Disclaimer: Nope, don't own em, don't make any money off 'em; you know the drill.
A/N: This story is part 2 of a series called "Hogan and the General." Since this story picks up where "A Papa Bear of His Very Own" ends, it is strongly recommended that you read that story first, if you haven't already done so.
This story in no way reflects the author's feelings regarding Italians or any other ethnic group; it's just the way things turned out in this universe.
Since there was no actual Military District XVI, and therefore no real "Stalag XVI"; I chose to place my fictional "Stalag XVI" in the vicinity of Düsseldorf. Author's prerogative. ;D
Hogan's Heroes
Eye-ties and Nazis and Bears, Oh My!
(Book 2 of Hogan and the General)
by
Jordre
Chapter 1
Snow had fallen overnight, the first snow of winter. It lay like a pure white blanket over the land, hiding the ravages of war. Hogan stared out the staff car's window in pensive silence as they neared Stalag 16 at last.
There but for the grace of God, the young American thought, masking a shudder, knowing that he was too tired for this, too tired really to think straight right then. It was a good thing he wasn't the one driving. He hadn't slept well the night before, plagued by nightmares. He hadn't expected the executions to bother him like that. And Burkhalter had thought he'd been offering a treat. The memory turned his stomach.
Everyone had been starting to leave after that horrendous dinner gathering in the officers' club. Oh yeah, the food had been great, but the strain of that particular dog and pony show had been extreme; he'd been glad to see them go. Then…
«Sebastian,» Burkhalter wondered aloud, «do you need to keep Hogan on a short Leash, or will he stay with anyone?»
Mannheim looked at his portly countryman in curiosity. «He will do as he is told; why, Albert?»
«I know you will be busy again with final Meetings tomorrow, but I had the thought that he might find it gratifying to accompany me in the Afternoon. I understand that they are hanging Hochstetter and Feldkamp around 1300 Hours. I was planning on witnessing that, for all the Grief those Swine gave me over my POW Camps and escaping Prisoners; Hogan must surely owe Hochstetter even more, especially for the way he kept hauling Hogan in for questioning. Justifiably, as things turned out, but… I would love to rub those vicious Brutes' Noses in the Fact that the American will live, while they will not. A petty Vengeance, true, but I will take what I can get.»
To do him credit, Hogan thought, Mannheim stared into the fire a bit, carefully thinking this over. Finally, he sighed and looked at his bondsman, his eyes troubled. «What say you, Rob? Are you willing to go? I will not force this on you.»
«Sure I'll go,» he agreed without hesitation, a surge of justified revenge burning in his breast. And he felt that way all the rest of the night, and through the next morning. He dressed with care, after an early lunch, in his bondsman's undress uniform, breaking with Mannheim's personal regulation in order to wear his trademark crush cap; he didn't want Hochstetter, in particular, to miss knowing exactly who he was, after all. Even after he got into Burkhalter's car, he felt a feeling of vindication for all the innocent people tortured and persecuted by the Gestapo and SS, as represented by Hochstetter. But the air of jovial viciousness, of perverse pleasure as they waited for the judicial victims to be brought out brought him back to earth. It sickened him to realize that, in this case at least, he was no better than his former Gestapo antagonists. It only grew worse when he realized that the Germans did not use a drop-trap when they hanged a political prisoner, but let the victim slowly strangle on the end of the rope.
And that could have been his own fate very easily, instead of the firing squad he had been scheduled to face.
"Hogan, are you all right?" Burkhalter asked him in genuine concern, for his normally devil-may-care companion was looking decidedly pale now. Had this been a mistake? Surely not.
"I'll be fine," Hogan managed to reply, although his jaw was much tighter than normal. He could only pray for this to be over soon.
Then they were bringing out Hochstetter. Burkhalter couldn't resist jibing his disgraced foe. "Wolfgang, look who has come to see you off," the Luftwaffe general called out.
The little Gestapo man reminded Hogan of nothing so much as a Bantam rooster as his head swiveled around, scanning the witnesses with hate-maddened eyes. He gaped when he saw his enemy. "Vat iss ziss man doing here?!!" he screamed with rage. His guards had to drag him to the rope, wrestling to keep him from attacking Hogan.
All in all, it was a very bad death, for his lighter weight made it take longer for the rope to do its work. Hogan was glad that Burkhalter left after that hanging was done. He was even more grateful for the large glass of schnapps that he was given once they got back to the general's car. It was somewhat reassuring that Burkhalter looked rather uncomfortable himself over the executions; Hogan didn't want to know why, preferring to ride back to his quarters in the detention wing in silence.
He had no appetite for dinner, remaining secluded in his cell. Mannheim wisely left him alone, but still he had those nightmares…
~oOo~
"I should not have let you go." Mannheim's voice broke the brittle silence in the car.
Slowly, Hogan turned to look at him from his seat beside the driver. "You had to let me go. It's what I wanted - or thought I did, anyway. But I'd forgotten…a lot of things. Like compassion, and forgiveness. Things not useful in the kind of war I ended up fighting. We both know how thick-headed I can be; I needed that lesson. I'll be okay in a while, and this way, I'll remember." He still couldn't meet the general's eyes; blessedly, he was left to his own thoughts once more. Weber maintained a careful silence.
The car's jolting through a rough turn brought him back to his surroundings once more. This small road had seen a good bit of heavy traffic lately, for it was rutted badly, the winter rains having turned it into a morass in places. That their driver did not bog them down was nothing short of a miracle, so bad was the approach to the Stalag.
And now the fence was before them, stark and grim in the glare of the searchlights. With a start, Hogan realized that it was nearly dark; between the weather and the late season, evening came early these days. He shivered at the sight of the camp, for this place was properly built to hold prisoners, not as Stalag 13 had been. That old camp had been a joke, almost as if it had been designed to facilitate escape. There, the buildings had not been up on piles, but had sat practically on the ground. The sub-soil had been a close match in color and texture to that on the surface, with very little sand, which had expedited tunnelling… "General Mannheim? Who designed Stalag 13, sir?" he found himself asking as he gazed at the guard barracks and Kommandantur of Stalag 16, outside the wire. No easy raiding the Commandant's safe for secret documents here. Or borrowing cars or trucks from the motor pool, either.
"What do you mean, Rob?"
"Who designed it? I could hardly have made it better suited to our purposes if I'd been asked what I wanted. Short of there being no fence or guards actually present, that is." He couldn't keep from chuckling at the thoughtful look in his German superior's face at that realization. "I mean, look at this place. Huts up off the ground; no way we could have gotten to the Commandant's office to place bugs. Trees cut way back from the wire. And I'll bet they've got a small fortune in microphones in here, to detect tunnelling sounds. I don't know that we could have pulled off half the stuff we did, if our camp had been built like this one."
"I hadn't thought of that, Rob. I will have to look into it," Mannheim muttered, distracted by the sight of trucks being unloaded by the east compound's main gate. Weary men were being herded into confinement, many staggering from weakness and muscle cramps from a long, cold ride. Each clutched a box or bag in desperate arms, all the worldly goods each possessed. None were dressed for the cold of a German winter.
"Wonder where those poor devils are from," Hogan muttered, upset by the prisoners' obviously poor condition.
"I don't know, but I plan on finding out!" Mannheim snapped.
The general's reply surprised Hogan, for he sounded extremely angry. A sharp rap on the driver's shoulder had the large car coming smoothly to a halt next to the foremost truck; men in ragged Commonwealth and American army uniforms lurched quickly out of the way.
«Idiot!»Mannheim shouted at the driver. «You are fortunate you did not hit one of them, for you would have been charged. Watch where you go next time! »
"Ja-jawohl, mein General," the young corporal stammered. Making POWs jump frantically out of the way had been a popular pastime among the men of his old unit; their officers had always laughed as the endangered men had tried to scurry out of harm's way. This officer, however, did not find this amusing; he would definitely remember that in the future.
But Mannheim wasn't waiting for the driver's acknowledgment; Hogan barely had time to scramble from his seat in front and open his general's door, for the German was quite literally erupting from the car's interior. «Who is in charge here?» he demanded in a tone that clearly would brook no argument. He glared around at whichever soldiers he could see, but none claimed that distinction, until a young captain arrived, breathless, from the direction of the Kommandantur. He snapped to attention, saluting crisply, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by his shivering. Mannheim's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, for this whip-thin young officer was dressed as poorly for the weather as were his men and their charges.
«Hauptmann Erik Kraemer reporting, Herr General,» he announced himself, trying desperately to control his trembling, «15th Panzer Division, Afrika Korps, Oberst Dietrich commanding.»
«Afrika Korps?» Mannheim repeated in surprise. «You are far from your normal Operational Area, Captain. What are you doing here, and where did these Prisoners come from?»
«We were being transferred from Africa, General,» Captain Kraemer began to explain. «We shipped across the Mediterranean, but were convoying our Equipment up through Italy, as there were not enough Rail Cars available. Shortly before we crossed into Germany, perhaps 75 Kilometers from the Border, the Road passed a POW Camp. The Men there…They were three-quarters starved, General, and kept in appalling Conditions. Overcrowded, filthy; many were sick. And the Italian Guards treated them like Dogs and laughed as they kicked them. Our Major complained to their Kommandant; he was laughed at and nearly thrown out of the Office. But he had served under Oberst Dietrich a long time; he would not have tolerated such. So we raided the Camp that Night, taking all the Camp Records and the surviving Prisoners. Our Trucks were very crowded; much of our Men's Gear was lashed to our Tanks to make room, but we emptied the Camp. Major Knust called ahead to Berlin and was told to bring the Prisoners here for processing and safekeeping.
«They look better than they did, Herr General. They've had four Days of reasonable Rations, and the best Care we could give them under the Circumstances. Major Knust sent me with the Column to deliver the Prisoners, while he stayed with our Men and Equipment. Oberst Dietrich is in Berlin, getting Orders for the Division.»
Hogan managed to keep his own face straight as he watched one corner of Mannheim's mouth twitch. Had they ever been so young, so eager to please? Probably, he admitted to himself with a mental snort. But this young captain had done well, if what he'd just relayed had been even close to the truth. There had to be nearly a thousand men here, to judge by the number of trucks they were emptying. No small feat, with the men in such weakened condition.
The four men watched as cold prisoners were ushered into the long barracks buildings, many more to each than had been originally intended. Other prisoners, much better dressed for the climate, appeared, carrying piles of folded blankets from the camp storerooms for the newest residents.
«We will be somewhat short of Fuel for the Stoves, Herr General, but we will manage. I have already ordered more to be trucked in, along with additional Rations. I could not very well have turned them away, not in this Weather.»
Mannheim turned to look at the new speaker, smiling as he saw his former aide, now a colonel himself and the current Kommandant of Stalag 16. «I would not have forgiven you if you had, Rudi,» he said as he accepted the younger officer's salute. "As you say, you will manage. No doubt they are just glad to have better Treatment at last.
«But I wonder, was this just an isolated Case, or are Conditions this bad throughout Italy?»
«I do not know, Herr General, but I will inquire. Will you come inside now, General Mannheim?» Colonel Rudolph Ritter stepped back, motioning toward the Kommandantur. «It is cold, and Hauptmann Kraemer is not used to this Climate. He will not come back inside until you go in yourself.»
Ah, yes, Hogan thought with a laugh to himself, this man knew Mannheim only too well. He trailed after the German officers as they headed off to the waiting warmth indoors, ignored now and grateful for the blessed anonymity at last.
The office of the Kommandant was spartan, but gratifyingly warm. With a contented sigh, Mannheim eased his frame into a remarkably comfortable wooden chair, watching surreptitiously as the young Afrika Korps Hauptmann took the chair left vacant nearest the stove. Without looking around, the general knew his bondsman had placed himself against the wall behind his superior, but so inconspicuously that it would be some time before either of the other two officers would notice him. Weber also stood, close to the door so as to be ready to retrieve anything that his general might need or desire.
A slight grin quirked one side of Mannheim's mouth. "So tell me, Rudi," he asked in English, forcing all hints of levity from his voice. "Do your inmates give you any problems? Any - How do they say it? - sorrow?"
"'Grief,' you mean, mein General," Hogan's voice came softly from behind. He knew Mannheim's command of idiom was better than that; this was obviously an opening to call attention to his bondsman, for Weber probably wouldn't have known the correct term.
"Ah, yes, that is it. Do they give you any grief, Rudi?" Mannheim's eyes sparkled with a devilish delight that Ritter remembered all too well. So he was supposed to notice this man who chose to stay back in the shadows. Very well; he would play this game, and gladly, for, truth to tell, his curiosity was piqued by the unusual uniform and self-effacing nature of this stranger. So: "Forgive me, mein General; I know your current aide, Leutnant Weber, and you have met Hauptmann Kraemer; who is our last guest?" Ritter asked with proper decorum and a smile, for he knew he played this assigned part correctly.
«Ah, yes, Rudi. You have not yet met my Bondsman. This is what the High Command decided to do with the American-born POWs, you see - But I wrote you about that, did I not? »
«Ja, mein General, you did, although you did not say that you had claimed one for yourself.» Ritter did not have to pretend curiosity now as he looked again at the man standing behind the general. Heer- cut uniform, but no rank tabs. And blue, not Wehrmacht gray. Keen dark eyes studied him just as intently, Kommandant Ritter noted, straightening unconsciously under the American's scrutiny.
Mannheim grinned openly upon seeing his former aide's reaction to Hogan's presence. «Rudi, this is Robert Hogan, formerly a Colonel in the RAF. You have heard of him; in fact, you have even met him before this, while you were still my Senior Aide and training Weber for that Post. Yes, you have,» he insisted gently at Ritter's headshake of denial. «I will prove that to you later. But you will know him, now, by his more infamous Code Name of PAPA fact, you should still have most of his key Men here.»
«Most of them, Herr General?» Hogan quickly interrupted, caution thrown to the winds. «What's happened to the others?»
«Gently, Rob; they should all be well,» Mannheim hurried to reassure him. «At least two are out on Assignment, for they have Skills which are greatly needed: Sergeants Kinchloe and Baker are out repairing Telephone Lines, I believe. This is Work that Kinchloe, at least, has done before, in Civilian Life. I doubt he will find it too onerous, and he has conscientious Guards with him for his and Baker's Protection.
«Whom did you send with them, Ritter?» he then demanded, suddenly turning his attention back to the young Kommandant.
«One of the Guards who came from Stalag 13 was promoted and sent as Sergeant of the Guard, mein General. Feldwebel Langensheidt has eight Men with him, all trustworthy, and all seem to get along well enough with the Bondsmen.» Ritter watched with interest as all tension left the American's body at the sergeant's name. Apparently this was an acceptable escort for the two repairmen. «Major Vonhoff, the Officer in charge of North Compound, recommended him for the Duty and had him select his own Men. The two Bondsmen went with them willingly enough, mein General.»
«Langensheidt's a good Man,» Hogan commended, his voice soft again. «A good-hearted Man, mein General. He was one of our 'tame goons,' although he never got to see anything—well, except once. We never tried to bribe him the way we did Schultz; he wasn't as gullible, for one thing. Plus, being young, he was more at risk of being shipped to the Russian Front. We tried to protect the Guys we considered our own, even if they were Krauts, to us. He deserved the Promotion.»
Klink would have sneered something like so glad you approve, Hogan, Rob thought morosely. Mannheim and, yes, Ritter too, just nodded in agreement. And then they surprised him again.
«Any of the others on that List sent out, Ritter?» the general asked his former aide. «Hogan will rest better Tonight if he knows.»
«In that case, mein General, one moment, please.» Ritter turned to a nearby file cabinet and extracted a folder, which Hogan had to force himself not to try to read. A few page-turns within brought surprising answers. «Ja, here it is,» Ritter remarked, pleased at his memory. "Olsen is bonded out to a local Farm Family, the Koenigs, along with Garlotti and two others from Barracke 2, Stalag 13.» He paused, looking up at Hogan. "Do you want their names? I have that information here, although they were not on the primary list of your men."
Hogan was stunned. Asking him if he wanted more information? Usually he had to pry every scrap out of them! "No, thanks; That's okay," he finally remembered to respond, quickly adding a more polite, "Herr Oberst."
Mannheim burst into laughter. «Congratulations, Rudi. I never though I'd see the Day someone could take Rob by surprise. And for simple courtesy!»
Ritter looked stunned, then suddenly embarrassed. «Mein General, forgive me. I sit here chattering like a Fool; you must be tired. I know that Hauptmann Kraemer is exhausted, although he won't admit it. Would you care for some Supper? I will have Quarters prepared for you and your Men right away.»
«Where are you keeping the Bear's Cubs, Rudi?» Mannheim asked seriously, although his eyes laughed again.
«The 'Bear's Cubs,' mein General?» Ritter couldn't hide his confusion at that question. «We do not keep Animals here, although Barracke 5 in North Compound is being allowed to keep a Dog as a Pet.»
«Nein, Rudi. Not true Animals. Since Hogan, here, is PAPA BEAR, his closest Men must, therefore, be his Cubs. He would fight and give his Life for them; what else could they be?»
«I see. They are all out in Barracke 14. Perhaps he would prefer to spend Tonight out there with them? Our Officers' Quarters are much warmer, but… I believe there are several empty Bunks there, although no private Rooms are free.»
«I don't need a private Room,» Hogan quickly asserted. He turned nearly pleading eyes to his superior, not knowing how many other opportunities he might have to see his men - his friends - in the future.
«I have no Objections,» Mannheim added thoughtfully. «In Fact, I think that this might be good for all concerned. I have no doubts that they believe Hogan to be thoroughly dead by now - you allow Newspapers into Camp, ja? That Trial was too well publicized, but the commutation of his Sentence was never mentioned. Just have your Gate Guards give him free access, so he can be at my Quarters by 0730. He will not abuse the Privilege. He will stand Appell with them, when he is not with me.»
«They have been fed tonight already,» Ritter cautioned, «and they do not have Food in the Barracks anymore, as they no longer receive Red Cross Packages. You should all eat first; the Food isn't too dreadful in the Officers' Mess. If you will allow him in…?»
«That's where he usually eats. What say you, Rob? The cold in the Barracks will be easier to take on a full Stomach. You can eat with your Men Tomorrow.»
"Danke, mein General." Hogan was in a daze. This was much more than he'd hoped for. It would have been nice to see Kinch again, but he'd gratefully accept what he was given. Lost in memories of the past, he couldn't say what he ate then, or how good or bad it was. He did not see the tolerant glances sent his way by Mannheim, or the grins Weber directed at him. He knew little until the December wind cut into him through his greatcoat.
He shivered in the cold, looking around to find himself standing before the opening gates of a prison compound, two bundled-up privates carrying his baggage and acting as escorts. He shivered again, this time from more than just the cold. There would be no easy escape from this compound, but there was no longer any escape for him in any case. Head down against the wind, he went where his escort directed.
North Compound was fairly new, built since the end of the war as one of several holding areas for American POWs gathered from across France and Germany. As such, the huts were both larger and better built than those in Hogan's previous experience, with more men in each. Barracke 14 was towards the middle of the compound, well away from the wire in all directions. He hid a grin as he scouted out his surroundings. Searchlights would cover all sides of this particular building, more so than most of the others. It was no accident that the "Bear's Cubs" were housed here.
He followed one guard in through the open door, head still down against the wind, chin and lower face burrowed deep into the collar of his greatcoat. The bill of his cap partially shielded the upper half of his face, totally hiding his identity. Several prisoners sat in what was apparently a common area just inside the door, a stove at the farther end throwing its warmth more towards the rows of triple-decker bunks that lined both sides of the central aisle, down to about a third the length of the building. He estimated that sixty men could be housed in this section of the barracks alone. Further down were what appeared to be private or semi-private rooms, for officers, no doubt. Near the far end were the latrines, and a small indoor shower area. Beyond that, Hogan could see a few more racks of bunks, then another sitting area, and another door to the outside. A large building indeed, when compared to the 16-man huts at Stalag 13. But his reflections were abruptly interrupted.
"'Ere, now, you can't be puttin' no Kraut in 'ere wi' us!" a British voice protested indignantly, in very familiar tones. A lean man in worn RAF blues came forward, daring to block the first guard carrying one of Hogan's bags.
"Newkirk, don't be an idiot," Hogan called out, knowing that he needed to defuse this situation quickly. "And watch who you're calling a Kraut. You could give a guy a complex that way." He picked his head up, letting the men gathered at the long table there see his face, and waited for the inevitable explosion once the shock wore off.
"Colonel Hogan!" Carter cried out, rushing forward. "Boy, am I sure glad to see you! …Uh, sir." He stopped his precipitous rush just short of grabbing Hogan in a great hug, as he suddenly remembered proper military courtesy.
But Hogan threw that out the window himself as he grabbed Carter in a quick embrace, releasing him, grabbing shoulders and hands, and slapping backs as the rest of his men clustered around, all talking at once and trying to be heard in the sudden confusion. The two guards, ignored, backed against the walls with Hogan's bags, somehow keeping from being trampled. They exchanged surprised looks, too, then grinned at each other, amused at the obvious popularity of General Mannheim's bondsman despite his having been an officer.
Several of the doors to the small rooms opened at the sound of the hubbub, men peering out with cautious curiosity. Most went back to their own bunks and pursuits once they'd determined that no riot was threatening to break out, but one or two came out to joint the throng when they saw who was at the center of the whirlpool of greetings.
"All right!" Hogan shouted at last, for he knew that the two guards would tolerate this chaos only so long. "Pipe down, you guys! Back off and give me some room!" He waited as they slowly obeyed, finally sitting on a bench at the table. "You clowns have an extra bunk in here somewhere?"
"Sure, Colonel. Uh, we don't have a room for ya, sir," Carter added unhappily.
"That's what happens when you don't call ahead for reservations, Andrew," Hogan laughed back. Leave it to Carter, he thought fondly. "Any bunk will do, just so I can get my gear dumped and let these guys go back to their own barracks. They're off duty, and we're wasting their time."
Uncertain looks were passed among the men, but one look towards the waiting guards decided the matter. "'Ere, sir, you take my bunk over 'ere, next to the stove. It's a bit warmer than the rest." Newkirk was grabbing up his gear as he spoke, intending to move closer to the door.
"Nein, Englander," one of the guards spoke up with a laugh. "Der Vater Bär can sleep here; he vill haff varm blankets enough." So saying, he deposited Hogan's bag on the nearest vacant bunk and indicated that his comrade should do likewise.
Hogan grinned at the man and winked. "You heard the man, Newkirk. I sleep there. And this way, they'll know where I'll be when they do a surprise bed-check tonight."
The door slammed open then, causing several men to leap for it to prevent too much of their warmth from leaking out. Sure enough, this man carried three officer-grade blankets, neatly folded. He looked around, scowling at the men gathered there, but placed his burden on the bed holding Hogan's bags.
"This 'ere's 'Ermann, Colonel," Newkirk explained. "'E's our barracks-guard. Not cheerful like Schultzie, as you can see, but 'e knows us all, 'e does." He fell silent as the man's scowl darkened, but the German did not strike out.
"Herr Major Vonhoff says you vill haff an extra hour of lights tonight, because he is here. Lights-out vill be at 10, verstehen?"
"Wir verstehen, Herr Gefreiter," Hogan responded respectfully, causing the corporal to look at him carefully, as if trying to decide whether some insult was intended or not. With a disgusted snort, he turned at last and exited the building, the other two guards trailing after him.
********
0500. It came too quickly, in Hogan's estimation, but he was up and out with his men, as expected. Just like old times, he thought with a genuine smile, as he shifted from one foot to the other. The only difference was that he was warm now, in his good coat. Nor could he feel bad about it any longer, for all the men in Barracks 14, at least, also had warm coats now. No doubt the newcomers from Italy were suffering in this weather, though, Hogan mused as Hermann the barracks-guard quickly and efficiently made his count. Without the need to keep the guards off-balance any longer, his men stood quietly in ranks, the sooner to return to their warm bunks until breakfast at 0630. He would have plenty of time to eat with his men and still get to Mannheim's quarters by 0730.
The Oberfeldwebel came around to take Hermann's count, and that of the other barracks-guards, then went to report to an officer at the front of the compound. Their group was too far back to see rank tabs clearly, but Hogan suspected that this would be Major Vonhoff, North Compound's OIC. Relaxed, all stress gone now that he had nothing to hide from the Germans, Hogan let his gaze wander. For the first time since he'd been shot down, he had the leisure to appreciate the beauty of freshly fallen snow.
"Dismissed," came the call up near the compound gates. Hogan began to gather his wandering thoughts, only to have them scatter again as a snowball from out of nowhere caught his right shoulder with respectable force. The formation dissolved into the most massive snowball fight he had ever participated in. Yes, he was definitely in the thick of things, and so were a number of the younger guards, he saw with a jolt of shock. They had passed their rifles off to several of their comrades and fought indiscriminately, not German vs. American.
At last, though, he'd had enough and retreated into the safety and warmth of his barracks. He glanced at his watch and uttered a brief curse; he'd get no breakfast this morning, and he had exactly five minutes to clean up and get to the general's quarters.
The others were just coming in, laughing and joking, as he headed for the door.
"Hey, Colonel, where're ya goin'? We're not that late for breakfast!" Carter called out, but Hogan's rapidly retreating back gave no answer. "Geez," the young American mused, "was it something we said?"
As usual, no one bothered to answer him, but many couldn't help wondering the same thing.
The gate guard saw him coming and moved to block the way; a shouted order from the Oberfeldwebel moved him back to one side and had the gate swinging open. "Danke!" Hogan called out, not slowing his pace as he headed for the Kommandantur. Someone there would have to tell him where the general had been quartered last night, he realized, for he didn't have the slightest idea.
Or perhaps he did, after all. Four buildings down was one that looked like barracks of the better sort; waiting by the steps was Weber, shivering slightly in the morning chill. Hogan changed course, heading over to the waiting German.
Whatever the young officer had been about to say, he changed his mind upon seeing the wet hair and cold-reddened cheeks of the American pilot. He only shook his head and indicated the door behind him. "He's waiting for you inside. Second door on the left."
Hogan tipped his hat at a jaunty angle (almost as bad as his old crush cap, Weber noted with a chuckle) and grinned back, his eyes alight with his joy in life. "I know: I'm late. No breakfast, either, but it was worth it." Then he passed in through the doorway, ready to accept his punishment.
A light tap on the door elicited a growled «Enter.» Hogan opened the door and slipped through, immediately bracing to attention. His face was a mask now, but his eyes still danced. Oh, yeah, he was gonna catch it; Mannheim had company in here: the camp's Kommandant, Ritter. Still…
Mannheim had seen the snowball fight in progress and had actually expected his bondsman to appear much more disheveled, and much later. It was only by the greatest effort that he managed a scowl and an accompanying growl. "You're late," he stated, ready to come down hard on him.
"Yessir. No excuse, sir," Hogan calmly replied. That stopped his superior's tirade before it even began.
"What do you mean, 'no excuse'?" the general sputtered, nearly losing his resolve.
"No excuse, mein General," Hogan repeated. "I can give an explanation, but that's still no excuse for being…" He paused to check his watch, then returned to attention. "…fifteen minutes late."
"And your 'explanation,' Hogan?" Mannheim was managing not to laugh only by the greatest exertion of self-control. Ritter was not so restrained, but the American was carefully avoiding all notice of Mannheim's guest.
"Well, sir, there was this snowball fight. I was hit from behind, so I don't really know who threw the first one, but honor demanded that I retaliate…"
Mannheim lost it at that, howling with laughter at the reproachful look Hogan's face assumed.
"I had to go clean up first, before I could even start looking for your quarters, sir."
At last the two German officers managed to regain control. "Have you eaten yet, Rob?" Mannheim sighed as he wiped tears from his eyes.
"No, sir; I'd wasted more time than I realized. I didn't want to make it worse by being any later." Hogan grinned once more. "You've got me fed up well enough that it definitely won't kill me to miss breakfast. Serves me right, actually, for not watching the time better."
"No; you'll eat with me instead of your men this morning." Mannheim passed a critical eye over his bondsman and slowly nodded in approval. "Considering that you've just come from a pitched battle against overwhelming odds…" He threw a quelling glance over at Ritter, which only made him snicker louder.
«Well, it was a pitched Battle,» Mannheim insisted with a laugh of his own. «I should know; I ordered it, and I will say that your Men obeyed beautifully, Rudi.»
It was Hogan's turn to gape, but he quickly laughed. "I should have known it was a setup when I saw the guards in there too, but not taking any sides, and most of 'em pot-shotting me. One of them started it, didn't he?"
But Mannheim just grinned at his man as he headed out the door for breakfast.
The food was...edible, if you were starving, Hogan decided as he quickly choked down rubbery potato pancakes. The cook needed lessons, he decided as burned bacon was as rapidly consumed. If the officers' food was this bad, he hated to think what the common soldiers got.
Ritter noticed the American's grimace of distaste, but managed not to redden. He looked down at his own barely-touched meal with a sigh.
«I know you use what you are sent in the way of Personnel, Rudi,» Mannheim's voice was gentle in its rebuke, «but don't you think you can find better? I'm surprised your Men don't mutiny on you with Food like this.»
He was about to protest when he saw the young Panzer captain about to enter, only to stop in the doorway, take one sniff, then turn and leave, quickly, as if hoping not to be spotted. Ritter sighed again.
«My Men got the better Cook, to prevent just such Rebellion. Many of my Officers eat in Town, or eat cold Meals in their Quarters. Front-line Troops get the good Cooks, I'm told, not such as us.»
«Rudi, you are being foolish. You have a Camp full of Men needing employment; why not use some of them?» There was no amusement in the general's voice now, for he had little tolerance for fools.
Yet again Ritter let out a sigh. «It's not what you think, mein General. We do use Bondsmen in the Kitchens; they do most of the Prep-work: the peeling, slicing, and such. But the Personnel Office sent Orders in the strictest terms that we were under no circumstances to allow any POW to do the actual cooking - to prevent poisoning.» He glared down at his plate, disgusted by the bureaucratic stupidity of those orders.
«I see,» Mannheim snorted, then looked thoughtful. «Who signed those Orders? Do you still have them?»
«Oh, ja. I posted them over by the Kitchen Entrance to silence all the Protests I was getting about the Food.» Ritter waved over to their left, where the nauseating odors were strongest. «They were signed by a General Kirsch. Artur Kirsch, to be precise. Who no doubt employs a private Cook and so does not suffer like the rest of us.»
«Forget those Orders and find yourself some Men who can cook,» Mannheim ordered without hesitation. «Have them working by Lunch; assign them out to this Camp for permanent Duty, so they will no longer be POWs, technically, so you will not be violating the Word, if not the Intent, of that idiotic Set of Orders. Then throw your current Cooks into the Cooler and send them to the Eastern Front for attempting to poison all your Men.» There was no laughter in the general's eyes or voice, so utterly serious was he.
"Zu Befehl, mein General," Ritter snapped out, more than happy to obey those orders. «If you will excuse me, I will see to it immediately.» He rose without waiting for any acknowledgment, beating a hasty retreat from the mess.
«Somehow, I'm glad I don't remember Supper last Night,» Hogan muttered, his voice just loud enough to be heard by Weber, who chuckled.
«It wasn't this bad,» the leutnant confided. «The Cooks had gone off Duty; some Bondsmen fixed us some Sandwiches. They used canned Meat, saying the fresh stuff wasn't fit for Schwein. I believe them now.»
«So do I,» Mannheim added his own thoughts to the conversation. «But come; there is nothing here worth lingering over, and there is fresh Air outside. You can make up a Pot of Kaffe after we get to my Office, Rob. That I know will be drinkable, and you will not poison us all through ignorance.»
«Nope. Never used Poison in my whole Life, General,» Hogan assured his companions, who laughed at the implications. Knife, garrote, or bullet, yes; poison, no. They left, finally, in accord with one another.
The Kommandantur was quite large, Hogan noticed as they approached from this angle, crunching over the new snow. The only resemblance it bore to the one at Stalag 13 was the presence of an outer office. This was presided over by a businesslike corporal of the women's auxiliary, an older, hatchet-faced lady who destroyed that image by smiling warmly at the men intruding upon her domain. "Guten Morgen, meine Herren," she greeted them, and her smile did not dim in the least when she saw Hogan among the newcomers. «You have had three Calls already, Herr General; I have left the contact Numbers on your Aide's Desk.»
Mannheim returned Fräulein Doebrich's greeting, then added, «Leutnant Weber will screen my Calls now. Danke.»
The receptionist nodded in acknowledgment and returned to her own work.
Hogan followed the general down a short corridor that exited the left side of the office. This wing had several doors off either side of the hallway, which dead-ended in one final door. Mannheim's name, engraved on a brass plaque, was mounted on that. To the right a door stood open; Weber entered that room, drawing Hogan along with him. Sure enough, two large desks stood facing each other across the moderately-sized office; the hall-side wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling file cabinets. Both desks seemed to overflow with paper.
"Diese mein ist," Karl muttered unhappily as he looked at the layers of "dead tree" that obscured the right-hand desk's surface. But the other one was just as bad.
Two hours later, Hogan was ready to scream in frustration. Weber was sending all the sets of original paperwork, those going to England to begin the process of sending the English prisoners home once more. Hogan got all the rejected forms that the English had sent back for one reason or another.
And those reasons were nothing short of ridiculous: Typographical errors; misspelled words, including those spelled according to American rules instead of British; faded ink (Someone had actually written on one, "Too hard to read, old chap; do try again, but type harder this time, eh wot?") --- Anything and everything. There were even forms rejected because some letters were out of line from the rest, as if they expected the quality of set type instead of a simple typewriter. Any excuse, it seemed, to keep from allowing their own men home. Hogan looked over at the young leutnant. "This is garbage, Karl," he protested in disgust. "You'd think they'd be doing anything they could to get their guys back; instead, they're being as obstructive as possible. Have any of the Brits been sent home?"
"Nein. And we have not got back any of our men, either. Unser General is...not amused," Weber grumbled, groaning as he stretched his back a bit. "It has been like this all month, until we went to Berlin for your trial. It is no better now. And the papers just pile higher..." He shook his head, rising to bring the latest stack in for Mannheim's signature.
«There's Room for another two hundred British in that Camp outside Paris,» Mannheim was saying to Ritter as Weber walked in. «Use some of those Trucks that Hauptmann Kraemer brought up from Italy. Start with Barracke One, taking out all British Citizens, until you reach that Number of Men.»
«We will have Problems, mein General,» Colonel Ritter remarked sourly. «There are a Number - small, true, but there - they are American-born, but held Citizenship since before the War. They were expecting to be repatriated along with the Native-born Englanders.»
«How many...eine moment, bitte. What do you need, Karl?» Mannheim interrupted himself to look over at his current aide.
«I have the first Stack of Forms ready for your Signature, mein General. I have checked them against our List of rejection Excuses; I swear these are all perfect.» He offered them to his general, who took the stack, scowling.
«You I don't doubt, but we both know they'll find some Reason. I'm tempted to just load several cargo Planes with British POWs and dump them off on a Runway somewhere in England. Let the Military there deal with the Problem...» Mannheim paused, thoughtful now. «You know, that just may be the Way to do this. They can't very well send them back to us; that would cause too much Anger among the rest of the Populace.» He turned to look at his former aide and grinned, his eyes laughing. «Rudi, see how many troop-transport Planes can be made available, and how soon. I want to get several Loads of these Englanders home by Christmas, so we've got just over a Week to make this work.»
«Ja, and then we will be able to watch them squirm,» Ritter laughed in response, then sobered. «But this will just make Things that much worse for those Men the British won't take back. They will be like all the other Amerikaner, only angrier.»
«How many? Among those first several Barracks, from which we will be taking the Men to go to France?»
«At least eight, mein General.»
«Pull their Records, so I can see what we'll be dealing with. I'd like to know ahead of Time if we'll be trying to contain an angry Commando or two.»
«I will do so, soonest,» Ritter assured his superior. «I believe there are none of such Men there; only regular Army and some RAF Pilots.»
«Pilots, you say?» Mannheim's attention was well caught now. «I had meant to find a Bondsman to be Rob's Copilot for me. Perhaps one of these will be suitable. We shall see, Rudi; we shall see.»
~oOo~
It was nearly lunchtime now, and Hogan desperately needed a break from the paperwork. He'd always had problems with the Brits' stuffy notions of proper protocol, but right then he was ready to lead a bombing mission himself, to take out Whitehall and all the paper-pushers contained therein. Especially if he could also drop a few on the House of Lords, since the three signatures he'd seen most often on his rejection forms contained the title "Lord." Not to mention the one "Lady."
And so it was with relief that he looked up at Mannheim's summons. "Come, Rob; it is time for lunch, and then there is an errand you must run. These reports and forms will be here tomorrow still."
"Ain't that the truth!" the American groused, but he rose and headed for the door, shrugging into his coat. He totally missed the appraising look Mannheim sent his way as he placed his cap on his head with an unhappy sigh. Still, orders were orders, and his crush cap was verboten.
They were joined in the outer office by Kommandant Ritter and headed over to the officers' mess together. Unlike that morning, appetizing smells wafted upon the chill December air, bringing more than the usual number of officers seeking the source of the aromas. Not LeBeau's work, Hogan thought with a silent chuckle, but lunch would certainly be edible. And it did fulfill the promise made to his nose, he thought afterwards as he pushed his chair back slightly so he could safely tip it back a bit on the two rear legs. So contented was he that he nearly missed his superior's conversation concerning himself.
«…know where good quality Tattoos may be obtained locally? I will require a skilled Artist for the work I need done.» Mannheim, that was, Hogan realized as he zeroed in on their voices. The chair's front legs settled quietly to the floor, so as not to distract the two Germans. Weber, refilling his general's coffee cup, looked at Hogan, but kept his silence.
«I will ask after Lunch; then they can go into Town and get it done. I know that I, at least, will feel safer letting Hogan go out on his own after that.
«Won't you, Rob?»
«The Badge, my General?» Hogan asked quietly, having followed the conversation to its logical conclusion. «As a matter of fact, yes, I will. Someone might be able to take my Soldbuch away, but they can't remove that Tattoo without taking the Arm, and that would be kind of obvious. I'll be glad to get that done and over with.»
«Then you will go, right after this.» Mannheim's eyes gleamed, and he added, «Don't keep your Escort out too late afterwards; I would prefer you to be back in time for evening Appell, so you might eat tonight with your Men. You have not seen them all Day, and I believe that Newkirk and LeBeau will be leaving us soon for their homes.»
Now Hogan was confused. «But, General, I saw Newkirk's paperwork today. It'd been returned, like all the rest.»
«Not to worry, Rob,» Mannheim replied with a smirk. «If he cooperates, he will be back in England by Christmas. Do not say anything to him yet, in case my Plans fall through. But this is what I intend to accomplish, and the Englanders can just stuff it up their stodgy…» He paused, considering that what he'd intended to say wasn't in the least diplomatic and was not becoming his dignity as an officer and gentleman. He looked again at Hogan. «You, Rob, are a terrible Influence on me. But finish now; you will have more Time to spend in Düsseldorf that way.»
"Jawohl, mein General," Hogan replied, swallowing the last of his now-tepid coffee and rising to his feet. «I am ready.»
Weber rose also. «I will find the Stabsfeldwebel, mein General.»
«Very good,» Mannheim concurred, pleased. «You may ask him for me, then, and arrange a Driver and Vehicle for Rob.
«You know what is required; come by my Office on your way out…No; you have the Badge; there on your sleeve. The Artist may use that for his master Copy. Have a pleasant Afternoon, Rob.» He rose also, returning to his own work and throwing Hogan out on his own.
He could still run, Rob thought briefly, but he quickly discarded the notion, knowing it was unworthy. He'd given his word; if he wouldn't break it to save his life, he surely wouldn't betray Mannheim's trust now. He'd worked too hard to earn it. With one last sigh, Robert Hogan turned for the door also, to meet his latest escort.