Achilles Heel
by Nina Stephens
"Everybody's playing the game
But nobody's rules are the same
Nobody's on nobody's side
Better learn to go it alone
Recognize you're out on your own
Nobody's on nobody's side."
"Nobody's Side," from the musical, Chess
Lyrics by Tim Rice
Chapter One
The atmosphere in the dark paneled conference room seemed weighted with solemn silence, as the American colonel entered through a pair of massive double doors. A young redheaded British major standing just inside glared at the Army Air Corps officer with apparent disdain. Dispensing with a greeting, he merely gestured contemptuously with his chin, signaling for him to approach the long mahogany table in the center of the room.
The officer, dark-haired and in his mid-30's, walked briskly to the head of the conference table, smartly saluting the four-star general at the opposite end. Whatever military bearing Colonel Robert Hogan retained was reserved for these meetings at Allied Intelligence Headquarters in London. Back at LuftStalag 13 in northwestern Germany his salutes, if one may be generous enough to call them that, more closely resembled a contemptuous wave than a formal military gesture. It was just one of the many small ways he enjoyed showing disrespect for his Axis captors.
The general returned the salutation with barely a glance and turned to the stack of papers in front of him. Bushy white eyebrows topping a pair of intense blue eyes furrowed in a frown as he looked over the thick personnel file.
Hogan tried not to appear uncomfortable; it was evident the general was displeased with him. It was the first staff meeting he'd attended where his commanding officer hadn't greeted him, his eyes beaming, and then warmly encouraged him to have a seat.
"Well, Colonel Hogan, I see that you were able to take time out of your busy schedule to join us this morning." The general's normally mellow voice was caustic.
Hogan made no response other than nervously clearing his throat. He remained rigidly at attention, his eyes focused on the large oil painting of Winston Churchill on the wall behind the general. He sensed that the faces lining the long, highly polished table mirrored the same severe scowl Churchill directed at him from above.
General Walter Fitzhugh, commanding general for all Allied military intelligence operations, looked up sternly at the young colonel. He was responsible for Hogan's selection as leader of a combined military team of espionage and sabotage experts who operated behind enemy lines from a Luftwaffe prisoner-of-war camp. The general had handpicked the officer for the covert mission, but now he was being put in the awkward position of admitting perhaps he'd made a mistake. He knew the assignment called for someone with guts and daring, but this time Hogan's brashness had finally tried even his patience.
"Colonel Hogan, we have reviewed your activities this past month, and, I am sorry to say, you have ignored our previous counsel to coordinate your missions with headquarters. You apparently seem to think you have established your own theater operations command. Odd, I don't recall granting you that authority."
Fitzhugh spoke evenly, his deep, resonant voice conveying a sense he was trying to control his anger.
He looked over the tall, handsome officer at the opposite end of the table, trying not to fidget as he stood stiffly at attention. Hogan had more than demonstrated his courage; his career was still young, and he already had five full rows of ribbons adorning the blouse of his dress uniform.
Most recently, he'd received the Victoria Cross for gallantry after a mission in which he'd been instrumental in the destruction of several enemy mobile rocket launchers. The rockets were aimed at England, poised for firing, when Hogan deliberately risked his life to track them down and radio their positions to waiting Allied bombers. His selfless act had doubtless saved thousands of lives.
Those were better times for Hogan, Fitzhugh thought disconsolately, as he recalled the moving private ceremony in which King George himself had gratefully pinned the burgundy and gold medallion to Hogan's chest. He was one of only a handful of Americans to be decorated with the coveted award. Its ribbon counterpart sat there now, atop the others he had more than earned.
But, Fitzhugh realized with a heavy sigh, there was a thin line between bravery and foolhardy recklessness, and he was reluctantly forced to admit that Hogan's decisions of late veered more toward the latter.
"Do you have anything to say in defense of your actions, Colonel Hogan?"
"I didn't realize this was to be a trial, General," Hogan replied testily.
Fitzhugh bristled. He didn't relish having to discipline Hogan, but he certainly didn't have to make it so damned difficult for him.
"It's not yet, Colonel, but we can make arrangements for such proceedings to take place if you don't care to cooperate with this panel's hearing."
Hogan visibly chafed at the general's harsh tone. He leveled his dark eyes, suddenly smoldering.
"What are you asking me to do, General? Explain each and every one of my actions to this panel of armchair tacticians? You're not the ones out there risking your life every day. Apparently you've been desk-bound so long you've forgotten what the real dangers of wartime are all about."
The thick white brows capping Fitzhugh's lined face shot upward. Hogan knew he had overstepped his bounds, but mounting frustration failed to govern his reason. He plowed ahead, his voice hoarse with emotion and fatigue.
"I'm the one out there with my neck on the line. I'm the one who has to make the life and death decisions, and I don't like being second-guessed by a staff of broken-down combat rejects." His arm swept the room, signaling the inclusion of the table of stunned senior officers.
Fitzhugh's face turned purple, as he sputtered his reply.
"I think we have heard quite enough, Colonel Hogan. It is evident you choose to pursue a reckless course that has needlessly endangered not only yourself, but also the men you lead."
The star-burdened officer rose slowly to his feet, his voice climbing to a gravelly shout, as he pounded the table in syncopation with his remarks.
"The former we might conceivably tolerate, the latter is unconscionable for an officer who serves under my command!"
Several men around the table flinched involuntarily, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, as the stentorian voice echoed in the thick silence. The general, his breathing strained, paused to compose himself. His head bowed, he brooded privately for a few moments and then raised his troubled blue eyes to tersely address Hogan.
"You are hereby relieved of your rank and your command. You are to remain in London while we consider the disposition of your case."
Hogan's jaw dropped open, his face seemingly paralyzed with disbelief.
Fitzhugh moved to sit back down and then stopped midway, straightening up to address him once more. The general's voice now conveyed the same frustration Hogan had earlier projected.
"Frankly, Hogan, I was the sole senior staff officer pleading for lesser disciplinary measures, but your conduct the past month and particularly this morning have pushed me to the limit. I am more and more inclined to agree with my prudent colleagues and order court martial proceedings for an officer who so blatantly ignores the wise counsel of his superiors."
Hogan, finally finding his voice, blinked in disbelief.
"You...you can't do that!"
"Can't we, Hogan? Tell that to the men who were captured last week on that sabotage mission. We disapproved of the operation, but you went ahead and ordered it anyway. Or perhaps the resistance leader who three weeks ago was taken by the Gestapo. You once again insisted on meeting him to gather information, contrary to our guidance. Would you care for me to continue?"
The muscles at the side of Hogan's jaw tightened into cords.
"You aren't trying to blame me for those mishaps, are you, General? Everybody out there knows the risks. I'm just as vulnerable as they are and because a few rookies made some mistakes, you can't expect to hold me responsible."
"Interesting argument, Hogan, but not very cogent." Fitzhugh shuffled through the papers in front of him. "That resistance leader who was taken, Rudolf Leitmann was his name, I believe? A 'rookie,' as you say, he most definitely was not. He was one of our more senior and experienced men." Fitzhugh paused, briefly clearing his throat before continuing, his voice suddenly subdued. "Yes, I'm very much holding you responsible. You'll have an opportunity for your legal counsel to argue otherwise at your court martial. Now, you are dismissed."
Hogan's face slackened at the mention of Leitmann's name. He began to stammer a reply, but swiftly recovered, his jaw firmly tensed once more. His brown eyes caught the general's for a moment, and a world of hurt and indignation seemed to pass between them. Those not in direct view of either Hogan or Fitzhugh failed to notice far more being communicated. Later, in hindsight, some of the officers seated around the table that afternoon recalled seeing a fleeting look of satisfied acknowledgement pass between the two men.
Fitzhugh sat back down and brushed his hands over a swept-back mane of white hair, his head bowed. No longer could he bear to look at the devastated expression on his subordinate's face.
It was evident to Hogan there was nothing more to say. The general's mind had been made up, and there was little doubt the other senior staff officers held the same view.
Purposely ignoring Fitzhugh and the others around the table, Hogan made an abrupt about-face and strode for the door. He grabbed his overcoat and cap from the redheaded major, still insolently blocking the exit.
"You forgot to salute your superior officers, Hogan," he said derisively.
"That's still Colonel Hogan to you, Major, and tell it to my legal counsel," Hogan spat, as he shoved his way past him.
Hogan burst out of the conference room and stalked angrily down the long corridor, while secretaries with arms full of files and junior officers scurrying about hurried to remove themselves from his path. Those assembled at the lift averted their faces, as Hogan sharply jabbed the already depressed call button. He glanced around at the personnel waiting there, each obviously trying to appear preoccupied. The car seemed to be taking forever, and Hogan was feeling more uncomfortable by the moment, realizing he had become the center of attention and speculation. He hurriedly turned and marched toward the far end of the corridor, throwing open the door to the stairwell. Taking the stairs two at a time, he descended the four flights to ground level and exited onto narrow, congested Grosvenor Street.
Hogan fell in with the rest of the bustling mass on the crowded sidewalk, his hands angrily jammed in his overcoat pockets. He walked briskly, his head bowed; the people and buildings he passed were no more than a blur to his unfocused gaze.
He scarcely noticed when his shoulder roughly collided with someone moving in the opposite direction. Without halting, Hogan absently mumbled an apology and mechanically continued on. An older gentleman in topcoat and derby hat stood staring after him disapprovingly, shaking his head and silently castigating the younger man's apparent lack of manners.
Oblivious to his surroundings, Hogan walked for some time before glancing up to spy a clock in the window of a nearby shop. Over an hour had passed by. He suddenly realized he had been traveling in circles, having wandered back to the Knightsbridge area in the vicinity of Hyde Park. Automobiles and pedestrians flowed past him, while he stood indecisively at the curb. The signal light changed, bringing traffic to a halt, as Hogan appeared to make up his mind and crossed the street to enter the park.
An empty bench beckoned to him near the imposing bronze statue of Achilles. He sat down heavily, forearms resting on his knees, as he leaned forward and stared ahead unseeing. A particularly attractive redhead traversed his view; had he been in a better mood he might have allowed himself a friendly grin, when she coyly tried to make eye contact with him. Instead, a frown continued to frame his face, as he reflected on the morning's events.
His anger had dissipated slightly, but Fitzhugh's mention of Leitmann's name made quite an impact. More than he liked to admit. It brought to the surface a flood of feelings and memories he had, until then, successfully repressed.
Hogan recalled that he had personally selected and trained Leitmann to work with a resistance cell in the vicinity of Stalag 13. Rudy was born and raised in the area and knew the surrounding locale well. The strongly built, blond man with friendly blue eyes was a natural leader, like Hogan, and soon rose to take over command of the local network under him.
The two men were like photographic negatives of each other--one fair-haired, the other dark. Both shared the same inherently self-assured, charismatic nature that readily engendered others' trust. Hogan had enjoyed his relationship with the courageous patriot and counted him among the small, exclusive circle of men he thought of as good friends.
He thought about how the two of them would often stay long after meetings had concluded, remaining behind to share privately the inner worries and concerns exclusive to those in positions of command. Hogan could never hold similar discussions with any of his own men. It went beyond mere military tradition and differences in rank. He realized his team looked to him for support and encouragement in their demanding mission. They expected him to be completely collected and in control, even on those occasions when their situation seemed utterly perilous.
As had occurred almost three weeks before. Hogan hadn't stayed to talk with Rudy that evening. There'd been more patrols in the area than usual, and he'd decided to order the swift return of his men, accompanying them back to camp in order to assure their safe retreat to the unusual sanctuary of Stalag 13. A half hour after Hogan and his team departed, an SS unit interrupted the meeting, swooping down on the unsuspecting men, while they finalized details for an impending operation.
The next day Hogan and his team received frantic news of the capture from another partisan group. One of their members was in town early the following morning and watched, horrified, as Leitmann and the others, the effects of interrogation already showing on their bruised and bleeding faces, were dragged into Gestapo headquarters. Hogan decided instantly he would have to try and rescue them.
The others initially thought he was crazy for even contemplating a rescue attempt. It was one thing to blow up a bridge, they told him, it was quite another to make an out-numbered assault on a well-guarded jail. But Hogan stubbornly insisted, as he had the time his men unsuccessfully dissuaded him from springing a female agent named Tiger from a Gestapo prison in Paris.
His men recognized the same resolute set to his jaw and knew once again they weren't going to win the argument. Hogan had even been willing to undertake the mission to rescue Tiger on his own, not wanting to risk his men in what might turn out to be a suicide mission, but they had stuck together and gone along with him then. They knew they would do the same now.
Only on this instance they hadn't arrived in time. They'd been delayed waiting for London's concurrence, which, of course, never came. Hogan stubbornly chose to go anyway.
The guards at the entrance to the subterranean corridor were easily overpowered, and after breaking into two of the cells, they finally found the right one. But it was too late to undo the damage. Rudy had been beaten almost beyond the point of recognition.
Hogan cradled his friend's broken body, cursing himself for even thinking he needed to wait for London's approval and regretting having left early the fateful evening of their meeting. Maybe if he'd stayed behind, he would have detected the patrol's approach, and Rudy and the others would have been able to make their escape. But no. Instead he was kneeling on the cold, hard floor of a blood-spattered Gestapo cell, holding a dying colleague in his arms and watching helplessly as life finally left his limp form. His men stood awkwardly silent nearby, not knowing what to say in comfort.
Hogan insisted on carrying Rudy's body from the prison himself. The least he could do was make certain he was given a proper burial, not discarded anonymously like a piece of refuse into a pit on the outskirts of town. Returning to the surrounding woods, Hogan dug a grave and then slipped the lifeless body over the edge, laying it gently on the cold, damp ground. He nodded wordlessly to the waiting men and then walked slowly away, his shoulders slumped in despair, as falling clods of dirt thudded atop the corpse.
He'd since analyzed and re-analyzed the operation over and over again, questioning what had gone wrong, but continually came up empty-handed. There were no apparent holes in the network that he could see. But someone had clearly compromised the mission. The patrol's arrival was no coincidence. Somehow they knew about the resistance group's meeting and its location. But not that that mattered to headquarters.
That had been the beginning of the change. The inception of a rage Hogan felt slowly burning inside; building to such intensity that he began to wonder if he was going insane. As a result, he'd sullenly secluded himself from his men and become more temperamental, more critical of higher headquarters. The senior staff in London hadn't seen life slip away from a cherished compatriot. They hadn't vainly tried to wash the stains from a shirt soiled by a friend's wounds. What did they really know of war, anyway?
Hogan removed his cap and tossed it on the park bench beside him, despairingly running his fingers through the thick black hair. He regretted having allowed himself to journey back in time. He'd been haunted by the images in his dreams at night, now he couldn't even keep them at bay during daytime hours of consciousness.
Reaching inside his coat pocket, he withdrew the gold religious medallion Rudy had given him as a token of their friendship. St. Michael the Archangel, patron saint of soldiers and protectors, he mused. With his characteristic grin, Rudy declared it might even work for errant bomber pilots. Now, sitting in the otherwise pleasant sun of a late afternoon, his soul felt as cold as the metal he absently fingered between his clasped hands. He stared at the winged archangel portrayed on the emblem, sword held mightily aloft. Where were you when Rudy needed protection, huh?
Hogan raised his head and surveyed the people gathered in the park. The scene only filled him with more dismay. Mothers cooing over babies in covered prams and bowler-hatted gentlemen puffing away on expensive Meerschaum pipes during an afternoon's lazy constitutional dotted the manicured grounds. Were they aware of the deaths occurring only a few hundred miles away? Did they know the sacrifice men like Leitmann and countless others were making for them? Did they appreciate the hazardous duty aiming to secure a future so they could stroll freely through Hyde Park without fear or worry?
His attention was drawn to an approaching pair of stern-looking men engaged in heated discussion, one of them jabbing angrily at a newspaper held before him. Maybe he was wrong, and some did take notice of the world drama? As they neared, Hogan hung his head despondently. They were merely debating the previous day's cricket results. Sighing deeply, he rose wearily from the bench and glanced one last time at the bronzed Greek warrior whose shadow loomed before him. Did any of these people even care at all about the war and its potentially tragic consequences? Hogan reached down to retrieve his cap, jamming it glumly on his head, as he walked slowly toward Wellington Arch and out of view of the park.
Chapter Two
Hogan silently opened the door to another locker and this time found what he was looking for. He hurriedly unbuttoned the outer blouse to his dress uniform and began to carefully place it in the valise he'd carried with him, but changed his mind and with a shrug threw it in the back of the locker. There were better than even odds he wouldn't need it again.
He pulled on a military flight suit over the dark civilian clothes he'd picked up in town. Too bad a pilot at the Duxford airbase had been so careless and left the uniform behind, he thought with a grin, as he drew the accompanying Mae West over his head. Picking up the leather satchel, Hogan glanced briefly behind, as he stepped from the empty changing room into the corridor.
He sauntered down the hall, nonchalantly checking the placards beside each door that announced the functions contained within. He halted before a door labeled, "Flight Operations," and turned the handle. A tow-headed corporal with peach-fuzz cheeks was seated behind the desk, pretending to intently study a technical manual while trying to conceal the risqué magazine underneath. Hogan cleared his throat, trying not to smile at the young enlisted man's evident embarrassment.
"That's okay son," he said casually, "although last month's issue had a better centerfold."
"Yes, sir," answered the corporal with relief. "I mean, no, sir. I mean, uh..."
Hogan held up a hand to stifle the young man's further verbal stumbling.
"Look, son, I'm in a hurry. Have you got that Thunderbolt gassed up and ready for me?"
The freckle-faced corporal looked at him with bewilderment.
"Uh, Thunderbolt, sir? As in P-47, sir?"
Hogan nodded his head in amusement.
"I...I wasn't aware anyone was scheduled for a flight this afternoon, uh, sir."
The young enlisted man fumbled through the contents strewn across the top of the desk and pulled out a large ruled logbook from under the pile of maps and weather reports. Shaking his head in confirmation, he looked up at the imposing officer who stood impatiently before him. The nametag on the flight suit was covered by the yellow life preserver, but an intimidating set of eagle's wings on the epaulets poked out from underneath. The corporal nervously cleared his throat.
"Uh, no, sir, Colonel, sir, there's no record of a flight plan having been filed."
"You do keep your planes gassed up and ready to go, don't you, Corporal?"
"Well, yes, sir, of course we do, sir, but--"
Hogan raised a hand to silence him once more.
"Then I haven't got time to listen to your nonsense about flight plans, son. Aren't you aware that special intelligence flights don't file plans with the Ops Officer, but with the G-2 instead?"
The young man continued to appear perplexed.
"That's okay, son. You don't look as though you've been around here all that long, and I expect someone hasn't told you how to handle these sensitive missions. Don't worry, I'm sure they'll fill you in when you make sergeant. By the way, what's your name? I'll be sure to put in a good word for you with your commanding officer."
The corporal straightened up smartly. "Why, yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway in the direction of the flight operations office. Hogan picked up his leather valise and looked quickly around the room. There was a second door off to one side that exited directly onto the airfield.
"Your name," Hogan prompted him gently, as he eased his way toward the exit.
"Uh, yes, sir. That would be Corporal Lewis, sir."
"Good boy, Lewis. Now can you steer me in the right direction to pick up my P-47, or do you provide curbside valet service here?"
The young man resumed his puzzled expression.
"Never mind," Hogan said with a bemused smile. "Just tell me where you park your P-47's."
Lewis hesitated. "Uh, well, sir, they usually line them up on the southeast extension alongside runway Fifty Lima."
The footsteps were almost outside the operations door.
"That's what I wanted to hear, son. If she gets me to where I'm headed in one piece there may be a weekend pass in addition to that promotion for you."
"Yes, sir!" Lewis was positively beaming, as he came to attention.
Hurriedly returning his salute, Hogan opened the door and stepped out onto the grassy flat expanse. The airfield was mostly deserted and was becoming striped with the long shadows of a late afternoon sun. He looked to either side; the runway seemed to stretch forever in front of him, and he quickened his pace, as he headed to the right. Hogan wanted to glance back to see if anyone had entered the operations office but was more intent on finding his way to the waiting line of Thunderbolts.
Hogan averted his face, hurrying past a couple of men in overalls standing beneath the exposed belly of a P-51. He had cleared the Mustang and was approaching a line of Thunderbolts, when he heard the door to the operations office burst open with a bang against the outer wall.
"Hey!" yelled a man's voice. "Hey, you!"
Hogan looked quickly back and saw a large, well-muscled man striding toward him. He broke into a run, as the MP pulled his sidearm from its holster, yelling for others on the field to try and stop the trespasser. Grasping the valise firmly under one arm and ducking instinctively, Hogan ran toward the line of planes.
Ordinarily the experience might have fondly reminded him of a pickup game of football back at camp. But there he didn't have someone trying to chase him down with a Colt .45. A bullet whistled past to his left, kicking up a puff of dirt, as it buried itself into the ground just in front of him. He swerved abruptly to the right, barely dodging another shot, and tried to use the planes parked along his path for limited cover. He only had another fifty meters to the row of waiting Thunderbolts, and with the jump he'd gotten on his pursuers he stood a good chance of reaching them before they caught up to him.
Hogan glanced behind to check their progress and was startled when he turned back to find himself suddenly confronted by a solid, coveralled figure directly in his path. He was a bigger man than Hogan, outweighing him by at least fifty pounds, but Hogan had the advantage of momentum and grasping his valise by the handles, flung it in a looping roundhouse right. The bag connected and sent the larger man sprawling to the ground with an angry expletive.
Sprinting the last few yards, Hogan leaped onto the waiting ladder at the plane's side and threw himself into the open cockpit. With one hand, he shoved the ladder away and reached for the harness to strap himself into the seat. A quick look to his left confirmed the men were rounding a corner where the line of Mustangs ended and were swiftly bearing down on him.
He rapidly surveyed the cockpit's display before him. Trim tabs in takeoff position and flaps up. Hogan hoped the last man to operate the plane had left the rest of the controls in their ready condition; there certainly wasn't going to be time for any sort of pre-flight checklist on this run. He cracked the throttle forward slightly and hit the energizer switch. The engines began to whine, finally kicking in just as two men reached the side of his plane.
Hogan rammed the glass canopy shut overhead and gave the rudder control a hard right, stomping on the brake. The plane abruptly pivoted, and both pursuers dropped to the ground to dodge the tail's shifting expanse. Hogan heard a shot careen sharply off the closed canopy. These guys definitely play for keeps.
Glancing in both directions down the main runway, Hogan eased the throttle forward and began a dash for the far end. Out of habit, he reached for the throat mike to request clearance for takeoff, but with a grim smile retracted his hand. Even if he asked permission, given the circumstances, the tower wasn't likely to issue it.
Out of the corner of one eye he suddenly noticed several emergency vehicles, their lights flashing, veer toward the tarmac parallel to his path. Damn. He hoped they weren't foolish enough to try and block the runway. The lead vehicle began to pull ahead and was by now almost clear of the plane's nose. Hogan glanced over to see a passenger-side window crank down. A glint reflected off the long, steel barrel of a rifle pointing in his direction.
In desperation Hogan threw the throttle full forward and hastily adjusted the flaps. He held his breath, racing forward and almost out of runway. The needles jumped wildly on the instrument panel before him. He could feel the front gear finally break contact with the ground, as the Thunderbolt tore down the grassy strip. The plane seemed to hang there, suspended at an angle, before finally lifting completely away with a shudder, barely clearing the end of the runway.
His spine ached, pressed forcefully against the seat, as the crushing climb continued. What felt like an eternity passed, before he allowed the ascent to level off. Hogan took a deep breath and looked around for other planes, hoping they didn't really want to play hardball and scramble some fighters to give chase, or worse yet, shoot him down, but thankfully the dusk-filled skies seemed quiet.
He eased back the throttle to cruising speeds and vectored the plane for an easterly course. Now to figure out the best approach, he thought, as he unfolded a map retrieved from the valise. Hogan spread it out as best he could in the cramped cockpit and plotted his next course of action.
Chapter Three
Kinch slowly climbed up a ladder that ascended from within the frame of a bunk bed at one end of the barracks. He held a piece of blue notepaper in his hand and examined it again, while he mechanically hit the concealed lever to the tunnel's trap door. The bunk's lower bed slid smoothly back into place, once again covering the secret entrance to a warren of subterranean rooms and corridors hidden beneath the prison compound.
The American enlisted man looked over at another POW by the end of a long table in the middle of the room, wiping the last of the tin plates from a dinner he'd prepared for them earlier that evening.
"LeBeau, where are the others?" Kinch asked.
"They're outside. Pourquois?" The swarthy, diminutive Frenchman looked intently at him. "Is something wrong?" he asked with added concern.
"You could say that," he answered, his voice shaken. "I just got a message from London, and I think I'd better go over it with everybody at the same time."
LeBeau noticed how the tall black man looked stunned, his face clearly strained.
"Oui. I'll get them," he said apprehensively. He had never seen their usually unflappable communicator appear so rattled before. Flipping his towel over one shoulder, LeBeau turned quickly from the table.
He discovered their teammates lounging just outside the barracks door. A thin, blond enlisted man was seated nearby atop an overturned wooden barrel. His eyes were closed in private meditation, as he daydreamed of a barmaid named Mady he'd recently met in town. The dark-haired Englishman next to him was leaning idly against the outer wall of the barracks, a half-burned cigarette stub dangling from his mouth, as he watched the other prisoners strolling about the compound.
LeBeau looked quickly around the yard, careful not to let any of the patrolling guards overhear him. "Carter, Newkirk," he hissed, "you'd better come inside. Kinch just received a message from London. He needs to see all of us right away."
Carter's blue eyes widened, as he whipped his head around to glance questioningly at the RAF corporal beside him. Both men anxiously followed LeBeau back inside the barracks and quickly grouped around their radioman, waiting expectantly for him to begin. Kinch looked up from the notepaper he held in his hands, his dark brown eyes troubled.
"What's up, Kinch?" asked Newkirk. "I hate to scare you, mate, but you're lookin' a bit pale." He stubbed out what remained of his cigarette on the floor and straddled the wooden bench alongside the table, not taking his eyes off his colleague.
Kinch hesitated, unsure how to begin. "You're not going to believe this message London just sent. I've read it a dozen times now, and I still don't believe it."
"Well, what is it?" Newkirk asked more insistently, leaning forward on his elbows to try and scan the note's contents.
Carter broke in. "It's not about the Colonel, is it? Did he have trouble getting to London this morning?" One hand slipped inside the fleece-lined pocket of his leather bomber's jacket to finger a lucky rabbit's foot he always carried, while the other nervously swept back the thin strands of dirty blond hair that persistently fell across his forehead.
They'd all gotten accustomed to their commander's occasional meetings at headquarters and after a while had become inured to the real danger they presented. The first challenge was making it to the hidden airstrip without being taken captive or, worse yet, shot by patrolling enemy forces. Once there, Hogan still had the daunting task of making it back across well-defended borders and risked being caught in a barrage of anti-aircraft fire in the process. Routine milk runs they were not.
"It's about the Colonel, all right," answered Kinch, "but not in the way you might think."
The others stared at him, puzzled looks on their faces. Kinch continued after a moment, his voice cracking.
"London just issued the equivalent of an A.P.B. on Colonel Hogan."
"Quel que c'est 'aeypee'...?" asked LeBeau, frowning in confusion.
"He means All Points Bulletin or A.P.B.," Carter explained. "That's what the police release when they're on the lookout for a dangerous criminal."
He nodded sagely at LeBeau, pleased at having come up with the correct answer. His smug look was replaced by one of alarm as the implications of what he'd said suddenly dawned on him. He felt his legs give way beneath him and sat down heavily on the edge of his bunk.
"Wait a minute," he said slowly, looking back at Kinch. "Wha...what is London doing issuing an A.P.B. for Colonel Hogan?"
"Cor! What could he possibly have done to get into that much trouble?" asked Newkirk. "Never mind, I take that back. It hasn't been that long since I've been away." Newkirk looked wistful as he rubbed his chin. "I wonder if some lovely bird's jealous beau caught up with him?"
Kinch shook his head. "I wish that's what it was. You know that conference he was called to this morning?"
"Oui," LeBeau answered. "Le Colonel had to leave right after formation. They didn't give him as much notice as usual this time."
"Yeah, well, it seems they may have not given him much notice on purpose. He was called before the senior command at Allied intelligence headquarters this morning for a formal dressing down."
The stunned men exchanged looks of disbelief.
"And that's not all." Kinch paused, clearing his throat, uncertain how to continue.
"They not only relieved him of command, but also stripped him of his rank. All I can figure is something must have made him get really hot under the collar during that meeting. General Fitzhugh himself even ordered court-martial proceedings against the Colonel."
Carter whistled his astonishment.
"Zut alors!" exclaimed LeBeau.
"Good night, nurse, I don't believe it!" Newkirk raised his eyebrows, imagining the scene that must have taken place back in London.
"Yeah, well think about it. Colonel Hogan's definitely not been himself the past couple of weeks. He's gotten me to the point where I'm scared to go out on a job with him anymore, and I don't consider myself to be someone who scares easy." Kinch looked soberly at the other men, each nodding his head in agreement.
They'd all noticed the change in their commander. There had been a number of occasions when, out of earshot of the Colonel, they'd commented as to what was eating at him. No one was questioning anyone's courage. They'd each volunteered for Hogan's team and the unusual mission of fighting the Germans from behind lines as a voluntary prisoner of war. But lately, the way their leader was playing the game had all of them feeling uneasy.
"It gets worse. Apparently, sometime later the Colonel stole a plane from the air base at Duxford, decking a non-comm in the process."
"Pinched a bloomin' kite? What on earth for?!"
"Seems nobody's figured that out yet. They tried raising him on the cockpit radio, but he wouldn't respond. The base was able to track him on radar part of the way and best they could tell he was headed east."
"How do they know for sure it was him?" asked Carter hesitantly, reserving some shred of hope there had been a huge mistake.
"They're pretty certain, all right," said Kinch. "They found his uniform in the bottom of a locker at the base, and the fellow's flight suit was missing. When an officer from headquarters showed up with a photograph from the Colonel's personnel file, a corporal working in the Flight Ops office identified him."
"I don't get it," said Carter, his forehead furrowed in bewilderment. "Why would he steal a plane and then fly east? If anything, you'd think he'd head west to get back home."
Kinch shook his head. "No, think about it--it doesn't make sense. He'd have to stop for refueling; he couldn't make it back stateside on one load, and wherever he stopped to gas up you can be sure they'd be waiting for him. He'd likely realize that as well."
"Where do you think he'd go?"
"Do you think he'd be balmy enough to come back here?" asked Newkirk.
"I don't know." Kinch shrugged his shoulders. "We're as much a home to him right now as anywhere else, I suppose."
LeBeau nodded his agreement. "D'accord, mes amis. I don't know why, but I have a feeling he's going to return."
"Gosh, what are we going to do then?" asked Carter.
"Good question, Andrew," said Kinch. "According to London, we're supposed to alert them immediately and take him into custody."
"Take him into custody? Are they kidding?" asked Carter, his voice squeaking in disbelief. "And then do what with him?"
"They didn't say. My guess is they'd try to send somebody in to take him back. Maybe make it look like he escaped."
"What, and break Kommandant Klink's perfect record?" Newkirk asked mockingly.
"Gee, I don't know about you guys," said Carter, "but I'm not especially comfortable with being told to change roles from prisoner to prison warden." He shook his head incredulously.
"Me either," admitted Kinch. "Then again, maybe we'll get lucky and he won't show up here."
"Incroyable," LeBeau said as he looked around at the others. "I know le Colonel's been under a lot of pressure lately. Ever since we lost that resistance leader..." His voice faded away, as he dropped his eyes. "Maybe it finally became too much for him."
Kinch looked at him understandingly. "I don't think anybody knows for sure right now except the Colonel himself, Louis," he said softly.
"And what are we going to do if he doesn't show up?" asked Newkirk. "You know the old bald eagle what runs this camp is going to find out first thing that his senior POW's flown the coop."
"Yeah, I've thought about that," said Kinch. "But there's nothing we can do about it, at least not now. We'll just have to sit tight and wait to see if he shows up. London's realized it might be a problem for us as well. Klink is likely to crack down on us big time if he thinks the Colonel's escaped. They've ordered us to stand down and cease all operations to keep things quiet. If it gets too difficult for us, we're to close up shop and bug out, pronto."
"I don't know what to hope for," said LeBeau. "I hate to think he may be in trouble, but if it might be a chance for us to finally get back home..."
"Yeah, I know," said Kinch. "I've been feeling the same way. But if Colonel Hogan is in trouble, I'm not sure there's anything any one of us can do for him right now."
The men nodded their agreement, each wondering silently what could possibly have happened to push their leader to this breaking point.
Chapter Four
Hogan beamed a red-filtered flashlight on the partially folded map in the darkened cockpit and tried to make out the best site to ditch the plane. Ordinarily, he'd use the crude landing strip they'd fashioned in a cooperative farmer's field, but this time he wasn't willing to risk letting the Germans take possession of the P-47. He knew he'd have to abandon the plane, bailing out instead and destroying it in the process. Hogan grimaced. He hated night jumps, especially a solo job with no reception committee on the ground to secure and mark a safe drop zone for him.
He tried to find a quadrant of land on the map that looked relatively undeveloped. He'd need a bit of clear terrain to safely parachute in and decided the area he'd first picked out would have to do. Dropping one wing, he scrutinized the ground below and, after a few anxious moments, spotted the landmark he was seeking.
In the cities, they observed strict light discipline to lessen their chances of being targeted during evening bombing raids. Certain structures, however, such as radio towers, still had to be marked for their own pilots to avoid collision during nighttime maneuvers. The beaconed framework was there ahead of him now.
Might as well kill two birds with this painted metal stone, Hogan thought and slowly looped around in the night sky, turning back in the direction of the tower. A dense forest bordered it, but there was enough of a clearing at its circumference that he hoped he'd have room to parachute to safety.
He checked his harness straps once more, pulling the ends of the webbing to cinch the parachute packed tight against his body, then fished around in the valise for the last of what he'd take with him. The maps and remaining materials would be destroyed in the fire when the plane went down. Any other items he'd need were secreted in the various zippered compartments of his flight suit.
The plane circled again. He didn't want to take too much time with this. The longer he was up there, the drone of his engines echoing below, the greater the chance he'd be spotted by enemy patrols and possibly come under fire. This was going to have to be it, he decided.
Hogan punched a button to jettison the canopy above. It flew away with a bang, allowing the icy wind to rush in and immediately numb his exposed face and hands. His stiff fingers undid the straps that buckled him to the seat, as he braced one arm against the side of the open cockpit. Carefully easing the controls forward, he placed the Thunderbolt into a shallow dive whose terminus he'd hoped would be the radio tower. He unclamped the emergency crowbar, usually reserved for when the canopy wouldn't open, and wedged it between the controls and the instrument panel, ensuring the plane's destructive course.
The force of the wind made it difficult for him to take a breath, as he eased his head up above the level of the fuselage. He was crouched sideways in the seat now and placing one foot against the edge of the opening, pushed away from the plane into the chilly blackness. The unbalanced exit forced him into a dizzying tumble, and he found himself falling end over end, completely disoriented.
Hogan knew he couldn't risk releasing the parachute while in an uncontrolled spin, or the lines would hopelessly tangle, reducing the parachute to a plumed streamer that would take him speedily in for a fatal landing. Desperately, he arched his back and extended his arms and legs, spider-like, to try and stabilize his descent. The rotation finally ceased, and he felt the air forcefully buffeting his body from below, indicating he was falling face down. With his right hand, Hogan reached for the ripcord and gave it a tug. He could feel the chute being stripped from its pouch and readied himself for the jolt in the harness that would signal his safe suspension beneath its open canopy.
The deafening howl of the plane's engines and rushing wind was abruptly replaced by an absolute and profound stillness, as the chute fully deployed. The only sound he could hear, while he slowly descended in the darkness, was the quiet rustling of the inflated silk shroud above him. He strained to see any visible landmarks beneath him and hoped he'd be able to tell when he was nearing the ground.
A sudden explosion to his left drew his attention, and he looked up to see a huge orange fireball rising in the night sky, the remnants of a radio tower's steel skeleton collapsing within its midst. The blaze illuminated the earth below, and Hogan glanced down to find the tops of a thick forest of trees rapidly looming up at him. Cursing silently, he quickly brought his feet together and flung his arms up, trying unsuccessfully to protect his face from the branches that sharply whipped at him. A sudden tearing sound was accompanied by a burning sensation, as a branch caught the left arm of his jumpsuit, before he haltingly lurched to a stop.
Hogan was grateful the blaze continued to light up the landscape, for it permitted him to see the ground, still well beneath where he swung suspended in the harness. At the same time, he realized, the illumination might have made it possible for patrols in the area to spot his descent. Hogan grabbed the cords that extended above him and tried freeing them from the branches. The effort caused him to slip earthward only slightly.
He peered down between his dangling feet. Great, he thought, straining to reach one of the compartments along the lower leg of his flight suit. He extracted a knife and raised it over his head, surveying the tangle of lines above him. The light was beginning to fade; he couldn't afford to take much more time, or he'd have to make the rest of the drop in complete darkness.
The freezing cold had numbed his exposed hands, and as he began to cut away at the slender braided ropes, the knife suddenly slipped from his unfeeling grasp. Hogan watched in despair, while it silently somersaulted through the air beneath him. Wonderful. That was all he needed.
Hogan reached up once more to grab the parachute's lines and began to forcefully swing his legs, hoping to generate enough momentum to loosen the chute from the tree's clutches. The sound of tearing silk broke the stillness, and he felt himself slip through the air, the weight of his body straining against the damaged canopy. He fell another few meters before his progress halted once more. Hogan looked down at the earth beneath his feet; the ground was still some distance away. Damn.
The light from the burning plane was fading quickly now, and Hogan realized he had no alternative. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and hit the latches on the front of the harness, resulting in its quick release from the canopy. Instantly crashing through the lower boughs, he hurtled earthward. The shock almost jarred him unconscious, as he struck the ground with a tremendous force. He lay there for several insensible moments, before he eventually managed with some effort to roll slowly over on his back, moaning uncontrollably as he did so.
His right ankle had buckled on impact, and he now became aware of an intense pain shooting through it. Carefully flexing his other limbs, he figured with the exception of the ankle he was mostly unhurt. Slowly he sat up, breathing heavily, then came to one knee and gradually rose to a standing position, tentatively trying the ankle beneath him. It protested with a sharp stab of pain, but held. He quickly surveyed the rest of his body. Blood was dripping down his left arm from a deep gouge that ran the length of his forearm. He inspected it more closely; fortunately it seemed to have already begun to clot, and he pulled the tattered ends of his sleeve together to press against it.
Hogan lifted his head to listen to the surrounding woods. If anyone had seen him descend, they were still some distance off; there was no sound of anyone approaching. He awkwardly slipped out of the Mae West and flight suit, searching for a place to conceal them.
A nearby downed tree, still partially clinging to its stump, afforded a good hiding place, and he stuffed the material underneath, pushing leaves and twigs over it to camouflage the fabric. Straightening up, he took a deep breath and looked around. Hogan knew he'd have quite a walk ahead of him and the injured ankle was going to make it seem even longer. A thick branch lay on the ground at his feet, and he picked it up, testing it beneath his weight, as he leaned on the makeshift walking stick.
Bending over once more, he reached down with his free hand to retrieve a flask he'd removed before abandoning the flight suit. He twisted the cap and raised the container in a solitary toast. "Welcome home, Robert Edward," he offered, trying to sound jovial. The straight whiskey burned at first going down, but then gradually eased into a pleasurable feeling of warmth.
Wearily drawing himself up, he began to strike out through the woods. He was limping badly and tried to skirt the open edge of the field in order to keep himself partially concealed. Looking at his watch, he estimated he had about a two-hour walk ahead of him. He didn't quite know what he'd expected, but so far it had been one hell of a homecoming.
Homecoming. Ha. You're a real comic tonight, Robby old boy, he thought glumly, tilting the flask upwards once more. He hobbled slowly along, a lonely and desperate figure, as the stark moonlight jerkily cast his lurching shadow across the uneven terrain.
by Nina Stephens
"Everybody's playing the game
But nobody's rules are the same
Nobody's on nobody's side
Better learn to go it alone
Recognize you're out on your own
Nobody's on nobody's side."
"Nobody's Side," from the musical, Chess
Lyrics by Tim Rice
Chapter One
The atmosphere in the dark paneled conference room seemed weighted with solemn silence, as the American colonel entered through a pair of massive double doors. A young redheaded British major standing just inside glared at the Army Air Corps officer with apparent disdain. Dispensing with a greeting, he merely gestured contemptuously with his chin, signaling for him to approach the long mahogany table in the center of the room.
The officer, dark-haired and in his mid-30's, walked briskly to the head of the conference table, smartly saluting the four-star general at the opposite end. Whatever military bearing Colonel Robert Hogan retained was reserved for these meetings at Allied Intelligence Headquarters in London. Back at LuftStalag 13 in northwestern Germany his salutes, if one may be generous enough to call them that, more closely resembled a contemptuous wave than a formal military gesture. It was just one of the many small ways he enjoyed showing disrespect for his Axis captors.
The general returned the salutation with barely a glance and turned to the stack of papers in front of him. Bushy white eyebrows topping a pair of intense blue eyes furrowed in a frown as he looked over the thick personnel file.
Hogan tried not to appear uncomfortable; it was evident the general was displeased with him. It was the first staff meeting he'd attended where his commanding officer hadn't greeted him, his eyes beaming, and then warmly encouraged him to have a seat.
"Well, Colonel Hogan, I see that you were able to take time out of your busy schedule to join us this morning." The general's normally mellow voice was caustic.
Hogan made no response other than nervously clearing his throat. He remained rigidly at attention, his eyes focused on the large oil painting of Winston Churchill on the wall behind the general. He sensed that the faces lining the long, highly polished table mirrored the same severe scowl Churchill directed at him from above.
General Walter Fitzhugh, commanding general for all Allied military intelligence operations, looked up sternly at the young colonel. He was responsible for Hogan's selection as leader of a combined military team of espionage and sabotage experts who operated behind enemy lines from a Luftwaffe prisoner-of-war camp. The general had handpicked the officer for the covert mission, but now he was being put in the awkward position of admitting perhaps he'd made a mistake. He knew the assignment called for someone with guts and daring, but this time Hogan's brashness had finally tried even his patience.
"Colonel Hogan, we have reviewed your activities this past month, and, I am sorry to say, you have ignored our previous counsel to coordinate your missions with headquarters. You apparently seem to think you have established your own theater operations command. Odd, I don't recall granting you that authority."
Fitzhugh spoke evenly, his deep, resonant voice conveying a sense he was trying to control his anger.
He looked over the tall, handsome officer at the opposite end of the table, trying not to fidget as he stood stiffly at attention. Hogan had more than demonstrated his courage; his career was still young, and he already had five full rows of ribbons adorning the blouse of his dress uniform.
Most recently, he'd received the Victoria Cross for gallantry after a mission in which he'd been instrumental in the destruction of several enemy mobile rocket launchers. The rockets were aimed at England, poised for firing, when Hogan deliberately risked his life to track them down and radio their positions to waiting Allied bombers. His selfless act had doubtless saved thousands of lives.
Those were better times for Hogan, Fitzhugh thought disconsolately, as he recalled the moving private ceremony in which King George himself had gratefully pinned the burgundy and gold medallion to Hogan's chest. He was one of only a handful of Americans to be decorated with the coveted award. Its ribbon counterpart sat there now, atop the others he had more than earned.
But, Fitzhugh realized with a heavy sigh, there was a thin line between bravery and foolhardy recklessness, and he was reluctantly forced to admit that Hogan's decisions of late veered more toward the latter.
"Do you have anything to say in defense of your actions, Colonel Hogan?"
"I didn't realize this was to be a trial, General," Hogan replied testily.
Fitzhugh bristled. He didn't relish having to discipline Hogan, but he certainly didn't have to make it so damned difficult for him.
"It's not yet, Colonel, but we can make arrangements for such proceedings to take place if you don't care to cooperate with this panel's hearing."
Hogan visibly chafed at the general's harsh tone. He leveled his dark eyes, suddenly smoldering.
"What are you asking me to do, General? Explain each and every one of my actions to this panel of armchair tacticians? You're not the ones out there risking your life every day. Apparently you've been desk-bound so long you've forgotten what the real dangers of wartime are all about."
The thick white brows capping Fitzhugh's lined face shot upward. Hogan knew he had overstepped his bounds, but mounting frustration failed to govern his reason. He plowed ahead, his voice hoarse with emotion and fatigue.
"I'm the one out there with my neck on the line. I'm the one who has to make the life and death decisions, and I don't like being second-guessed by a staff of broken-down combat rejects." His arm swept the room, signaling the inclusion of the table of stunned senior officers.
Fitzhugh's face turned purple, as he sputtered his reply.
"I think we have heard quite enough, Colonel Hogan. It is evident you choose to pursue a reckless course that has needlessly endangered not only yourself, but also the men you lead."
The star-burdened officer rose slowly to his feet, his voice climbing to a gravelly shout, as he pounded the table in syncopation with his remarks.
"The former we might conceivably tolerate, the latter is unconscionable for an officer who serves under my command!"
Several men around the table flinched involuntarily, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, as the stentorian voice echoed in the thick silence. The general, his breathing strained, paused to compose himself. His head bowed, he brooded privately for a few moments and then raised his troubled blue eyes to tersely address Hogan.
"You are hereby relieved of your rank and your command. You are to remain in London while we consider the disposition of your case."
Hogan's jaw dropped open, his face seemingly paralyzed with disbelief.
Fitzhugh moved to sit back down and then stopped midway, straightening up to address him once more. The general's voice now conveyed the same frustration Hogan had earlier projected.
"Frankly, Hogan, I was the sole senior staff officer pleading for lesser disciplinary measures, but your conduct the past month and particularly this morning have pushed me to the limit. I am more and more inclined to agree with my prudent colleagues and order court martial proceedings for an officer who so blatantly ignores the wise counsel of his superiors."
Hogan, finally finding his voice, blinked in disbelief.
"You...you can't do that!"
"Can't we, Hogan? Tell that to the men who were captured last week on that sabotage mission. We disapproved of the operation, but you went ahead and ordered it anyway. Or perhaps the resistance leader who three weeks ago was taken by the Gestapo. You once again insisted on meeting him to gather information, contrary to our guidance. Would you care for me to continue?"
The muscles at the side of Hogan's jaw tightened into cords.
"You aren't trying to blame me for those mishaps, are you, General? Everybody out there knows the risks. I'm just as vulnerable as they are and because a few rookies made some mistakes, you can't expect to hold me responsible."
"Interesting argument, Hogan, but not very cogent." Fitzhugh shuffled through the papers in front of him. "That resistance leader who was taken, Rudolf Leitmann was his name, I believe? A 'rookie,' as you say, he most definitely was not. He was one of our more senior and experienced men." Fitzhugh paused, briefly clearing his throat before continuing, his voice suddenly subdued. "Yes, I'm very much holding you responsible. You'll have an opportunity for your legal counsel to argue otherwise at your court martial. Now, you are dismissed."
Hogan's face slackened at the mention of Leitmann's name. He began to stammer a reply, but swiftly recovered, his jaw firmly tensed once more. His brown eyes caught the general's for a moment, and a world of hurt and indignation seemed to pass between them. Those not in direct view of either Hogan or Fitzhugh failed to notice far more being communicated. Later, in hindsight, some of the officers seated around the table that afternoon recalled seeing a fleeting look of satisfied acknowledgement pass between the two men.
Fitzhugh sat back down and brushed his hands over a swept-back mane of white hair, his head bowed. No longer could he bear to look at the devastated expression on his subordinate's face.
It was evident to Hogan there was nothing more to say. The general's mind had been made up, and there was little doubt the other senior staff officers held the same view.
Purposely ignoring Fitzhugh and the others around the table, Hogan made an abrupt about-face and strode for the door. He grabbed his overcoat and cap from the redheaded major, still insolently blocking the exit.
"You forgot to salute your superior officers, Hogan," he said derisively.
"That's still Colonel Hogan to you, Major, and tell it to my legal counsel," Hogan spat, as he shoved his way past him.
Hogan burst out of the conference room and stalked angrily down the long corridor, while secretaries with arms full of files and junior officers scurrying about hurried to remove themselves from his path. Those assembled at the lift averted their faces, as Hogan sharply jabbed the already depressed call button. He glanced around at the personnel waiting there, each obviously trying to appear preoccupied. The car seemed to be taking forever, and Hogan was feeling more uncomfortable by the moment, realizing he had become the center of attention and speculation. He hurriedly turned and marched toward the far end of the corridor, throwing open the door to the stairwell. Taking the stairs two at a time, he descended the four flights to ground level and exited onto narrow, congested Grosvenor Street.
Hogan fell in with the rest of the bustling mass on the crowded sidewalk, his hands angrily jammed in his overcoat pockets. He walked briskly, his head bowed; the people and buildings he passed were no more than a blur to his unfocused gaze.
He scarcely noticed when his shoulder roughly collided with someone moving in the opposite direction. Without halting, Hogan absently mumbled an apology and mechanically continued on. An older gentleman in topcoat and derby hat stood staring after him disapprovingly, shaking his head and silently castigating the younger man's apparent lack of manners.
Oblivious to his surroundings, Hogan walked for some time before glancing up to spy a clock in the window of a nearby shop. Over an hour had passed by. He suddenly realized he had been traveling in circles, having wandered back to the Knightsbridge area in the vicinity of Hyde Park. Automobiles and pedestrians flowed past him, while he stood indecisively at the curb. The signal light changed, bringing traffic to a halt, as Hogan appeared to make up his mind and crossed the street to enter the park.
An empty bench beckoned to him near the imposing bronze statue of Achilles. He sat down heavily, forearms resting on his knees, as he leaned forward and stared ahead unseeing. A particularly attractive redhead traversed his view; had he been in a better mood he might have allowed himself a friendly grin, when she coyly tried to make eye contact with him. Instead, a frown continued to frame his face, as he reflected on the morning's events.
His anger had dissipated slightly, but Fitzhugh's mention of Leitmann's name made quite an impact. More than he liked to admit. It brought to the surface a flood of feelings and memories he had, until then, successfully repressed.
Hogan recalled that he had personally selected and trained Leitmann to work with a resistance cell in the vicinity of Stalag 13. Rudy was born and raised in the area and knew the surrounding locale well. The strongly built, blond man with friendly blue eyes was a natural leader, like Hogan, and soon rose to take over command of the local network under him.
The two men were like photographic negatives of each other--one fair-haired, the other dark. Both shared the same inherently self-assured, charismatic nature that readily engendered others' trust. Hogan had enjoyed his relationship with the courageous patriot and counted him among the small, exclusive circle of men he thought of as good friends.
He thought about how the two of them would often stay long after meetings had concluded, remaining behind to share privately the inner worries and concerns exclusive to those in positions of command. Hogan could never hold similar discussions with any of his own men. It went beyond mere military tradition and differences in rank. He realized his team looked to him for support and encouragement in their demanding mission. They expected him to be completely collected and in control, even on those occasions when their situation seemed utterly perilous.
As had occurred almost three weeks before. Hogan hadn't stayed to talk with Rudy that evening. There'd been more patrols in the area than usual, and he'd decided to order the swift return of his men, accompanying them back to camp in order to assure their safe retreat to the unusual sanctuary of Stalag 13. A half hour after Hogan and his team departed, an SS unit interrupted the meeting, swooping down on the unsuspecting men, while they finalized details for an impending operation.
The next day Hogan and his team received frantic news of the capture from another partisan group. One of their members was in town early the following morning and watched, horrified, as Leitmann and the others, the effects of interrogation already showing on their bruised and bleeding faces, were dragged into Gestapo headquarters. Hogan decided instantly he would have to try and rescue them.
The others initially thought he was crazy for even contemplating a rescue attempt. It was one thing to blow up a bridge, they told him, it was quite another to make an out-numbered assault on a well-guarded jail. But Hogan stubbornly insisted, as he had the time his men unsuccessfully dissuaded him from springing a female agent named Tiger from a Gestapo prison in Paris.
His men recognized the same resolute set to his jaw and knew once again they weren't going to win the argument. Hogan had even been willing to undertake the mission to rescue Tiger on his own, not wanting to risk his men in what might turn out to be a suicide mission, but they had stuck together and gone along with him then. They knew they would do the same now.
Only on this instance they hadn't arrived in time. They'd been delayed waiting for London's concurrence, which, of course, never came. Hogan stubbornly chose to go anyway.
The guards at the entrance to the subterranean corridor were easily overpowered, and after breaking into two of the cells, they finally found the right one. But it was too late to undo the damage. Rudy had been beaten almost beyond the point of recognition.
Hogan cradled his friend's broken body, cursing himself for even thinking he needed to wait for London's approval and regretting having left early the fateful evening of their meeting. Maybe if he'd stayed behind, he would have detected the patrol's approach, and Rudy and the others would have been able to make their escape. But no. Instead he was kneeling on the cold, hard floor of a blood-spattered Gestapo cell, holding a dying colleague in his arms and watching helplessly as life finally left his limp form. His men stood awkwardly silent nearby, not knowing what to say in comfort.
Hogan insisted on carrying Rudy's body from the prison himself. The least he could do was make certain he was given a proper burial, not discarded anonymously like a piece of refuse into a pit on the outskirts of town. Returning to the surrounding woods, Hogan dug a grave and then slipped the lifeless body over the edge, laying it gently on the cold, damp ground. He nodded wordlessly to the waiting men and then walked slowly away, his shoulders slumped in despair, as falling clods of dirt thudded atop the corpse.
He'd since analyzed and re-analyzed the operation over and over again, questioning what had gone wrong, but continually came up empty-handed. There were no apparent holes in the network that he could see. But someone had clearly compromised the mission. The patrol's arrival was no coincidence. Somehow they knew about the resistance group's meeting and its location. But not that that mattered to headquarters.
That had been the beginning of the change. The inception of a rage Hogan felt slowly burning inside; building to such intensity that he began to wonder if he was going insane. As a result, he'd sullenly secluded himself from his men and become more temperamental, more critical of higher headquarters. The senior staff in London hadn't seen life slip away from a cherished compatriot. They hadn't vainly tried to wash the stains from a shirt soiled by a friend's wounds. What did they really know of war, anyway?
Hogan removed his cap and tossed it on the park bench beside him, despairingly running his fingers through the thick black hair. He regretted having allowed himself to journey back in time. He'd been haunted by the images in his dreams at night, now he couldn't even keep them at bay during daytime hours of consciousness.
Reaching inside his coat pocket, he withdrew the gold religious medallion Rudy had given him as a token of their friendship. St. Michael the Archangel, patron saint of soldiers and protectors, he mused. With his characteristic grin, Rudy declared it might even work for errant bomber pilots. Now, sitting in the otherwise pleasant sun of a late afternoon, his soul felt as cold as the metal he absently fingered between his clasped hands. He stared at the winged archangel portrayed on the emblem, sword held mightily aloft. Where were you when Rudy needed protection, huh?
Hogan raised his head and surveyed the people gathered in the park. The scene only filled him with more dismay. Mothers cooing over babies in covered prams and bowler-hatted gentlemen puffing away on expensive Meerschaum pipes during an afternoon's lazy constitutional dotted the manicured grounds. Were they aware of the deaths occurring only a few hundred miles away? Did they know the sacrifice men like Leitmann and countless others were making for them? Did they appreciate the hazardous duty aiming to secure a future so they could stroll freely through Hyde Park without fear or worry?
His attention was drawn to an approaching pair of stern-looking men engaged in heated discussion, one of them jabbing angrily at a newspaper held before him. Maybe he was wrong, and some did take notice of the world drama? As they neared, Hogan hung his head despondently. They were merely debating the previous day's cricket results. Sighing deeply, he rose wearily from the bench and glanced one last time at the bronzed Greek warrior whose shadow loomed before him. Did any of these people even care at all about the war and its potentially tragic consequences? Hogan reached down to retrieve his cap, jamming it glumly on his head, as he walked slowly toward Wellington Arch and out of view of the park.
Chapter Two
Hogan silently opened the door to another locker and this time found what he was looking for. He hurriedly unbuttoned the outer blouse to his dress uniform and began to carefully place it in the valise he'd carried with him, but changed his mind and with a shrug threw it in the back of the locker. There were better than even odds he wouldn't need it again.
He pulled on a military flight suit over the dark civilian clothes he'd picked up in town. Too bad a pilot at the Duxford airbase had been so careless and left the uniform behind, he thought with a grin, as he drew the accompanying Mae West over his head. Picking up the leather satchel, Hogan glanced briefly behind, as he stepped from the empty changing room into the corridor.
He sauntered down the hall, nonchalantly checking the placards beside each door that announced the functions contained within. He halted before a door labeled, "Flight Operations," and turned the handle. A tow-headed corporal with peach-fuzz cheeks was seated behind the desk, pretending to intently study a technical manual while trying to conceal the risqué magazine underneath. Hogan cleared his throat, trying not to smile at the young enlisted man's evident embarrassment.
"That's okay son," he said casually, "although last month's issue had a better centerfold."
"Yes, sir," answered the corporal with relief. "I mean, no, sir. I mean, uh..."
Hogan held up a hand to stifle the young man's further verbal stumbling.
"Look, son, I'm in a hurry. Have you got that Thunderbolt gassed up and ready for me?"
The freckle-faced corporal looked at him with bewilderment.
"Uh, Thunderbolt, sir? As in P-47, sir?"
Hogan nodded his head in amusement.
"I...I wasn't aware anyone was scheduled for a flight this afternoon, uh, sir."
The young enlisted man fumbled through the contents strewn across the top of the desk and pulled out a large ruled logbook from under the pile of maps and weather reports. Shaking his head in confirmation, he looked up at the imposing officer who stood impatiently before him. The nametag on the flight suit was covered by the yellow life preserver, but an intimidating set of eagle's wings on the epaulets poked out from underneath. The corporal nervously cleared his throat.
"Uh, no, sir, Colonel, sir, there's no record of a flight plan having been filed."
"You do keep your planes gassed up and ready to go, don't you, Corporal?"
"Well, yes, sir, of course we do, sir, but--"
Hogan raised a hand to silence him once more.
"Then I haven't got time to listen to your nonsense about flight plans, son. Aren't you aware that special intelligence flights don't file plans with the Ops Officer, but with the G-2 instead?"
The young man continued to appear perplexed.
"That's okay, son. You don't look as though you've been around here all that long, and I expect someone hasn't told you how to handle these sensitive missions. Don't worry, I'm sure they'll fill you in when you make sergeant. By the way, what's your name? I'll be sure to put in a good word for you with your commanding officer."
The corporal straightened up smartly. "Why, yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway in the direction of the flight operations office. Hogan picked up his leather valise and looked quickly around the room. There was a second door off to one side that exited directly onto the airfield.
"Your name," Hogan prompted him gently, as he eased his way toward the exit.
"Uh, yes, sir. That would be Corporal Lewis, sir."
"Good boy, Lewis. Now can you steer me in the right direction to pick up my P-47, or do you provide curbside valet service here?"
The young man resumed his puzzled expression.
"Never mind," Hogan said with a bemused smile. "Just tell me where you park your P-47's."
Lewis hesitated. "Uh, well, sir, they usually line them up on the southeast extension alongside runway Fifty Lima."
The footsteps were almost outside the operations door.
"That's what I wanted to hear, son. If she gets me to where I'm headed in one piece there may be a weekend pass in addition to that promotion for you."
"Yes, sir!" Lewis was positively beaming, as he came to attention.
Hurriedly returning his salute, Hogan opened the door and stepped out onto the grassy flat expanse. The airfield was mostly deserted and was becoming striped with the long shadows of a late afternoon sun. He looked to either side; the runway seemed to stretch forever in front of him, and he quickened his pace, as he headed to the right. Hogan wanted to glance back to see if anyone had entered the operations office but was more intent on finding his way to the waiting line of Thunderbolts.
Hogan averted his face, hurrying past a couple of men in overalls standing beneath the exposed belly of a P-51. He had cleared the Mustang and was approaching a line of Thunderbolts, when he heard the door to the operations office burst open with a bang against the outer wall.
"Hey!" yelled a man's voice. "Hey, you!"
Hogan looked quickly back and saw a large, well-muscled man striding toward him. He broke into a run, as the MP pulled his sidearm from its holster, yelling for others on the field to try and stop the trespasser. Grasping the valise firmly under one arm and ducking instinctively, Hogan ran toward the line of planes.
Ordinarily the experience might have fondly reminded him of a pickup game of football back at camp. But there he didn't have someone trying to chase him down with a Colt .45. A bullet whistled past to his left, kicking up a puff of dirt, as it buried itself into the ground just in front of him. He swerved abruptly to the right, barely dodging another shot, and tried to use the planes parked along his path for limited cover. He only had another fifty meters to the row of waiting Thunderbolts, and with the jump he'd gotten on his pursuers he stood a good chance of reaching them before they caught up to him.
Hogan glanced behind to check their progress and was startled when he turned back to find himself suddenly confronted by a solid, coveralled figure directly in his path. He was a bigger man than Hogan, outweighing him by at least fifty pounds, but Hogan had the advantage of momentum and grasping his valise by the handles, flung it in a looping roundhouse right. The bag connected and sent the larger man sprawling to the ground with an angry expletive.
Sprinting the last few yards, Hogan leaped onto the waiting ladder at the plane's side and threw himself into the open cockpit. With one hand, he shoved the ladder away and reached for the harness to strap himself into the seat. A quick look to his left confirmed the men were rounding a corner where the line of Mustangs ended and were swiftly bearing down on him.
He rapidly surveyed the cockpit's display before him. Trim tabs in takeoff position and flaps up. Hogan hoped the last man to operate the plane had left the rest of the controls in their ready condition; there certainly wasn't going to be time for any sort of pre-flight checklist on this run. He cracked the throttle forward slightly and hit the energizer switch. The engines began to whine, finally kicking in just as two men reached the side of his plane.
Hogan rammed the glass canopy shut overhead and gave the rudder control a hard right, stomping on the brake. The plane abruptly pivoted, and both pursuers dropped to the ground to dodge the tail's shifting expanse. Hogan heard a shot careen sharply off the closed canopy. These guys definitely play for keeps.
Glancing in both directions down the main runway, Hogan eased the throttle forward and began a dash for the far end. Out of habit, he reached for the throat mike to request clearance for takeoff, but with a grim smile retracted his hand. Even if he asked permission, given the circumstances, the tower wasn't likely to issue it.
Out of the corner of one eye he suddenly noticed several emergency vehicles, their lights flashing, veer toward the tarmac parallel to his path. Damn. He hoped they weren't foolish enough to try and block the runway. The lead vehicle began to pull ahead and was by now almost clear of the plane's nose. Hogan glanced over to see a passenger-side window crank down. A glint reflected off the long, steel barrel of a rifle pointing in his direction.
In desperation Hogan threw the throttle full forward and hastily adjusted the flaps. He held his breath, racing forward and almost out of runway. The needles jumped wildly on the instrument panel before him. He could feel the front gear finally break contact with the ground, as the Thunderbolt tore down the grassy strip. The plane seemed to hang there, suspended at an angle, before finally lifting completely away with a shudder, barely clearing the end of the runway.
His spine ached, pressed forcefully against the seat, as the crushing climb continued. What felt like an eternity passed, before he allowed the ascent to level off. Hogan took a deep breath and looked around for other planes, hoping they didn't really want to play hardball and scramble some fighters to give chase, or worse yet, shoot him down, but thankfully the dusk-filled skies seemed quiet.
He eased back the throttle to cruising speeds and vectored the plane for an easterly course. Now to figure out the best approach, he thought, as he unfolded a map retrieved from the valise. Hogan spread it out as best he could in the cramped cockpit and plotted his next course of action.
Chapter Three
Kinch slowly climbed up a ladder that ascended from within the frame of a bunk bed at one end of the barracks. He held a piece of blue notepaper in his hand and examined it again, while he mechanically hit the concealed lever to the tunnel's trap door. The bunk's lower bed slid smoothly back into place, once again covering the secret entrance to a warren of subterranean rooms and corridors hidden beneath the prison compound.
The American enlisted man looked over at another POW by the end of a long table in the middle of the room, wiping the last of the tin plates from a dinner he'd prepared for them earlier that evening.
"LeBeau, where are the others?" Kinch asked.
"They're outside. Pourquois?" The swarthy, diminutive Frenchman looked intently at him. "Is something wrong?" he asked with added concern.
"You could say that," he answered, his voice shaken. "I just got a message from London, and I think I'd better go over it with everybody at the same time."
LeBeau noticed how the tall black man looked stunned, his face clearly strained.
"Oui. I'll get them," he said apprehensively. He had never seen their usually unflappable communicator appear so rattled before. Flipping his towel over one shoulder, LeBeau turned quickly from the table.
He discovered their teammates lounging just outside the barracks door. A thin, blond enlisted man was seated nearby atop an overturned wooden barrel. His eyes were closed in private meditation, as he daydreamed of a barmaid named Mady he'd recently met in town. The dark-haired Englishman next to him was leaning idly against the outer wall of the barracks, a half-burned cigarette stub dangling from his mouth, as he watched the other prisoners strolling about the compound.
LeBeau looked quickly around the yard, careful not to let any of the patrolling guards overhear him. "Carter, Newkirk," he hissed, "you'd better come inside. Kinch just received a message from London. He needs to see all of us right away."
Carter's blue eyes widened, as he whipped his head around to glance questioningly at the RAF corporal beside him. Both men anxiously followed LeBeau back inside the barracks and quickly grouped around their radioman, waiting expectantly for him to begin. Kinch looked up from the notepaper he held in his hands, his dark brown eyes troubled.
"What's up, Kinch?" asked Newkirk. "I hate to scare you, mate, but you're lookin' a bit pale." He stubbed out what remained of his cigarette on the floor and straddled the wooden bench alongside the table, not taking his eyes off his colleague.
Kinch hesitated, unsure how to begin. "You're not going to believe this message London just sent. I've read it a dozen times now, and I still don't believe it."
"Well, what is it?" Newkirk asked more insistently, leaning forward on his elbows to try and scan the note's contents.
Carter broke in. "It's not about the Colonel, is it? Did he have trouble getting to London this morning?" One hand slipped inside the fleece-lined pocket of his leather bomber's jacket to finger a lucky rabbit's foot he always carried, while the other nervously swept back the thin strands of dirty blond hair that persistently fell across his forehead.
They'd all gotten accustomed to their commander's occasional meetings at headquarters and after a while had become inured to the real danger they presented. The first challenge was making it to the hidden airstrip without being taken captive or, worse yet, shot by patrolling enemy forces. Once there, Hogan still had the daunting task of making it back across well-defended borders and risked being caught in a barrage of anti-aircraft fire in the process. Routine milk runs they were not.
"It's about the Colonel, all right," answered Kinch, "but not in the way you might think."
The others stared at him, puzzled looks on their faces. Kinch continued after a moment, his voice cracking.
"London just issued the equivalent of an A.P.B. on Colonel Hogan."
"Quel que c'est 'aeypee'...?" asked LeBeau, frowning in confusion.
"He means All Points Bulletin or A.P.B.," Carter explained. "That's what the police release when they're on the lookout for a dangerous criminal."
He nodded sagely at LeBeau, pleased at having come up with the correct answer. His smug look was replaced by one of alarm as the implications of what he'd said suddenly dawned on him. He felt his legs give way beneath him and sat down heavily on the edge of his bunk.
"Wait a minute," he said slowly, looking back at Kinch. "Wha...what is London doing issuing an A.P.B. for Colonel Hogan?"
"Cor! What could he possibly have done to get into that much trouble?" asked Newkirk. "Never mind, I take that back. It hasn't been that long since I've been away." Newkirk looked wistful as he rubbed his chin. "I wonder if some lovely bird's jealous beau caught up with him?"
Kinch shook his head. "I wish that's what it was. You know that conference he was called to this morning?"
"Oui," LeBeau answered. "Le Colonel had to leave right after formation. They didn't give him as much notice as usual this time."
"Yeah, well, it seems they may have not given him much notice on purpose. He was called before the senior command at Allied intelligence headquarters this morning for a formal dressing down."
The stunned men exchanged looks of disbelief.
"And that's not all." Kinch paused, clearing his throat, uncertain how to continue.
"They not only relieved him of command, but also stripped him of his rank. All I can figure is something must have made him get really hot under the collar during that meeting. General Fitzhugh himself even ordered court-martial proceedings against the Colonel."
Carter whistled his astonishment.
"Zut alors!" exclaimed LeBeau.
"Good night, nurse, I don't believe it!" Newkirk raised his eyebrows, imagining the scene that must have taken place back in London.
"Yeah, well think about it. Colonel Hogan's definitely not been himself the past couple of weeks. He's gotten me to the point where I'm scared to go out on a job with him anymore, and I don't consider myself to be someone who scares easy." Kinch looked soberly at the other men, each nodding his head in agreement.
They'd all noticed the change in their commander. There had been a number of occasions when, out of earshot of the Colonel, they'd commented as to what was eating at him. No one was questioning anyone's courage. They'd each volunteered for Hogan's team and the unusual mission of fighting the Germans from behind lines as a voluntary prisoner of war. But lately, the way their leader was playing the game had all of them feeling uneasy.
"It gets worse. Apparently, sometime later the Colonel stole a plane from the air base at Duxford, decking a non-comm in the process."
"Pinched a bloomin' kite? What on earth for?!"
"Seems nobody's figured that out yet. They tried raising him on the cockpit radio, but he wouldn't respond. The base was able to track him on radar part of the way and best they could tell he was headed east."
"How do they know for sure it was him?" asked Carter hesitantly, reserving some shred of hope there had been a huge mistake.
"They're pretty certain, all right," said Kinch. "They found his uniform in the bottom of a locker at the base, and the fellow's flight suit was missing. When an officer from headquarters showed up with a photograph from the Colonel's personnel file, a corporal working in the Flight Ops office identified him."
"I don't get it," said Carter, his forehead furrowed in bewilderment. "Why would he steal a plane and then fly east? If anything, you'd think he'd head west to get back home."
Kinch shook his head. "No, think about it--it doesn't make sense. He'd have to stop for refueling; he couldn't make it back stateside on one load, and wherever he stopped to gas up you can be sure they'd be waiting for him. He'd likely realize that as well."
"Where do you think he'd go?"
"Do you think he'd be balmy enough to come back here?" asked Newkirk.
"I don't know." Kinch shrugged his shoulders. "We're as much a home to him right now as anywhere else, I suppose."
LeBeau nodded his agreement. "D'accord, mes amis. I don't know why, but I have a feeling he's going to return."
"Gosh, what are we going to do then?" asked Carter.
"Good question, Andrew," said Kinch. "According to London, we're supposed to alert them immediately and take him into custody."
"Take him into custody? Are they kidding?" asked Carter, his voice squeaking in disbelief. "And then do what with him?"
"They didn't say. My guess is they'd try to send somebody in to take him back. Maybe make it look like he escaped."
"What, and break Kommandant Klink's perfect record?" Newkirk asked mockingly.
"Gee, I don't know about you guys," said Carter, "but I'm not especially comfortable with being told to change roles from prisoner to prison warden." He shook his head incredulously.
"Me either," admitted Kinch. "Then again, maybe we'll get lucky and he won't show up here."
"Incroyable," LeBeau said as he looked around at the others. "I know le Colonel's been under a lot of pressure lately. Ever since we lost that resistance leader..." His voice faded away, as he dropped his eyes. "Maybe it finally became too much for him."
Kinch looked at him understandingly. "I don't think anybody knows for sure right now except the Colonel himself, Louis," he said softly.
"And what are we going to do if he doesn't show up?" asked Newkirk. "You know the old bald eagle what runs this camp is going to find out first thing that his senior POW's flown the coop."
"Yeah, I've thought about that," said Kinch. "But there's nothing we can do about it, at least not now. We'll just have to sit tight and wait to see if he shows up. London's realized it might be a problem for us as well. Klink is likely to crack down on us big time if he thinks the Colonel's escaped. They've ordered us to stand down and cease all operations to keep things quiet. If it gets too difficult for us, we're to close up shop and bug out, pronto."
"I don't know what to hope for," said LeBeau. "I hate to think he may be in trouble, but if it might be a chance for us to finally get back home..."
"Yeah, I know," said Kinch. "I've been feeling the same way. But if Colonel Hogan is in trouble, I'm not sure there's anything any one of us can do for him right now."
The men nodded their agreement, each wondering silently what could possibly have happened to push their leader to this breaking point.
Chapter Four
Hogan beamed a red-filtered flashlight on the partially folded map in the darkened cockpit and tried to make out the best site to ditch the plane. Ordinarily, he'd use the crude landing strip they'd fashioned in a cooperative farmer's field, but this time he wasn't willing to risk letting the Germans take possession of the P-47. He knew he'd have to abandon the plane, bailing out instead and destroying it in the process. Hogan grimaced. He hated night jumps, especially a solo job with no reception committee on the ground to secure and mark a safe drop zone for him.
He tried to find a quadrant of land on the map that looked relatively undeveloped. He'd need a bit of clear terrain to safely parachute in and decided the area he'd first picked out would have to do. Dropping one wing, he scrutinized the ground below and, after a few anxious moments, spotted the landmark he was seeking.
In the cities, they observed strict light discipline to lessen their chances of being targeted during evening bombing raids. Certain structures, however, such as radio towers, still had to be marked for their own pilots to avoid collision during nighttime maneuvers. The beaconed framework was there ahead of him now.
Might as well kill two birds with this painted metal stone, Hogan thought and slowly looped around in the night sky, turning back in the direction of the tower. A dense forest bordered it, but there was enough of a clearing at its circumference that he hoped he'd have room to parachute to safety.
He checked his harness straps once more, pulling the ends of the webbing to cinch the parachute packed tight against his body, then fished around in the valise for the last of what he'd take with him. The maps and remaining materials would be destroyed in the fire when the plane went down. Any other items he'd need were secreted in the various zippered compartments of his flight suit.
The plane circled again. He didn't want to take too much time with this. The longer he was up there, the drone of his engines echoing below, the greater the chance he'd be spotted by enemy patrols and possibly come under fire. This was going to have to be it, he decided.
Hogan punched a button to jettison the canopy above. It flew away with a bang, allowing the icy wind to rush in and immediately numb his exposed face and hands. His stiff fingers undid the straps that buckled him to the seat, as he braced one arm against the side of the open cockpit. Carefully easing the controls forward, he placed the Thunderbolt into a shallow dive whose terminus he'd hoped would be the radio tower. He unclamped the emergency crowbar, usually reserved for when the canopy wouldn't open, and wedged it between the controls and the instrument panel, ensuring the plane's destructive course.
The force of the wind made it difficult for him to take a breath, as he eased his head up above the level of the fuselage. He was crouched sideways in the seat now and placing one foot against the edge of the opening, pushed away from the plane into the chilly blackness. The unbalanced exit forced him into a dizzying tumble, and he found himself falling end over end, completely disoriented.
Hogan knew he couldn't risk releasing the parachute while in an uncontrolled spin, or the lines would hopelessly tangle, reducing the parachute to a plumed streamer that would take him speedily in for a fatal landing. Desperately, he arched his back and extended his arms and legs, spider-like, to try and stabilize his descent. The rotation finally ceased, and he felt the air forcefully buffeting his body from below, indicating he was falling face down. With his right hand, Hogan reached for the ripcord and gave it a tug. He could feel the chute being stripped from its pouch and readied himself for the jolt in the harness that would signal his safe suspension beneath its open canopy.
The deafening howl of the plane's engines and rushing wind was abruptly replaced by an absolute and profound stillness, as the chute fully deployed. The only sound he could hear, while he slowly descended in the darkness, was the quiet rustling of the inflated silk shroud above him. He strained to see any visible landmarks beneath him and hoped he'd be able to tell when he was nearing the ground.
A sudden explosion to his left drew his attention, and he looked up to see a huge orange fireball rising in the night sky, the remnants of a radio tower's steel skeleton collapsing within its midst. The blaze illuminated the earth below, and Hogan glanced down to find the tops of a thick forest of trees rapidly looming up at him. Cursing silently, he quickly brought his feet together and flung his arms up, trying unsuccessfully to protect his face from the branches that sharply whipped at him. A sudden tearing sound was accompanied by a burning sensation, as a branch caught the left arm of his jumpsuit, before he haltingly lurched to a stop.
Hogan was grateful the blaze continued to light up the landscape, for it permitted him to see the ground, still well beneath where he swung suspended in the harness. At the same time, he realized, the illumination might have made it possible for patrols in the area to spot his descent. Hogan grabbed the cords that extended above him and tried freeing them from the branches. The effort caused him to slip earthward only slightly.
He peered down between his dangling feet. Great, he thought, straining to reach one of the compartments along the lower leg of his flight suit. He extracted a knife and raised it over his head, surveying the tangle of lines above him. The light was beginning to fade; he couldn't afford to take much more time, or he'd have to make the rest of the drop in complete darkness.
The freezing cold had numbed his exposed hands, and as he began to cut away at the slender braided ropes, the knife suddenly slipped from his unfeeling grasp. Hogan watched in despair, while it silently somersaulted through the air beneath him. Wonderful. That was all he needed.
Hogan reached up once more to grab the parachute's lines and began to forcefully swing his legs, hoping to generate enough momentum to loosen the chute from the tree's clutches. The sound of tearing silk broke the stillness, and he felt himself slip through the air, the weight of his body straining against the damaged canopy. He fell another few meters before his progress halted once more. Hogan looked down at the earth beneath his feet; the ground was still some distance away. Damn.
The light from the burning plane was fading quickly now, and Hogan realized he had no alternative. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and hit the latches on the front of the harness, resulting in its quick release from the canopy. Instantly crashing through the lower boughs, he hurtled earthward. The shock almost jarred him unconscious, as he struck the ground with a tremendous force. He lay there for several insensible moments, before he eventually managed with some effort to roll slowly over on his back, moaning uncontrollably as he did so.
His right ankle had buckled on impact, and he now became aware of an intense pain shooting through it. Carefully flexing his other limbs, he figured with the exception of the ankle he was mostly unhurt. Slowly he sat up, breathing heavily, then came to one knee and gradually rose to a standing position, tentatively trying the ankle beneath him. It protested with a sharp stab of pain, but held. He quickly surveyed the rest of his body. Blood was dripping down his left arm from a deep gouge that ran the length of his forearm. He inspected it more closely; fortunately it seemed to have already begun to clot, and he pulled the tattered ends of his sleeve together to press against it.
Hogan lifted his head to listen to the surrounding woods. If anyone had seen him descend, they were still some distance off; there was no sound of anyone approaching. He awkwardly slipped out of the Mae West and flight suit, searching for a place to conceal them.
A nearby downed tree, still partially clinging to its stump, afforded a good hiding place, and he stuffed the material underneath, pushing leaves and twigs over it to camouflage the fabric. Straightening up, he took a deep breath and looked around. Hogan knew he'd have quite a walk ahead of him and the injured ankle was going to make it seem even longer. A thick branch lay on the ground at his feet, and he picked it up, testing it beneath his weight, as he leaned on the makeshift walking stick.
Bending over once more, he reached down with his free hand to retrieve a flask he'd removed before abandoning the flight suit. He twisted the cap and raised the container in a solitary toast. "Welcome home, Robert Edward," he offered, trying to sound jovial. The straight whiskey burned at first going down, but then gradually eased into a pleasurable feeling of warmth.
Wearily drawing himself up, he began to strike out through the woods. He was limping badly and tried to skirt the open edge of the field in order to keep himself partially concealed. Looking at his watch, he estimated he had about a two-hour walk ahead of him. He didn't quite know what he'd expected, but so far it had been one hell of a homecoming.
Homecoming. Ha. You're a real comic tonight, Robby old boy, he thought glumly, tilting the flask upwards once more. He hobbled slowly along, a lonely and desperate figure, as the stark moonlight jerkily cast his lurching shadow across the uneven terrain.