I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story.
Written for the Short Story Speed-Writing Challenge.
The trick with the coin doesn't work, of course; I'm not that irresponsible.
"I've looked up the timetable, and there's a grand total of two trains a day going to Mole...Mull...Moll... "
The speaker paused to squint at the map spread across the old wooden table, directly below the paraffin lamp which illuminated this corner of the stable where he had been in hiding for the last few days. Finally, with the bright smile of a son of the British Empire determined not to show embarrassment in the presence of foreigners, he indicated the place with one finger. Leaning forward, the younger of his two companions studied the troublesome word for a moment, then said curtly, "Molenbeek."
"That's the place. I must say, Dubois, I don't see why you French johnnies can't come up with sensible names for your towns, instead of having so many jolly old tongue twisters."
Lieutenant Dubois, formerly of L'armée de l'Air Française, folded his arms. His eyes, under heavy brows, began to smoulder. "Molenbeek is in Belgium, not France."
"Dash it all, man, I know that," responded the Englishman, bristling to the very ends of his moustache. "I have an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of what's what on the Continent. Why, when I was at prep. school, I was always at the top of the class in geology."
Dubois let it go. In the four days since he'd first met this imbécile of an RAF officer, he'd learned how pointless it was to argue; the only results were a nagging headache and a vague suspicion that the edge of disaster lay only a few centimetres away.
"Now, as I was saying," Colonel Crittendon went on, "if I take the early service, which leaves Hagendorf at 7.15 a.m., I should arrive at Mollybeak around midday. Just in time for an early lunch." He laughed, a stilted, unmistakably English laugh, but neither Dubois nor Karl saw the joke. "Then from there I can catch the train to Ostend which leaves at 14.22, which in proper time is...let me see...divide by twelve gives me one, carry the two...well, never mind, I'll do the calculations later. The point is, once I get to Ostend, it should be easy enough to commandeer a fishing boat, and sail away back to jolly old England."
A brief, uneasy silence followed, before Karl cleared his throat and suggested tentatively, "Would it not be safer to go to our friends at Stalag 13, and have them make the arrangements for your escape?"
"Good heavens, no," retorted Crittendon. "Stalag 13 is east of here. I need to go west, if I'm going to make it back to Blighty. Why, with a bit of luck and a good sailing breeze, I should make Ramsgate by Friday night, have the weekend to make my report and get a change of clothes, and be back on duty first thing Monday morning."
He finished on a note of serene confidence. His companions didn't share it, but as the senior officer - Karl was a civilian, and didn't count - he had the upper hand. As it happened, Dubois had reasons for keeping him away from Stalag 13; but that didn't mean he'd go along with a plan so obviously doomed to failure, without at least trying to minimise the risks. "I advise against taking the early train, Colonel," he said. "Travelling during daylight hours is always dangerous. If you must take this route, it would be wiser to go on the night train."
"Oh, do you think so?" Crittendon picked up the timetable. "It's just that the night train connections are rather inconvenient. I'd have to change at Ghent, and again at Bruges, and it's frightfully confusing, trying to find the right platform in a foreign language."
"For most people, oui. But surely not for a man such as yourself, mon Colonel, a man of superior intelligence, a man who keeps his head no matter what happens." Even as he spoke, Dubois's conscience gave him a hefty kick; but he ignored it. As every Frenchman learns in his cradle, lying to the English is not a sin.
Crittendon took the words at face value. "By Jove, you're absolutely right. Funny how a chap sometimes underestimates himself. The night train it is. That leaves at...let me see..." He consulted the timetable again. "21.07, so that's... twelve minus twenty-one works out to...No, wait a minute..."
"Seven minutes after nine," said Karl, his shoulders drooping. Even such a seasoned Underground operative had no defence against what Dubois was starting to think of as l'effet Crittendon.
"Doesn't sound right. Still, I daresay you'd know, being a Jerry and all. No offence intended, of course," replied Crittendon. "I don't suppose there's any chance of getting away tonight, is there?"
Dubois's jaw tightened. "It is already past midnight. You have missed the train by more than three hours."
"Oh, bad luck," said the Englishman. "Tomorrow night, then. After that, it's all stations to Ramsgate, what?" He paused briefly to contemplate the glorious prospect, then cleared his throat, and went on. "Yes, well, if that's all, chaps, I could do with a good night's sleep before I set off."
"Of course, Colonel. Bonne nuit, et dormez bien." Dubois gave a crisp salute, and left, with Karl trotting anxiously at his heels.
"Maurice, what are we to do?" he asked in a plaintive tone, as soon as they were out of earshot. "Helping Allied airmen to escape is Colonel Hogan's mission, not ours. Besides, this plan is insane. Why not just knock him out and deliver him to Stalag 13 so they can deal with him?"
"Two reasons, mon vieux," replied the Frenchman. "Firstly, he outranks me, so I must follow his orders as far as possible. And second, Colonel Hogan is a friend of mine, and I would like to keep it that way. We have done all we can."
"But he will be recaptured before he even reaches the Belgian border."
"In which case, they will send him back to Stalag 16, where he belongs," said Dubois grimly. "And that will be of far greater benefit to the Allies than if he makes it back to England."
A thin yellowish mist lay over the streets around the Bahnhof, filtering through to the platform, where it entwined with the banks of steam from the locomotive at the platform until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
"Bracing, isn't it?" Colonel Crittendon drew a deep breath, and clapped his hands against his ribcage. "It almost feels like I'm already in London."
By a monumental effort of will, Dubois kept his cool, although he couldn't refrain from giving a warning: "Colonel, if anyone hears you speaking English, it will be a long time before you see London again. You must be careful."
"Naturally, old boy. Don't worry, they won't catch me out that way. Ever since I was first captured, knowing how useful it would be for my escape, I've made it my business to perfect the art of blending in. Once I'm on that train, by George, I'll be indistinguishable from any ordinary German."
There was no safe answer Dubois could give. The man looked so hopelessly, irremediably British in his borrowed Luftwaffe captain's uniform, with a copy of the local newspaper folded under his arm, and an attaché case in his hand. The military correctness of his bearing didn't help at all. Allowing him to carry out his cherished escape plan seemed about as conscientious as letting a small child run with scissors.
The brief silence which followed was broken by Karl: "The train is due to leave in three minutes. Perhaps you should board now, Herr Colonel."
"I suppose I should. Well, chaps, this is goodbye for now," said Crittendon.
"For now?" Karl's voice quivered with apprehension at the implied threat.
"Well, naturally. Our forces will be advancing all over Germany any day now, and I wouldn't miss that for the world. So keep your chin up, and I'll be back before you know it." He saluted, turned on his heel, staggered slightly as the motion made him dizzy, and marched off to board the train.
"Do you think he has any chance at all, Maurice?" asked Karl.
Dubois sighed. "He has his identity papers, a military rail pass, a newspaper he cannot read, and a packet of cheese sandwiches. What could go wrong?"
Even as he spoke, a movement in the mist further down the platform caught his eye. Before it had even registered in his consciousness, the finely honed instinct of a long-term fugitive had him taking cover behind a pillar, dragging a startled Karl with him. The impulse proved to be sound, when the hazy figures resolved into the forms of two men. One was an SS soldier; the other, in a fawn raincoat and a black fedora, and sporting a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, might have been a civilian, but for the obvious deference of his companion.
"Gestapo?" whispered Karl.
"So it seems," replied Dubois softly. For a few seconds, as he watched them board the train, he debated with himself. His better nature won; but it was close. "We cannot allow the Gestapo to take him. I will board the train, rescue him, pull the emergency cord to stop the train, and jump. You must bring your car along the road that runs parallel to the railway, and pick us up. Go quickly, Karl, there is no time to waste."
Turning a deaf ear to the protests on Karl's lips, he ran across the platform, and leapt aboard. The door slammed behind him, and a few moments later, with a shuddering jolt, the train moved off. There was no going back now.
Crittendon had found himself an empty compartment; a stroke of good fortune which gave him just as much pleasure as if he were a lad of twelve, heading off back to dear old St Mel's at the beginning of term. But his solitude was unlikely to last, so he made sure of the window seat, facing the engine.
He was surprised at how comfortable the compartment was, although a little shabby, and already growing frightfully chilly. He rather wished he'd been able to bring some cocoa, but his friends (dash it, they were friends, even if they were foreigners) hadn't been able to lend him a thermos. Still, he had sandwiches, and a little flask of brandy, so he wasn't so badly off.
He wondered if he should have a sandwich now, just to tide him over. But before he had come to a decision, the door of the compartment slid open, and he found himself under the scrutiny of a rather underbred-looking type in a brownish coat and a perfectly appalling hat. The chap looked around the compartment, then said, "Entschuldigung, sind diese Plätze frei?"
If he had not gestured towards the empty seats, Crittendon would have had no idea of what the blighter was saying. He certainly couldn't manage a coherent reply, but he gave a constrained smile, and made a few vaguely positive noises. It seemed to be the right response, as the man promptly took possession of the other window seat. Unfortunately, he wasn't alone; a hulking brute in SS uniform followed him in, and sat down next to the door.
It was a damned shame. Not only was he stuck with some jolly unwelcome travelling company, but he had an awful feeling that if he started the sandwiches now, he'd feel obliged to offer them round, which would be a frightfully bad show, and probably treason as well. Regretfully, he decided to save his provisions for later, and opened the newspaper. It was in German, but so much the better; if he couldn't understand it, he wouldn't become distracted and let his guard down.
So far, he seemed to have these chaps fooled, but one slip would land him on a very sticky wicket indeed. The important thing was to stay alert.
Dubois made his way along the corridor, not at all surreptitiously. Experience had taught him that suspicious behaviour inevitably attracted suspicion; so he walked from one car to the next like a man who had every right to do so, peering into each compartment as though looking for a seat.
He would have to keep out of the way of the crew, as he had no ticket. With luck, the conductor would allow a couple of stops to pass before he put in an appearance, as often happened on these regional trains. By that time, Dubois hoped to be long gone.
It took him a few minutes to find the right compartment; and his stomach gave a lurch at sight of the other occupants. However, a few moments were enough to reassure him. The Gestapo man showed no interest in Crittendon; he was staring out of the window at the thickening fog, with the air of a man expecting nothing more than a long and tedious journey. Nor did his companion seem aware of the presence of a dangerous fugitive; he was already immersed in the latest issue of Signal.
If only Dubois could get Crittendon's attention, it might be possible to escape without being noticed. He turned his attention to the Englishman.
"Nom de Dieu," he muttered under his breath. Crittendon, with his newspaper draped across his chest, was fast asleep.
That was not the worst part. The real danger would be when he woke up, as he always did, with a cry of Tally ho! or Middle stump! Well played, sir!
The SS man stretched his arms, then got to his feet. Prudently, Dubois withdrew a little way, and stood looking out of the window as the man edged past him and proceeded towards the end of the corridor, where he went into the little cubicle provided for the needs of the passengers. Apparently he expected to occupy it for some time; he had brought his magazine with him.
Dubois's first impulse was to wait for the brute to come out, then overpower him and throw him off the train, but as he considered the risks, another idea came to him.
He approached the door, and quickly studied the occupancy indicator, a standard circular dial, set into a polished brass mount, and operated in tandem with the inner bolt. Dubois scrabbled in his pocket for some loose change, selected a one-pfennig piece, and wedged it between the indicator dial and its outer housing, forcing it down beyond any hope of extraction, short of dismantling the entire fitting.
Then he rapped loudly on the door, to get the occupant's attention.
He wasn't by any means sure this would work. He'd heard of it being done, but like all such rumours, it could only be proven by testing. So he stood back, ready to slip out of sight if the salaud managed to get the door open; and he kept his eyes on the dial. It didn't move; the coin wedged into the narrow gap had jammed it completely, and the deadbolt with it. The door rattled a couple of times, then came the sound of a fist pounding against it, and a shout for help, almost inaudible over the sound of the wheels.
One Boche down; one to go.
Dubois stepped back into the main corridor, but drew back again at sight of the conductor, approaching from the other end of the carriage. If he woke Crittendon to ask for his ticket, the game might well be over. But the conductor, at a staid waddle, kept going straight past the compartments; it looked like he was just passing through. Quickly, Dubois opened the vestibule door and crossed over to the next carriage.
Keeping out of sight as far as possible, he watched through the dingy glass panels as the conductor hove into sight, stopping in his heavy-footed tracks when the increasing racket from the WC caught his attention. For a few seconds, he seemed unsure of how to deal with this variation from routine, but finally he knocked on the door, and spoke to the occupant.
Dubois couldn't hear the reply, but from the conductor's reaction he could tell it was not very civil; and any attempt to release the prisoner was postponed in favour of the kind of reprimand only an affronted Reichsbahn official could deliver.
Now is my chance, thought Dubois, as he crossed the gangway and re-entered the carriage. But it wasn't so easy, First he had to get past the conductor, who was now holding forth on the penalties for damage to government property, taking up almost the entire width of the vestibule and showing no inclination to make way before he had finished his lecture.
"Excuse me," murmured Dubois, with no result.
But someone else, drawn by the commotion, took a more effective hand. A thin, acidic voice cut through the diatribe. "What is going on here?"
The conductor lumbered around, very much in the manner of a beached walrus, to glare at the source of the interruption. "Who are you?" he grumbled.
Before the man in the fawn raincoat could reply, a cry issued from the other side of the locked door. "Herr Kriminalinspektor - Gott sei Dank! Tell this fool to get me out of here!"
Dubois had already retreated. He'd never considered the possibility of getting Crittendon out of this without bringing himself to the enemy's attention; but now, with both Gestapo men otherwise engaged, might be the chance to do just that. He went quickly along the next carriage, entered the first empty compartment, and grabbed the emergency cord.
Bien, ça marche, he thought, as he picked himself up from the floor.
He raced back to the gangway. The passage beyond was blocked by the conductor, lying on his back waving his legs in the air like a tipped-over beetle, with the Gestapo man trapped underneath him. They made a formidable obstacle; a detour would be necessary. Opening the side door, Dubois descended to ground level, his feet sliding on the ballast, and ran to the other end of the carriage, where the door stood already open. He hauled himself back on board, and hastened to Crittendon's compartment, dodging between other passengers who had emerged to investigate and complain about the unexpected stop.
Reaching the right door, he threw it open. "Colonel..." he began; but the sentence died away. The compartment was empty.
He was sure it was the right one, but he checked the next two anyway. No sign of Crittendon; so he returned to the first one. A discarded newspaper lay on the seat, the only evidence of the Englishman having been there.
Dubois stepped back into the corridor. The conductor had righted himself, and stood scarlet-faced and breathless, fanning himself with his handkerchief, besieged by a crowd of angry travellers demanding among other things an explanation, an assurance that the delay was only temporary, and a full refund of their fare. Beyond them, the Gestapo man was also on his feet. His eyes fell on Dubois, and narrowed behind his spectacles, and he started forward, pushing his way through the mob surrounding the conductor.
Crittendon, wherever he was, would have to take his chances. It was clearly time for Dubois to leave.
He sprinted back to the end of the carriage, and leapt out. Landing awkwardly, he staggered, regained his footing, and under cover of the fog, scrambled for the woods which grew close to the railway line. Behind him, he heard a shout, but he didn't stop until he was well under cover and safe from pursuit. Then he leaned against a tree, panting.
"Merde alors," he muttered, through gritted teeth. "Et trois fois merde, et pour cet espèce d'idiot Crittendon, mille fois et plus."
Finally he straightened up. There was nothing he could do about Crittendon, and Karl would be looking for him. He set off at a steady pace; but as the road came into sight, he realised that this night still held one more surprise.
The car was there, its headlights shimmering through the fog. A hazy figure leaning heavily against the hood proved on closer approach to be Karl, looking as thoroughly downhearted as Dubois had ever seen him. But it was the man talking to him who caught the Frenchman's attention, a man with a very correct military bearing, wearing the uniform of a Luftwaffe captain. His eyes lit up as he turned his head and caught sight of his would-be rescuer.
"Dubois, old chap," he burbled. "I wondered where you'd got to."
Perhaps it was some kind of madness, but a spark of relief kindled in Dubois's heart. "I thought you were still on the train, Colonel," he said.
"Well, I was. But it suddenly occurred to me, this plan is no good at all," replied Crittendon, in tones of stern self-reproof. "I don't know what I was thinking when I came up with it, but it's quite out of the question. So as the train had stopped, I took the chance and made a run for it."
Dubois shrugged. "I must confess, I thought the plan was dangerous. From here to Ostend is a long journey, and travelling by train means the risk of being discovered is high. As for crossing the Channel..."
"Oh, good heavens, Dubois, those are minor matters. No, the real problem is Ramsgate. If I make landfall there, I'll have to pay a call on my Aunt Amelia." Crittendon's shoulders gave a slight twitch as he spoke the name, and his eyes closed briefly. "It doesn't bear thinking about. No, I've come up with a much better idea. Hastings, that's the ticket."
"Hastings?" Karl's voice quivered with apprehension. Dubois folded his arms, and in grim resignation waited for what he knew was coming.
"Naturally, old chap. Easily reached by boat from France," said Crittendon. "I'll need to go by train to Boulogne, of course. That's the most suitable embarkation point. So we'd better head back to your headquarters, Dubois, and have a look at the timetable. I daresay, if I leave tomorrow, I could be sitting down to tea with my squadron by Tuesday at the latest." He beamed at his comrades, and turned to get into the car.
Dubois glanced at Karl, and nodded. They would allow Crittendon the pleasure of working out his itinerary for Boulogne and Hastings; but he was not going there. He didn't know it yet, but his next destination would be Stalag 13.
And even if Colonel Hogan never forgives me, thought Dubois, it will be worth it.
Footnote: although Dubois is in the French Resistance, he is shown working with the German Underground in "A Russian Is Coming".