AUTHORS NOTES: This story was written in 2000 and has not been significantly rewritten. Any resemblance to stories written by other authors since that time is purely coincidental. I am attempting to edit to correct spelling and grammar errors as much as possible, considering my lack of talent in that area. I do not have a beta. If anyone out there would like to volunteer please email me privately.

Most of this story is rated K however one section is very violent and would raise the rating to T. That section will be posted in a separate chapter with a very clear violence warning. Those readers finding the violence distasteful may skip that chapter and go on to the rest of the story. The following chapter will contain a short non-graphic synopsis to maintain continuity of the story.

This is a copyrighted amateur publication for the enjoyment of fans. This copyright covers only original material and in no way intends to infringe upon the rights of the holders of copyrights, trademarks, or other legal rights for the Hogan's Heroes franchise. With the exception of Private Tiptoe, all characters in this publication are fictional and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. Private Tiptoe was patterned after the real life Ken Tipton, who was the minister of music at the church I attend when this story was written. Private Tiptoe appears with Rev Tipton's permission.

This story is a spin off of Mel Hughes "Dress Rehearsal" based on Eva Seifert's "Theater of War" series. Several characters and situations in this work were created by Mel Hughes and appear with her permission. No material in this publication may be reproduced in any manner without the expressed written consent of the creator of said materials.


Chapter 1: The Bait is Set

December 1942

LONDON, ENGLAND

It was one of the darkest times humanity had ever seen. Bit by bit, Germany under Nazi rule had taken over Europe to the point a total German occupation of Europe seemed eminent. Half a world away, the Japanese attacked the United States on its own soil, arousing the sleeping giant that was now infusing support into Great Britain, the one remaining European country that had not fallen to Hitler's mad quest for world dominance. With the near constant bombardment of Britain by the German Luftwaffe that one remaining free country was showing signs of weakness. Hitler's evil regime had to be defeated no matter what the cost, but how? What would it take to defeat the Nazis? This was the question pondering all the great minds of the free world in Allied Headquarters in London when a message was received from an allied intelligence agent operating in Germany. It read, "Germans highly advanced in BW(1). Need expert assistance in Düsseldorf. Hot Potato." Hot potato was code for "urgent — right away." An Axis biological offensive campaign was one of the most feared threats of the war. This latest report from Germany struck fear into the hearts of more than one allied intelligence officer. It was a hot topic of discussion within the Allied intelligence community.

"Where did this information come from?" queried Mike Anders, an operative for the US Office of Strategic Services (OSS).

"It came by way of a British SIS(2) operative code named 'Pretzel'. Pretzel is a good man," replied Colonel Alistair Wembley(3), a short, pudgy, bald British Intelligence officer with a bushy black mustache and an abrasive personality.

"Maybe, but what does it mean? What does he need? The message seems kind of cryptic," mused Anders. When it came to espionage, the British certainly seemed to know what they were doing. All the intelligence Anders had seen from the British had been top notch, so the vagueness of this message bothered him.

"Pretzel says the Germans are mounting an all-out offensive in biological warfare. We must act on the information," Wembley stated firmly.

"Wait a minute! Where does it say the Nazis are mounting an all-out offensive? All it says is that the Germans are highly advanced in biological warfare. Highly advanced could mean anything from they have found an effective vaccine for typhoid to they have found a way to mass-produce the common cold. It's too vague to make inferences from!"

"Pretzel says he needs expert assistance, so we will send in one of our top biologist to assess the German effort and determine a way to destroy it."

"Send a top biologist to do what?" shouted Anders. "Get himself captured or killed! You are jumping the gun on this. Even if this message is on the level we still don't know what kind of 'expert' Pretzel needs. We may send in a biologist when what he really needs is …is… a pilot!"

"Nonsense," chided Wembley, "This is biological warfare we are talking about, which can only mean that they have perfected some biological means of mass destruction. The only possible help he could need would be someone to bring back the pertinent results and determine how to sabotage the effort, in other words, a biologist."

"Not necessarily," argued Anders. "IF there is advancement, and that's a big if, it could be in the delivery mechanism."

"A delivery mechanism is just a bomb. There's nothing revolutionary about bombs."

"Yes, but a bomb works based on an explosive mechanism, an explosion generates heat, heat kills bugs, and dead bugs are useless! If the Nazis have developed a delivery mechanism that doesn't generate heat, Pretzel could need the assistance of an engineer." Anders could feel his blood pressure rising. Wembley seemed to have that effect on people. As Mike's boyhood friend would have said, his Irish temper was starting to show. Only problem was, Mike wasn't Irish.

"Poppycock! Pretzel needs a biologist, so we send in a biologist," contended Wembley.

Wembley was one of those narrow-minded, by-the-books, desk jockeys whose idea of field work was to go down to the corner pub for tea! He must have bought (or more likely, talked) his way into his rank because otherwise he doesn't know his head from a hole in the ground, thought Anders. Well, I guess every group has one.

"I agree we should send somebody in," Anders rebutted, "but not a biologist, not yet. This should be a reconnaissance mission. Once we have the facts, then we can send in a biologist if the situation warrants it. Right now this whole thing sounds suspicious. I just got back from Germany and I've seen no evidence that the Nazis are mounting any kind of offensive biological effort. As a matter of fact, Hitler is very much opposed to offensive bio(4) and he's not putting a whole lot of emphasis on defensive bio either."

"And just what makes Hitler such a trustworthy source?" retorted Wembley with a snort.

"He's not, but unless one has a vaccine or a treatment for whatever the biological agent unleashed upon the enemy, casualties among friendly troops are going to be just as high as among enemy troops. Hitler knows this, as does most of his general staff. Even his pro-offensive officers are taking Hitler's anti-offensive proclamations very seriously, which indicates to me that he means business. Besides even if the Nazis were mounting an offensive bio effort, why Düsseldorf? It would make more sense to locate it near Lüneburger Heath. Then they would have access to the Raubkammer Proving Ground. All I'm saying is I think we need to check this out a little before we do something we might regret later," replied Anders.

"But," Wembley added, "Düsseldorf has a prisoner-of-war camp nearby, and prisoners make excellent test subjects for biological experimentation."

"It's against the Geneva Convention to use POWs in human experimentation."

"Where does it say that?"

"Article 2: 'They must at all times be humanely treated and protected…'(5)"

"It doesn't explicitly state 'no experimentation on POWs', therefore that article doesn't mean a thing."

"Experimentation on humans does not constitute humane treatment."

"Humph," snorted Wembley, "Hitler doesn't even treat his own people humanely. He can hardly be expected to treat prisoners humanely."

After much debate, the decision was made to send agent Goldilocks to make contact with Pretzel and assess the situation. "Goldilocks" was the code name for a group established earlier in the year as a processing center for downed flyers or escaped prisoners. This group was based out of a German POW camp located near a small village called Hammelburg (not to be confused with the town of Hammelburg located more centrally in Germany). The camp was close to the city of Düsseldorf in western Germany. Recently, Goldilocks ventures had begun to broaden into the sabotage and intelligence arena, a thought which made what little hair Wembley had bristle.

"Goldilocks."

A thought from another life made Anders grin. Growing up he'd had a friend he used to tease with that name, because unlike Anders, his friend was about as far from the Goldilocks stereotype as one could get. Robert was tall with brown eyes and jet-black hair. In fact, Robert looked more like Papa Bear — which made it even more fun to tease him with the "Goldilocks" name. Of course Robert, always one to have the last word, usually retorted with the nickname "Soot Head." Anders was tall and blond with blue eyes. Both Mike and Robert were handsome in different ways, and they loved to compete for the attention of the neighborhood girls. Funny, Mike had not thought about Robert in years. He wondered what Robert was doing now.

Anders wrenched his mind back to the Düsseldorf problem, but decided it would be a good idea to find out more about this prisoner-of-war camp. What was it, Stalag 13? While Hitler may be anti-bio, Himmler certainly was not. Despite the evidence, Anders had to consider the possibility Himmler might be secretly setting up to perform biological experimentation on humans despite the Geneva Convention. As much as he hated to admit it, Wembley did have a point about POWs making excellent test subjects. He should probably check on this Pretzel character as well. For some reason he had a very strange feeling about all of this.

WESTERN GERMANY

"Goldilocks, we have reports that the Germans are mounting an all-out offensive in biological warfare. One of our agents, code-named 'Pretzel,' is in your area. He has requested a meeting for 2300 hours tonight at the abandoned farmhouse on the Cologne road two kilometers south of your area. Meet him and relay any information he has on the German biological effort back to us immediately," ordered Mama Bear.

Mama Bear was the code name for the London Headquarters from which Goldilocks received their orders. Colonel Wembley was on duty.

"Orders acknowledged," replied Goldilocks. "What type of effort do the Germans have going and where?"

"We haven't a clue, old bean. Since it is in your area, we were rather hoping you could tell us."

"Sorry, old bean," mimicked Goldilocks. "We have seen no evidence of Nazi activity in biological warfare in our area, nor has any been reported by any of our local contacts."

"Well, our man says it's there," quipped Mama Bear. "You chaps are going to have to be more alert if you expect to make it in the intelligence world. Meet Pretzel, find out what's going on, lend any and all assistance he may require, and report back. Mama Bear, out."

Amateurs thought Wembly as he signed off. It had been a pure mistake giving an assignment this important to a group of rogue flyboys who just happened to get lucky a couple of times. Prison was where they belonged. Too bad the Germans didn't maintain a tighter control over their POW camps. He just hoped they didn't manage to get too many real agents killed while playing their "spy games."

"Will do. Goldilocks, out," responded Colonel Robert Hogan as his radioman, Staff Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe, broke off the connection.

"More alert! What does he mean 'more alert'?" shouted Peter Newkirk, a skinny British Royal Air Force Corporal, angrily, "Tell me, who was it that got the information on the new Tiger tank(6) for them."

"Yeah, and who stole their silent aircraft engine,(7)" retorted an equally angry French Corporal, Louis LeBeau.

Explosives expert Sergeant Andrew Carter started to add his two cents worth, "And who…"

Hogan was trying to think, but having problems drowning out the noise. "Pipe down!" he ordered, "We have more important things to worry about."

"Biological warfare… that's pretty nasty stuff," said Kinchloe, known to his friends as Kinch. "Do you think any of it is on the level, Colonel?"

"I don't know," mused Hogan. "I hope not, but I intend to find out. Tonight!"

Hogan's thoughts troubled him the rest of the day. Conventional warfare was horrible enough, but biological warfare was worse, much worse. Each person infected by a bacterium or virus carried by a biological weapon would continue to infect others long after the delivery mechanism had done its work.

Hogan was reminded of an incident from his childhood. His next door neighbor and friend, Timothy Sonntag, was one of a brood of thirteen children. One day one of the younger kids came down with the chicken pox. Consequently, Timothy's father refused to let any of the kids go to school or let anyone come over to see them. Hogan and Timothy had to cancel horse back riding plans and Timothy wasn't even sick! Hogan thought the old man had flipped until a few days later when the disease spread like wildfire through the rest of the family. Suddenly Timothy's father was the smartest man in the world. Thanks to Timothy's dad, Hogan and half the town managed to escape the chicken pox. The memory made Hogan shudder. The thoughts of some deadly disease like typhoid, cholera, or the plague running rampant over a population like the chicken pox had over his friend's family sent cold chills down Hogan's back. He had to find out what the Germans had going and stop it!

* * *

"You want to do WHAT?!?!" Hogan shouted at the private standing before him in his office. Hogan was still disturbed by his earlier conversation with London. This wasn't helping any.

Undaunted by the glare of his commanding officer or rise of tone in his voice, Private Ken Tiptoe replied "I want to do something a little out of the ordinary for Christmas this year. I want to put on a program I call a Living Christmas Tree."

"And just what, may I ask, is a 'Living Christmas Tree'?" retorted Hogan, arms folded across his chest, glaring at the private as though he had grown a second head.

"Well, sir," Tiptoe began "A Living Christmas Tree is where a choir presents a program while standing on tiered risers built so that as you go up each riser gets shorter in length until the last riser is a point. When you get all the people on it, it looks like a tree."

Hogan struggled to visualize the concept. "And where are you going to put this thing?"

"Tree, sir," Tiptoe corrected.

"Tree," Hogan continued, "Where are you going to put this tree? Where are you going to get the risers? And just how are you going to make this thing look like a tree?"

"We will put it in the rec. hall, sir, and as for the rest, we'll wing it. We'll work it out as we go along. Don't worry, sir, it'll come together. You'll see."

In exasperation Hogan shouted, "May I remind you private, that this is a prison camp? It's not Carnegie Hall. There are only two weeks until Christmas! How do you expect to pull off something like this in two weeks?" This type of behavior was typical of Tiptoe. He always waited for things to fall into place at the last minute. Hogan would have almost bet somebody had to push him out of his burning airplane before it was too late.

"Well, as you know, sir," Tiptoe began, "Some of the other prisoners and I have put together a camp choir and we have been working on some Christmas songs. Johnson's great with design and he can build the risers. Petersen is wonderful with costumes and, of course, I'm a fantastic director." At this Hogan rolled his eyes. "The camp is full of creative people," Tiptoe went on enthusiastically. "We can make it work. I know we can. Besides, Christmas is such a hard time for prisoners what with the war, not getting to be with their families and not knowing when they will ever get to go home again. In some cases, not knowing if there will be a home to go to once the war is over. It's a tough time. Something special might help brighten Christmas for a lot of the guys."

Tiptoe had found Hogan's soft spot. Hogan sighed. "Ok, I'll ask Klink to let you do a show."

"It's a performance, sir, not a show."

"Whatever," replied Hogan as he let out a breath. "I'll get Klink to let you put on your… your… performance."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you very much!" exclaimed a gleeful Tiptoe. "You won't regret this."

Tiptoe nearly bounced out of Hogan's office. Hogan was sure he was going to hit his head on the rafters on the way out. Tiptoe was known around camp as "The Right Irreverent Reverend Ken Tiptoe" among those who could pronounce the word "right" as Tiptoe did with his native Tennessee drawl. To the rest, he was the "minister of harassment." Tiptoe had received his draft notice on the day of his graduation from seminary, exchanging a minister of music position for a bomber's position.

In the three months Tiptoe had been in camp, he had more than earned his nickname. Tiptoe had an acid tongue and a quick wit, which he never hesitated to use on anyone in camp regardless of race, creed, religion, national origin, or rank. The tongue of Tiptoe struck everywhere and everybody. No one, but no one, was exempt. Tiptoe's teasing was never meant to be belligerent and rarely did anybody take offense.

In Hogan's opinion, the person responsible for putting Tiptoe in an airplane should have been shot for treason. Planes and flying were Hogan's passion in life, and Tiptoe was the biggest imbecile he had ever seen at anything the least bit technical. Putting a technical incompetent like Tiptoe anywhere near a plane was criminal! Tiptoe was the only person Hogan had ever seen who could burn out a light bulb just by turning on a switch. Even the usually mild-mannered Kinchloe refused to let Tiptoe within 100 yards of the radio room.

Despite his technical incompetence, Tiptoe had one redeeming trait: he had a real gift for counseling people. As senior officer, Hogan was responsible for the welfare of the men in camp. While he had no problems making sure the men were treated humanely, he had never been comfortable dealing with personal issues, not even his own. With Tiptoe around, he didn't have to. Since the camp had no official chaplain, Tiptoe had taken on the role unofficially. If a prisoner had a problem, it wasn't unusual to find him at Tiptoe's door. Tiptoe had a way of saying just the right thing to make a person feel better. Oddly enough sometimes it was actually the manner in which he picked on the person that did the trick. That one boggled Hogan's mind. Tiptoe's heart was just as big as his mouth. If a prisoner was sick it was usually a race as to who would get to his side first, LeBeau with his chicken soup or Tiptoe with his prayers. Usually Tiptoe won simply because one doesn't have to cook prayers. Hogan had to admit, Tiptoe's willingness to take on the task of helping the men deal with their personal issues had made his life a lot easier.

Later that day Hogan approached the camp kommandant, Wilhelm Klink with Tiptoe's idea.

"Colonel Hogan, I have a lot of things to do before I leave tomorrow, so state your business and get out," muttered Klink without looking up.

Hogan acted surprised.

"Oh, you are going somewhere? Not for long I hope. The old stalag just isn't the same without you."

"You know as well as I do, I'm going on a well deserved leave. I'll be gone a week."

Then Klink looked up and shook his finger at Hogan as he warned, "And no funny business out of you while I'm gone!"

Hogan feigned hurt as he said, "Kommandant, I'm shocked you would even think a thing thing like that!"

"Yeah, yeah," replied Klink going back to his work. "What do you want?"

"The men would like permission to put on a 'Live Christmas Tree'," said Hogan matter-of-factly.

"What!?"

Klink jumped up from his chair so fast Hogan thought he was going to make himself dizzy. On the other hand, how could a dizzy person get dizzy? Maybe he would just make himself normal. Now that was a scary thought.

In his best snake oil salesman voice, Hogan replied.

"Some of the men would like to put on a show for Christmas."

A pause, then Hogan rolled his eyes to look at Klink and with that sweet and innocent look that usually meant he was up to something, and said slowly.

"A Live Christmas Tree."

"And just what, Colonel Hogan, is a 'Live Christmas Tree'?" ask Klink in a sarcastic tone meant to put Hogan in his place which, of course, Hogan ignored.

"Well, it's where we go out, find the biggest tree we can find and plant it in the middle of the compound. The chorus climbs the tree and sings Christmas carols while standing on limbs in the tree dressed like ornaments," replied Hogan in a singsong tone of voice that could usually lull Klink into anything he wanted.

"Hogan, that is utterly ridiculous!" replied Klink. "I'm busy. Dismissed."

Hogan hastily added, "Ok, — how about we dress Schultz in green, decorate him, and let LeBeau stand on his shoulders dressed like an angel."

Exasperated Klink yelled, "Colonel Hogan, stop wasting my time! If your chorus wants to do a show they can do it in the rec. hall. Now out! OUT! Before I have you thrown in the cooler!"

"Yes, sir." replied Hogan adopting a more serious demure as he simultaneously saluted and made a hasty exit.

Hogan grinned as he left Klink's office. Since being captured there was nothing Hogan enjoyed more than annoying Klink. Hogan had barely made it out the door into the compound when he was met by Tiptoe.

"So, Colonel. What happened? How did it go?"

"Fine. You can have your show," replied Hogan.

"Performance," corrected Tiptoe.

"Performance," Hogan repeated absent-mindedly, not interested in arguing semantics, his mind refocusing on the horrors of biological warfare.

"Good, by the way I'm going to have an orchestra. Would you like to play the drums from the top of the tree?" asked Tiptoe with a grin and made his own hasty exit as Hogan gave him a look that told Tiptoe if he said one more word he was in for a court martial.

First London, now Tiptoe, the day was deteriorating rapidly. What else could happen?

COLOGNE, GERMANY

"Colonel," addressed the black-clad captain "We just received word. The meeting has been set for 2300 hours tonight at the abandoned farm north of here. The contact's code name is 'Goldilocks'."

"Good," replied Colonel Emil Gottfried. "Have two squads of men assembled and ready to move out at 2200. You will take one squad and approach from the north side. I will take the other and approach from the south. Hide in the woods out of sight until I give the word, then move in quickly, surround, and take him before he has a chance to get away."

"Jawohl, mein colonel," responded the captain as he saluted then turned on his heels and marched away.

Gottfried smiled. Soon the key to all the secrets of the allied biological program would be in his hand. And Gottfried knew how to use a key!


(1) BW - Biological Warfare

(2) Special Intelligence Service

(3) Monkey Business

(4) Military slang for "biological"

(5) Articles of the Geneva Convention 1929

(6) Hold That Tiger

(7) Psychic Kommandant