into the command of an RAF group, the 504th, a few months later. That was when his luck finally ran out. On a routine bombing mission, he found himself in a burning plane and had been forced to bail out over Germany a month before the U.S. and Germany were officially at war. Well, the fast track had been fun while it lasted. But it had left him little time to develop close friendships with other officers. Or little inclination. Who knew when that friend might become a rival for a post Hogan wanted. It was much better to keep things light and friendly. Much better for his ego and his career.
But here in this godforsaken POW camp, Robert Hogan suddenly found himself having to develop a relationship with — of all people! — a German prison kommandant. An unexpectedly close relationship. Hogan had to know Klink as well as he knew himself if his plans were to succeed. But it didn't matter. For Hogan, it was superficial. After all, Klink was the enemy, a uniform, someone he used, someone he needed to use. It didn't matter what happened to Klink. It didn't matter what he did to Klink. Klink was expendable. Just a way to get what Hogan had wanted. It didn't matter if Klink was hurt or if he died. It didn't matter . . .
Until that appalling moment when Hogan realized that it did matter. Very much. Somehow, during those three years, the seemingly naive and foolish camp kommandant had managed to become closer to Hogan than any other human being. And Hogan had run from that realization. More — he had pushed Klink away, physically, emotionally, wishing him ill. Wishing him dead. It had taken Klink's pain and near death for Hogan to finally admit how he felt about Klink.
None too soon. Their newfound relationship helped to temper the increasingly crowded conditions at the camp. And it had done more than that. It had finally helped Hogan realize the truth about the seemingly inept kommandant — that Klink was not the incompetent he appeared to be. On the contrary, Klink had been fighting the Nazis for eleven years as the notorious resistance leader known as the Stage. It was a fight that had nearly ended with Klink's death, and with Hogan's unmasking as well, when circumstances had let their common enemy, Gestapo Major Hochstetter, discover the Stage's identity. Hogan, his men and Sergeant Hans Schultz had rescued Klink, but only after Klink had been tortured for nearly three days. After his rescue, Klink had decided to return to the camp instead of going to England or Switzerland. And Klink had also decided to resume his identity as the incompetent kommandant. Until Hogan convinced the lonely and isolated hero that it was time for the real Wilhelm Klink to live again. And ultimately that was the greatest change of all — the rebirth of the long hidden Wilhelm Klink.
The change was made so slowly that few people, fortunately, noticed. Hogan's eyes took in the soldiers patrolling the grounds. By now, many of the experienced men, the Luftwaffe men, had gone. Their replacement Wehrmacht guards tended to be too old, like 63-year-old Klaus Krieger, or too young, like baby-faced, fresh-off-the-farm 17-year-old Emil Reinwald, or men who had been wounded and could no longer function in combat, like one-armed Oskar Kaufmann. But over the past few weeks, they were becoming more professional than the departing guards had ever been because Klink, without their being aware of it, was making them so.
Hogan grinned. He wasn't sure he liked that change; it made it more difficult to get out of camp. But Klink, via Schultz, kept an eye on them, letting things get lax just when they needed to be lax.
Funny, Klink never asked about any of Hogan's operations. Of course, Klink was far too busy. Within a couple of weeks of Standartenführer Weiss's visit, the Stage exploded on the scene again. Literally. In one night, five major installations across the country had blown up. And there was no doubt about which group had been responsible. The Stage had returned with a vengeance. And Hogan, to his chagrin, had no idea how Klink had arranged it.
There were other changes as well. Changes in the way Klink talked to soldiers and prisoners alike. His conversation with underlings wasn't as condescending as it used to be, nor was it as diffident with his superiors. There was an unexpectedly dry sense of humor surfacing, used to chide erring subordinates. The yelling that had been a part of the old Kommandant was disappearing. Klink's voice was far quieter, yet oddly firmer as well. His walk too was somehow different.
And his chess game was definitely different.
Hogan bounded up the stairs to Klink's quarters and knocked. Another change; Hogan no longer walked into Klink's quarters without waiting for a response.
"Come in," Klink called.
Hogan walked into the living room; the chessboard was already set up on the table.
Klink was at the bookcase, leafing through a book. He glanced at Hogan and smiled. "Give me a moment, Colonel." He gestured toward the chess set. "You can begin."
"I don't know why I bother," Hogan complained as he sat down. "You win almost every game."
Klink smiled. "True. But now, you no longer let me win. It makes the game much more interesting."
"Maybe. But I still lose." Hogan moved a white pawn.
Klink returned the book to the shelf and joined Hogan at the table. He moved a black pawn.
"I was looking around the compound as I walked over," Hogan said as he pondered his next move. "I'm not sure I like all of your changes."
A passing smile. "Interfering with your plans, Colonel Hogan?"
Hogan grinned as he moved another pawn. "Not yet."
"Good. I don't want you getting restless." The knight moved.
The next few moves were made silently.
Finally, Klink said, "You have something on your mind. I do wish you would talk about it. It's interfering with your game."
"Huh?"
"Come now, Robert," Klink said. "I know you still have unanswered questions."
Robert. That was another change. Rarely used and only when they were alone.
"Yeah," Hogan admitted. He looked at Klink squarely. "I didn't think you wanted to talk about it. You ignored me at first. Rather pointedly."
"Well, yes." An embarrassed smile. "I apologize for that. But I was still trying to build up Kommandant Klink; trying to bring to life a character I thought had died in that cell."
"Until I resurrected him," Hogan said a bit pessimistically.
"I went into it with my eyes open, Robert. I didn't need any pushing," Klink said. "The truth is, I might have come back even if you didn't think of it." A smile. "Now, I'm trying to kill the Kommandant off. Only this way, it is much more difficult."
"If you want the truth, I don't think most people know what's going on."
"I hope not. It would raise far too many awkward questions."
Hogan moved a pawn. "Speaking of awkward questions," Klink's eyes lifted to his face, "and you can tell me it's none of my business — "
"I'm already intrigued. Ask your question."
"Weiss said something in your office that day. Something about knowing what they did to you, not for the first time." Hogan watched Klink's face change.
Klink rose without a word and went over to the sideboard. He lifted a tray with a flask of brandy and two glasses on it. He brought tray over to the table. Hogan stayed silent as Klink poured the brandy into the two glasses and handed him one. Klink took a sip of his own drink before sitting down. The silence was becoming uncomfortable when Klink finally broke it.
"The first happened years ago," Klink began quietly, staring at the brandy glass. "Shortly after Dunkirk. I was in France, an airfield outside of Paris. It was fairly quiet but resistance activities were starting. Since I'd had little contact with French groups, I decided to 'scout' them out. I dressed as a laborer with false papers and went out to meet with a group. Unfortunately, I picked the wrong night." He sipped the brandy. "The SS was conducting a sweep to round up the opposition. I was arrested as well."
Hogan glanced at him in surprise.
"My papers served me well. I was supposed to be an Austrian laborer and that is what they believed. I played, I believe the expression is, dumb. Actually, it wasn't too difficult; I really had no idea what was going on."
"But they didn't buy that?"
Klink shook his head. "No, they didn't. At first, they were too busy to bother with me. I was thrown into a cold, dark cell and left alone for a couple of hours before they came for me. They asked their questions, questions I really couldn't answer. They didn't like the responses so I was beaten. They left me semi-conscious on the floor while they decided what to do with me." His eyes grew haunted. "I could hear screams from some of the other cells and started to wonder if I would be next. I had never been so frightened in my life."
"I'd be scared too," Hogan admitted. "More than scared."
"I was more than scared. I'm afraid I dirtied myself as I lay there." A sigh. "I was not too proud of myself then."
"You had nothing to be ashamed of," Hogan told him quietly.
"I know that. Now." Klink shook his head. "But back then, I was still rather naive." A faint smile. "And I didn't even have the excuse of youth to fall back on." He took another drink.
"What happened next?" Hogan prompted soberly.
"They had examined my papers and decided they were false. That made them more interested in me. I was taken to another room. There was a generator with cables running from it to a table." Klink's brow was now wet. "They tied me to the table and — "
"Don't," Hogan interrupted.
Klink drained his drink; Hogan refilled his glass.
"That was my first taste of real pain," Klink continued. "Up until then, I had led a fairly charmed life, managing not to get really hurt. I don't know how long it went on. They couldn't control the level and my tolerance for pain was not as high as it is now, so I kept losing consciousness. Somehow, I hung on, not giving them the answers they were looking for.
"After a while, they lost interest in me and left me there. Feeling rather sorry for myself, I might add. And very, very angry. I had drifted off to sleep when, unexpectedly, I heard shots in the hallway. The SS had miscalculated. There was a well-organized counter-raid by the resistance. A man burst into the room with a machine gun. He freed me and handed me a gun.
"I don't really remember much of the rest of the night. It is a blur of gunshots and grenades, people crying out as they were hit, blood and fires." Klink shook his head. "The next thing I remember clearly was running through the woods before I collapsed. I had a bullet in my shoulder; to this day, I don't remember being shot. An elderly farm couple found me, removed the bullet and tended me until morning. Then, over their objections, I left.
"The Stage was really born that night, Robert. When I returned to my unit — officially, I had been on leave — I had go on as if nothing had happened. I learned to live with that kind of pain. I had something to compare it with. Something infinitely worse. But it wasn't easy."
"And you told Weiss?"
Klink nodded. "He was my commanding officer."
Hogan looked surprised.
"He wasn't with the SS then," Klink explained. "He joined the following year. We decided we needed someone there we could trust and he volunteered. But one of the last things he did was transfer me back to Germany. And I have been here ever since." Klink glanced at Hogan. "There were a few other times when I have been caught. Fortunately for me, they never realized who I was. Occasionally, I was beaten. Occasionally . . . But I always managed to escape or be rescued within a few hours. Hochstetter, he had the distinction of holding me the longest. Without your intervention, it would have been permanent."
"As I said in the cave, Wilhelm — " That name was even more rarely used. "You and me. To the end."
Klink smiled. "Any more questions?"
Hogan grinned. "I'll think of something. But for now, checkmate."
Klink looked at the board in surprise. "Very sneaky, Colonel. You made me lose my concentration."
"I had to do something," Hogan said with a grin. "I was getting tired of losing."
"Another game?" Klink asked.
"I should rest on my laurels, but — "
The sound of a low-flying airplane interrupted him. Klink stood and walked over to the door. Hogan followed him onto the porch.
"RAF," Hogan said, "from the sound of it."
Klink nodded and turned to go back into the building.
Off in the distance, a blinding light blossomed. Then seconds later, a huge explosion rocked the ground.
"Hammelburg?" Hogan asked.
Klink nodded.
"But there's nothing there of any importance now."
"An accident," Klink said. "Or perhaps they had to lighten their load."
Sergeant Hans Schultz ran up to them, puffing slightly. "Herr Kommandant!"
"Yes, Schultz," Klink said, "we saw."
Klink went back into his quarters and walked over to the telephone. He put in a call to the nearby town. Hogan noticed he had trouble trying to get an answer to his questions.
Klink gave up in disgust. "Schultz!"
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!"
"Get my car. I'm going to town to find out what's going on," Klink said. "You follow with another car and two men. Watch for anyone who might have parachuted out."
"Wait a minute," Hogan began and shut up as Captain Fritz Gruber(3), Klink's second-in-command, came in.
"Hauptmann Gruber," Klink was saying, "I'm going to Hammelburg to see what happened. Sergeant Schultz will follow and pick up any Allied pilots who may have landed. You are in charge."
Gruber saluted smartly. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."
Klink went out on the porch, carrying his topcoat. "Forgive me, Colonel Hogan. Our chess game will have to wait."
Hogan smiled grimly.
Klink glanced up and stopped putting on his topcoat. "Lights!" He ordered loudly. "Sweep the skies!"
Instantly, every searchlight in the camp turned upward.
Hogan followed Klink's gaze and swore beneath his breath. A parachutist was heading straight for the camp, his figure frozen in the searchlights.
"Sound the alarm! Search for others!" Klink ordered. "Patrols, outside the camp! All prisoners confined to the barracks!"
No, Hogan thought, there were definitely some changes he didn't like. The old Klink would have gotten the same idea, but not so quickly, leaving them time to get the jumping men into the tunnel.
The guards reacted well to the flow of orders. Another change, Hogan thought with annoyance. They were actually beginning to operate efficiently. A few months, a few weeks ago, the same orders would have produced utter chaos. Now, one searchlight stayed on the parachutist, the rest swept the camp and the outside woods. Two patrols had been dispatched outside the wire and the prisoners were actually staying in the barracks.
The parachutist had almost landed. Hogan could see the shock and dismay on his face as he realized where he was heading.
"Herr Kommandant!" Schultz shouted and pointed skyward.
Another parachutist was heading for the lit camp. A searchlight picked him up and stayed on him as the first man landed in the middle of the camp. Instantly, guards, their rifles aimed at him, surrounded the landing man. He undid the straps of his parachute and, ringed by the soldiers, walked over to the men waiting on the porch.
The other man was blown slightly away. Hogan realized with alarm that the parachutist was heading for the electrified inner fence surrounding the camp.
So did Klink. "Cut the fence current!" he ordered.
The sweeping lights picked up one more figure. This one slightly to the west of the camp.
"A blasted party," Hogan murmured with disgust. The Germans would pick up the third man as well.
"Sorry, Colonel," Klink said in a voice only Hogan could hear. "I'm afraid these three are mine."
The second man yelled loudly as he headed straight for the fence. His parachute snagged on the barbed wire on the top of the fence. Luckily for him, he hit it none too hard and with his back. The metal caught on his jacket but did no damage. The parachute hung him up, some six feet above the ground. The guards were there, waiting for him. The third man landed on the road right outside the camp. The guards instantly surrounded him.
"Very neat, Kommandant," Hogan murmured.
A thin smile. "I try."
The first man had reached them; he saluted sharply. "Captain John Witton," he said in an American accent despite the British uniform.
Klink saluted absently, watching the progress of the other two men. He left the introductions to Hogan.
"Colonel Robert Hogan, senior POW officer," Hogan said. "This is Colonel Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of Stalag Luft 13, the toughest POW camp in Germany."
Hogan caught the amused glint in Klink's eye as he turned toward them.
"Captain, that was quite an entrance," Klink said.
"Yes, sir." The pilot was clearly disgusted with himself.
Another explosion in the distance shattered the quiet of the night.
"That's my plane," Witton muttered. "I hope everyone got out."
"If they did," Klink said, "we will pick them up."
The other two men joined them; both saluted smartly.
"Lieutenant Michael Scott." A broad Scots accent.
"Sergeant Willy Baines." A cockney edge to the voice.
Another absent salute from Klink. "Hauptmann Gruber, for tonight take them to the cooler. Give them whatever they need to make them comfortable. If he wishes, Colonel Hogan can talk to them."
Gruber saluted. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."
"I still have a trip to town to make." Klink slipped on his coat. "Schultz!"
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!" Schultz hurried to get Klink's car.
Around them, the camp settled down to normal. The guards slowed down to their normal pace; the three men were being herded toward the cooler. However, the lights still searched the woods outside the camp.
Klink noticed Hogan's expression as the American watched the lights. "Hauptmann Gruber."
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant?"
"The excitement seems to have died down. If there are any men outside the camp, we should find them with the car. The lights can resume their regular pattern," Klink said nonchalantly.
Gruber accepted the statement without a murmur and passed the order on to the men. Hogan hid his smile.
Schultz brought Klink's staff car over.
Hogan held the door open for Klink and, with a grin, shut it. He continued to grin as he walked back to his barracks.
"What rotten luck!" Corporal Louis LeBeau, a diminutive Frenchman, said to Hogan as he entered the barracks.
Hogan smiled. "Not completely. Klink's cut the outside lights. We might still pick up the others. You and Baker, through the tunnel. See what you can find."
"Right, Colonel," Sergeant Richard Baker, a tall black man, said.
Hogan poured himself a cup of coffee.
"Where's Klink going?" asked Sergeant James Kinchloe, a mustached black man.
"Hammelburg," Hogan said. He glanced at the eastern sky visible through the barracks' still unshuttered window. "Looks like there's a fire that way."
1 The German word for POW was Kriegsgefangenen, which was shortened to Kriegies by the POWs. David A. Foy: For You the War is Over
2 "Hogan's Double Life"
3 "Don't Forget to Write"
