It can get awful boring around Stalag 13 sometimes. I know that we have a more exciting life than a lot of POWs, what with all the people we help get out of Germany, not to mention the sabotage the Colonel organizes. But there's still plenty of afternoons when we're out in the compound, just trying to find stuff to do.
It's hot again today; reminds me of a summer day back home in Oklahoma. It's too hot for basketball or volleyball, and we can't play baseball because the Kommandant made Schultz confiscate the bats for two weeks after Carter put a ball through his office window last week. Carter's not that bad a hitter—actually, he's pretty good, a guy you want on your team if you can get him. The Colonel just wanted him to do it as a distraction for a job. But we're still living with the consequences Klink decided we deserved as punishment for the broken window. Doesn't matter this afternoon, though: I don't want to be running around bases.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and wonder if I can come up with a reason to go down in the tunnels, even though the Colonel doesn't want us down there when we aren't actively working on required jobs. But it'd be cooler underground than it is up here. We're all in just shirtsleeves, except for Newkirk who has stripped down to his undershirt. My best buddy Davis is off on laundry detail with LeBeau and Carter, and I'm wondering if volunteering to help them might be a good idea. At least you cool off some if you get wet.
"Want a game of horseshoes, Newkirk? Barnes?"
I look up at Kinch, surprised at being included in the invitation. I'm not usually someone he socializes with, partly because he's often busy with the operation, partly because I'm buddies with Davis while he's close to LeBeau and Carter and Newkirk—and Colonel Hogan. Kinch even plays chess with the Colonel in his quarters. But this afternoon I guess he's just bored like the rest of us.
So Kinch and Newkirk and I start a game of horseshoes. There's a nice pit laid out on the side of our barracks, between us and Barracks 5, and we're all taking our turns pitching the four horseshoes. Newkirk's been having a run of luck.
"Could you possibly try not to hit every single one?" Kinch gripes, watching as yet another of Newkirk's horseshoe settles around the stake with a hard dink, his third ringer in a row.
"Lady Luck doesn't only smile on me during card games," Newkirk answers, a satisfied smirk on his face.
Colonel Hogan wanders out of the barracks, just as Newkirk rings a fourth horseshoe around the pole. The Colonel has also left his jacket off, and he has his sleeves rolled up above his wrists. He rolls his eyes when he sees Newkirk out of his uniform shirt.
"I see you've managed to get your shirt off," the Colonel says, shaking his head as he watches Newkirk dust his hands off on his trousers. "Again, I might add. Didn't I mention that to you just a couple of days ago, Newkirk?"
"The wool in my turtleneck hasn't gotten any lighter or cooler since then, and neither has the afternoon sun—sir," Newkirk says, shrugging a little, like the Colonel isn't a colonel who can give him orders but is actually just an ordinary guy. He's not exactly disrespectful, but not really respectful either. I don't know how he dares; I can't imagine talking that way to any officer, much less a full bird colonel. But Newkirk does it all the time, though usually he tacks on a "sir" at the end of his sentences when he's talking to the Colonel.
And like usual the Colonel doesn't call him on it, just shakes his head with a little grin, folds his arms and leans back against the barracks. So maybe that sort of thing isn't really important to him, like it is to other officers? But still, I wouldn't dare talk like that to Colonel Hogan.
I see Schultz lumbering across the compound towards us. He pauses to watch the game too, as Kinch tosses a horseshoe . . . and just misses the pole. Well, close does count in horseshoes, but it doesn't match Newkirk's four ringers. Kinch puts his hands on his hips and glares at the pole in exasperation. "Can't throw worth anything today," he mutters.
"I know how you feel," I sympathize. "Everything's been going wrong for me today too. I feel like I'm in some kind of a bad radio show."
"Yeah, well if that's the case, whoever wrote this episode should die," Kinch grumbles.
"Ach, horseshoes," says Schultz, paying no attention to Kinch's annoyance. "I wish we had thought of this game when I was a boy. The blacksmith lived nearby our house, and we could have gotten the horseshoes and stakes easily."
"You Germans could take a note from the English," Newkirk tells him. "This here horseshoes game is just a corruption of the noble game of quoits, and that makes it British through and through."
"Nonsense," LeBeau says, coming around the corner of Barracks 2 to stand next to Newkirk. "With a name like 'quoits,' it must be French."
"Horseshoes has got to be an American game," Kinch protests indignantly.
"It was invented by a little old lady from Leningrad," the Colonel teases, grinning.
"Hmph," Schultz snorts skeptically, then chides us, "None of you really knows."
"Here, you try," Newkirk says to LeBeau, offering him a horseshoe. "We can play in teams, Europeans against Americans: you, me, and Schultz against Kinch, Barnes, and Colonel Hogan. How's that?"
"Nein, I cannot play games with prisoners," Schultz says firmly, and Colonel Hogan declines to play too. So it's going to be Newkirk and LeBeau against Kinch and me.
LeBeau takes aim and tosses the horseshoe. It circles neatly around the stake, provoking a groan from Kinch and me.
"Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Newkirk beams, putting his arm around LeBeau's shoulders, as Kinch and I stare dourly at the stake, which seems to magnetically attract Newkirk's and now LeBeau's horseshoes—but not ours. "I'm the luckiest man I know," Newkirk continues, "but Lady Luck smiles on you too, my friend."
"Nowhere near as lucky as the luckiest man I even met," Colonel Hogan says from his spot by the barracks. "Although he was English too."
"Who was that, sir?" Newkirk asks with some interest for once.
"Sir David Grahame Donald," the Colonel answers, and I swear I see Newkirk's eyes actually bug out of his head.
"You actually met him, sir? In person?" Newkirk actually sounds awed, which is not what you'd ever expect from him. Whoever this guy is, he must be really impressive.
"So what'd Donald do that makes him so lucky?" Kinch asks. The game has come to a halt as we all look at Colonel Hogan and Newkirk expectantly.
"He was an RAF pilot in World War I," the Colonel says. "Actually, he was even flying back in the Royal Naval Air Service, before they consolidated it with the Royal Flying Corps and renamed them the Royal Air Force. I met him while I was in London during the early part of the war—this war, Newkirk," he interrupts himself, forestalling the joke he sees Newkirk is about to make. Newkirk's been giving him little digs about his age since his birthday a few months ago. "I was a little young for the first one."
Newkirk smirks; apparently being close to joking counts in his book almost as much as actually making one does. Kind of like in horseshoes.
"So," the Colonel continues his story, "one night during the Blitz there was a big raid when Donald and I were both heading to a meeting in central London, and we wound up down in the same air raid shelter with a few young soldiers, including his driver, a private named Edgar Teagle. Just a kid, really. We had a few bombs drop close—I mean, really close—to our shelter, and we lost power. Right in the middle of the raid Teagle lost his nerve, couldn't stand being underground in the dark. He lit a match and was about to light this candle he had in his great coat pocket; he carried it with him because he was afraid of being in the dark, I guess.
"Of course the last thing we needed in there was a fire. Donald stood up and told the kid, 'Put the candle back,' with a real no-nonsense tone, and Teagle obeyed him. The kid started to apologize all over the place, and Donald just told him 'Don't worry. If we don't go crazy once in a while, we'll all go crazy. Especially when you're in a tight spot in a war. So just sit tight, son.'
So we sat there in the dark a bit longer, and then we heard another round of bombs coming. Teagle asked, 'You ever go crazy back in the Great War, sir?' and we could hear the panic in his voice starting again. So Donald just laughed and said, 'I've been living on borrowed time since 1917. This is nothing compared to that.'"
The Colonel pauses and I realize we've all drawn near him, even Schultz.
"Tell us, sir," Newkirk pleads. "I want to hear it from someone who heard him tell it. You must remember it."
Colonel Hogan shakes his head, and for a moment I think he means he won't tell us the story, but then I realize he's just marveling over what he remembers.
"Oh, I'll never forget that yarn. Donald told us when he was a pilot back in the summer of 1917 he was practicing maneuvers in a Sopwith Camel one afternoon and trying a new loop up at 6,000 feet. Just at the top of the loop, when he was hanging upside down, his safety belt snapped—and he fell out of his plane. No parachute, of course, because the brass back then thought giving pilots parachutes would encourage them to abandon their planes when hit, rather than try to land them."
The Colonel rolls his eyes at such idiocy, and I try to imagine what it'd be like to be up in one of those old planes that was mostly just canvas and wood . . . and then to fall out of it. The idea is just terrifying. So is a policy against parachutes for airmen! I remember clinging to mine after my plane was shot up, praying the flack wouldn't rip through and destroy it before I got to the ground. I knew that however dangerous getting caught might be, I was still going to be safer on the ground than heading toward it from the air, even with a parachute.
Kinch says, "He must have been pulling your leg, Colonel. He couldn't have survived a fall like that, not without a 'chute."
Colonel Hogan scratches his head. "Well, I had my doubts too at that point in the story. But I still remember how he described that fall, word for word, and it sounded believable enough. I asked him how it felt to realize he was falling to earth and he answered, 'At the beginning of the fall, I'm too frightened to be scared. The first 2,000 feet pass very quickly and terra firma is looking damnably "firma." But as I fall I begin to hear my faithful little Camel somewhere nearby. Suddenly I fall back onto her.'"
"You're kiddin' me," I say to Colonel Hogan, too surprised to even think of speaking respectfully.
But the Colonel just chuckles again, pleased with the success of his story, I guess. "Apparently, the joystick was still in position to keep the Camel on target for the loop he'd started, and Donald fell right onto the plane's top wing. He had to hold on pretty tight to keep from falling off again or slipping into the propeller, no easy matter on a plane that's heading down at 140 miles an hour. He eventually hooked the joystick with his foot, got himself back into the cockpit, and brought the plane under control, with only about 800 feet to spare, then landed easy as you please, according to him."
Colonel Hogan looks up at the sky, deep clear blue today with just a few fluffy clouds to decorate it, and after a moment, he adds softly, "I asked him how that felt afterwards, to fall like that, thinking you're going to die, get that surprise second chance, and have to fight so hard for it. He told me, 'After an event like that, it's the simple things in life you treasure. Things like just standing on the ground."
We're all silent for a little bit, thinking about that astonishing story.
"You believed him, Colonel? That whole incredible tale?" Kinch asks, still doubtful. "He wasn't just making it up?"
The Colonel shrugs. "It sounded believable the way he told it, and he'd been telling the same story for a couple dozen years from what I learned later. So yeah, I think it was true. Those old school RAF officers—my impression is that they'd rather cut off their arms than tell a falsehood. And it was a mesmerizing story. So much so that once he'd finished it we all realized he'd kept our attention so well that we hadn't noticed that the raid must have ended too—no bomb noises left. Then we heard the all-clear siren and got up to head out. Teagle apparently wasn't the only one who wanted out fast: a couple of the men collided in the doorway. Donald just barked at them, 'Gentlemen, you can't fight in here! This is the War Room!' So we all laughed and climbed up to street level to survey the damage and try to get back on track.
"There was a lot of smoke in the air, and we were looking over the local damage when Private Teagle came over to me and Donald. He apologized to both of us for nearly losing it during the raid. Turns out that just before he'd gone on duty he'd gotten a telegram that said, "E.T., phone home." He didn't know what it meant, what kind of emergency was going on with his family, or when he was going to get to find out. He said that worry was partly what set him off during the raid, thinking he might never find out. Donald just nodded and told him, 'Stand firm and carry on, Private. Do your duty: your family would want that, no matter what.'
"We were cutting through a little park to see if there was anything left of our staff car, one of the nice squares London's good at—"
"Mostly in the posh bits," Newkirk mutters sullenly. Colonel Hogan ignores him, lost in his reminiscence.
"—and it had a little pond I remembered going by as we'd run for the shelter before the raid. I looked at it as we headed toward the car, and there was some kid's little sail boat floating in the pond, abandoned, with a big hole through the sail and the little rudder torn off. Must've been a piece of flak or something that went through it. As I was staring at it, a big gold carp swam past. All that bombing and wreckage, and that fish was just swimming peacefully, not bothered by it at all, calm and carrying on with its business.
"Just then a boy ran up to the pond, couldn't have been more than five. He was crying as he leaned over the pond and scooped up the boat. 'My boat, Mummy!' he sobbed as his mother came over. 'It's all smashed!'
"So Private Teagle knelt down and asked him, 'Do you come to this park often?'
"The kid looked at him through his tears, apparently impressed with his uniform, and said, 'We come to sail my boat and see the goldfish.'
"Private Teagle looked back at the boy and said, 'I'm sorry about your boat. But the goldfish is safe—see! We can fix the boat. If flak was going to hit something, it's a good thing it wasn't the goldfish!'
"The boy looked at the fish Teagle's pointing to and smiled, just a bit. Teagle told him, 'That's too small a boat for a big boy like you. You're gonna need a bigger boat. I think I've got one at home. I don't need it any more. Why don't you give me your name and address, and I'll get that boat to you.' He looked up at the mother, who was fighting her own tears at that point. She nodded and he wrote the information down, then we went on to the car. Donald said quietly after we got in, 'Well done, Private.'
"Donald told me later that Teagle's home had gotten bomb damage in the raid the previous night—that's what the message that had him so worried was about. Donald gave him leave to go check on his family. Fortunately, they were okay and the damage wasn't too bad. He even got the boy his boat too." The Colonel pauses, then muses, "Last I heard, before I was shot down, Grahame Donald had gotten knighted by King George and promoted to Air Marshal. He deserved it. He's a good man."
The Colonel stops talking, and we're all quiet again. After a few seconds, the Colonel pushes away from the barracks wall and shrugs, like he's shaking the story off. "Guess I got carried away in my memories," he says, a little apologetically.
"It is a good story," Schultz says, and I hear some sadness in his voice, "but speaking of duty, now I must get back to mine." He looks depressed as he plods off back across the dusty compound. Well, I guess that's natural. It was his side that Donald was fighting against, in two wars now. I bet Schultz is tired of war.
Kinch and Colonel Hogan leave next, when the Colonel suggests that they need to go over a supply list for London. That leaves just Newkirk, LeBeau, and me.
Newkirk's putting his blue turtleneck back on, which he'd left folded on a wooden box we sometimes use as a seat. "Not really in the mood for horseshoes now, somehow," he says, looking around vaguely.
I wonder if he's thinking about his own home in London, and all the bombings. He and LeBeau have been here a lot longer than any of the Americans. LeBeau comes over to him and puts his hand on Newkirk's shoulder.
"Why so glum, mon ami," he asks cheerfully. "Le Colonel told us a good story, non?"
"Yeah, it was that," Newkirk admits, but he sounds kind of reluctant about it to me.
Apparently LeBeau picks up on that too, because he asks, "Then what is bothering you about it?"
Newkirk shrugs. "I was just thinking about Air Marshal Donald and Lady Luck."
"So?" LeBeau asks.
Newkirk pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and takes a long drag. "Hearing a story like that . . . well, it's just kind of like finding out your best girl is stepping out with someone else, that's all."
ooOoo
Author's Note: The story of Air Marshal Sir David Grahame Donald's fall out of his plane and recovery from it are true—at least, he insisted on it for the remaining 55 years of his life. Like Colonel Hogan, I'm inclined to believe him from what I've read about him. Aside from the introductory line about being too frightened to be scared, which I borrowed from the contest requirements, the quotation about his fall ("the first 2000 feet," etc.) is really his, though I changed his recorded verb tense from past to present to make it match the contest line I used to lead into it. The account of his meeting with Hogan and Private Edgar Teagle during World War II is totally my own invention and is not intended to bear any resemblance to any real or fictional person. I have loved Hogan's Heroes since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy. I acknowledge their ownership and that of Bing Crosby Productions and intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story.