The Queen of Night

Newly promoted Lt. Col. Elena Schmidl looked up from her work to see her secretary place a Meissen coffee service on her desk. She glanced over to the clock on the wall. It read 8:30. "Thank you, Bauman," she murmured. She went back to the files spread before her as Bauman retreated from the cavernous office with the giant portrait of Der Furher behind the colonel's desk.

Pouring some of the steaming liquid into a delicate porcelain cup, Schmidl, a small woman with a short bob of salt and pepper hair over a still, serious face, contemplated the file before her. It concerned a suspected underground unit being run from inside a prison camp near Hammelburg. The evidence so far collected suggested that the camp was a way station for escaping Allied prisoners, as well as the home of a band of saboteurs who had blown up practically every bridge, train trestle, tunnel, and convoy within a 15 kilometer radius.

She reached over and pulled out a photograph of the ringleader--a handsome, dark-haired American colonel smiling brashly. Between sips of real, luscious coffee, Schmidl remarked aloud, "I doubt you'll smile so broadly, when I come to interrogate you, Robert Edward Hogan, former commanding officer of the 504th bomb wing. We know all about you and your little operation. All that remains is to close in on you. And by the time I'm done with you, you surely won't look your 36 years. In fact, your mother in Connecticut won't recognize you." She gave a tight-lipped smile as she set her cup down and reached for her phone to order her car.

HH HH HH

Unbeknownst to Col. Schmidl, at that precise moment, the usually elegant, graceful Col. Hogan tripped over an exposed tree root and fell headlong into an icy creek. The shock of the cold water practically propelled him backwards. "Of all the stupid things…," he spluttered, trying to shake himself dry.

Sgt. James Kinchloe tried not to smile, but couldn't quite restrain himself. The colonel looked and acted like a wet, indignant cat, particularly with his black hair plastered to his forehead and almost in his eyes.

The colonel caught the small smirk and growled, "You think this is funny, do you?"

"No, sir." Kinch suppressed his merriment and remarked seriously, "We'd better get you back to camp before you freeze to death." This December night was cold and raw, and the wind made it worse.

Before Hogan could respond, their demolitions expert, Sgt. Andrew Carter, cried out, "Gosh darn it!" Hogan and Kinchloe looked at each other before crouching next to the lanky sergeant. Whatever it was, it was serious. Carter seldom swore like that.

"What's the matter, Andrew?" asked Kinch.

"The detonators are defective." He always brought extras. Just in case. "They looked fine when I inspected them earlier, but now I see they're no good." He made it sound like it was all his fault.

"Well, that scraps this mission." Hogan clapped him on the shoulder. "Back to camp, gentlemen."

"Wait a second, Colonel. You'd better get out of that wet jacket and turtleneck." Kinchloe had heard Hogan's teeth chattering and was stripping off his army field jacket to hand to his CO. "I'll make it back to camp better than you will, sir."

Hogan didn't argue with his radioman—just handed him wet clothes after wrapping himself in the still warm jacket.

Fortunately, they were less than a mile from camp. Kinch pulled the tunnel lid down and heard Carter yell to Corporal. Louis LeBeau, the outfit's French chef, "Hey, Louis, you'd better get some hot coffee down here. The colonel's all wet." Kinch groaned inwardly. He figured the colonel was going to be the butt of some serious teasing as a result of this misstep.

HH HH HH

Magic Flute, a small, slight Welshwoman with black hair and eyes, surreptitiously looked around her. The room was dark, and nothing moved. She turned back to her mission: stealing weapons designs. These included newer rocket designs. She moved silently to the wall, removed the genuine, but stolen, Rembrandt, and cracked the safe behind it. Quickly rifling through the various papers, Magic Flute found what she sought: a thick roll of rocket designs.

Something caught her eye. It was an itinerary for Field Marshal Dieter Marck. Oooh, she thought. Getting rid of him had been the sticky part of her swan song, but here he was right on the silver salver. His demise would throw the Gerrys in a tizzy, particularly if it looked like a Gestapo execution. She shook her bobbed hair. She was getting ahead of herself. She closed the safe, took the designs and itinerary, and quickly, quietly disappeared into the night.

HH HH HH

Morning dawned pale and chill with the threat of snow hanging in the air. Despite the fact his men had trundled him into bed wrapped in warmed clothes and blankets, Hogan began the day feeling cold and unwell. The day progressed, and the cold sank deeper into his bones, causing him to shiver uncontrollably at moments. By evening, when the snow began to fall in earnest, a pounding headache above his eyes added to his miseries, made him truly cross. After watching the heavy snowfall for several minutes, he slammed the window shut with a bang. "Well, this certainly takes care of our attempts on that bridge," he said to no one in particular.

"We couldn't do anything about it anyway, sir. We've got no reliable detonators, and our supply drop from London isn't until tomorrow."

Hogan glared at Carter. Reasonableness when his head was pounding was too much. But Kinchloe cut off his sharp retort. "And with this weather, that has been cancelled." He looked up at Hogan. "More good news, Colonel. London really wants that bridge blown. In addition, we're supposed to make contact with an agent codenamed Magic Flute, and work with her on getting stolen rocket plans to England." He paused to take a breath.

Corporal Peter Newkirk, RAF, snarled, "And they'd like us to 'ang the wash on the Siegfried Line while we're at it?" He shook his head while others snickered. "They're bloody daft, they are."

"Well, here's the best part. We've got to help Magic Flute assassinate Field Marshal Dieter Marck." The radio man handed Hogan the clipboard.

The colonel studied it for a moment. The agent would contact them using the prescribed code. Who made up these codes, he thought, and not for the first time, either. London had clearly gone off the deep end with the query, "I go to Salzburg for the Mozart Festival" to be answered with "I go to Vienna to visit his grave." Couldn't they have at least thought of something else? Mozart had no known grave. Hogan tossed the clipboard on the table and rubbed his aching temples with both hands, eyes closed. "Kinch, contact the Underground. See if they can help us out with a couple of detonators."

"I can try and rig something, Colonel. Of course, it won't be reliable, and I'll have to bird dog it carefully."

Sighing gently before opening his eyes, Hogan said firmly, "No, Carter. It would be too dangerous." He fixed the demolitions expert with a stern gaze. "Your chances of being spotted by a patrol would be very high. Too high for me to accept."

"But, Colonel…."

"Don't 'but, colonel' me. My word's final on that." Carter nodded affirmatively. "Besides, in case of disaster, how would I ever explain it to Kommandant Klink?" Let alone your mother, he added silently.

"You could always tell him I'd been playing with my junior chemistry set."

It was silly, but it got a small smile from Hogan who picked up his coffee mug and retreated to his office.

HH HH HH

Newkirk ground out his cigarette before reaching for a deck of cards. "Is it my imagination, gents, or do we have an ill colonel on our 'ands?"

Carter sat down. "I don't know if he's sick, but he's sure got some headache. He hit me up for 3 APCs just about an hour ago."

The Frenchman sat down next to Newkirk and accepted a handful of cards. "He needs to stay in bed for a few days and rest." The little corporal looked at the other guys.

"If you think we're going to tackle the guv'nor in is condition, you're barmy, mate." Newkirk stared at his cards a moment. "Look, Louis, we all know what a nasty temper 'e's got when 'e's tired. 'Ow much worse do you think it'll be now 'e's feeling poorly?"

Kinch reappeared at the table. "Deal me in, Peter." Carter looked meaningfully at him. "No luck, Andrew. Underground can't help us."

Carter got up to pace around the room. He stopped and announced, "Okay, guys, I've got a plan."

"Oh, brother," moaned Newkirk.

"You haven't heard it yet. The bridge can be blown the old-fashioned way." Blank looks all around. "Without a proper detonator, dynamite can still be blown using a squib of gunpowder between the sticks. A length of gunpowder treated cotton string becomes the fuse."

"Andrew, you've gone 'round the flamin' twist. You of all people know how dangerous that is."

"Yeah, and that's why I'm going alone." He brought up the heavy artillery—those earnest, begging blue eyes of his. "Look, if I do the bridge, that's one less thing the colonel has to worry about. One less thing London's gonna to hound him about."

"Yeah, and if you blow the bridge, he's gonna have your head for disobeying him."

The Englishman shuddered. "I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but I'm with you, Andrew." He groaned as he looked at his cards. "When do you want to pull off this little trick?"

"Tomorrow night. The snow's too thick tonight. Besides, I have to make the fuse lines."

"We'll leave that to you, André. For us, we will see to it the colonel rests."

Newkirk protested. "You see to it, mate."

Kinchloe nodded vigorously in agreement.

HH HH HH

It was almost time for morning roll call, and Hogan had yet to emerge from his room. LeBeau nervously summoned up the courage to beard the lion in his den. Cautiously opening the door, the Frenchman peered in. Hogan, stepping into his trousers, turned and said, "Do you mind?" His voice was weak, and it was clear from his pale face that sleep had mostly eluded him. LeBeau closed the door as Schultz started yelling for roll call.

The men lined up in the cold, gray morning light, snow lightly dusting them. As Schultz started counting, he realized that Hogan was missing. "Where is Colonel Hogan?"

Sgt. Kinchloe, looking at LeBeau for confirmation, responded, "He's coming, and Schultz, he's sick."

Newkirk muttered, under his breath, "And a sick colonel's no peach."

The kommandant waited impatiently. Colonel Wilhelm Klink, stood huddled in his overcoat. He was anything but pleased and recognized immediately that his senior POW was missing. Before Schultz could say anything, the kommandant railed, "Where is Colonel Hogan?"

The barracks door opened. Hogan tried to sneak to his place. Klink spotted him. "How nice of you to join us this morning, colonel." He dripped sarcasm. "Don't tell me. You slept in this morning."

The American officer summoned up enough energy to respond, "Actually, I was just late getting dressed for the party."

The kommandant, with his riding crop tucked under his arm, rushed gracelessly up to Hogan, getting nose to nose with the POW—who sneezed right in Klink's face. Achoo. The men started laughing and stamping their feet. "Great answer, colonel" one of the men hooted. Achoo. Achoo.

The kommandant yelled, "Dismissed" and turned on his heel, scurried away without giving a backward glance.

Once inside, Hogan coughed and reached for a cup of coffee, only to be handed a cup of tea. He took a giant swig of it and made a face. "What do you call this swill, Newkirk?"

"Tea, sir, and you should have plenty of it."

"Yeah, right. And you're trying to kill me?'

Before Newkirk could respond, Kinch said, "Colonel, go back to bed. There's nothing to do until Magic Flute contacts us, and after this morning's performance, Klink's not going to bother you." Hogan tried to demur, but Kinch went on. "Have you seen yourself this morning? You look awful."

"Mon colonel, you're pale, but your eyes are fever-bright. You're sneezing and coughing. Go back to bed and rest."

"Sleep the thing off," agreed Carter.

Hogan shook his head. "All right. I'll go, but," he pointed a finger at LeBeau, "if you come near me with a mustard—or Bernaise—plaster, corporal, you'll be flying to France courtesy of a size 10." Grimacing, he set the tea mug down and went to his own bunk.

LeBeau looked in few minutes later, saw Hogan sleeping, tiptoed in and pulled up the colonel's blanket. He put a hand to Hogan's forehead. Quietly, he left.

Kinchloe asked, "What's the verdict?

"I don't care what the colonel says. He's sicker than he's willing to admit. He has a fever, his breathing's ragged, and he gets that mustard plaster."

"And how are you going to get him to take it?'

"You're going to sit on him."

"What makes you think I am going to help you in this project? Getting the colonel to go back to bed was relatively easy, but he meant it about the plaster. And frankly, I don't feel like getting court-martialed. Or sent to the Russian Front."

LeBeau shook his head. "He won't court-martial you, and he can't send you to the Russian Front."

Carter, who'd been looking out the periscope, yelled, "Wow! Would you look at that!"

"What is it, Andrew?' asked Newkirk wearily.

"Gestapo. Heading for Klink's office."

"Oh, good. 'Appy 'Arry 'ochestter is it?"

"No. It is somebody I've never seen. A woman colonel."

That got the men up and looking out the door. "She'd be an attractive bird, if it weren't for that ruddy undertaker's outfit." Newkirk paused before adding, "We really should have a listen."

They quietly entered Hogan's room, plugged in the coffee pot, and listened to the conversation.

HH HH HH

In his office, Klink brooded. He was furious with Colonel Hogan, but Schultz had informed him that the American was ill. Sill, that didn't excuse the bad manners, which was really so unlike Hogan. At his worst, the younger man was insufferably impudent. He certainly didn't behave like a prisoner. Far from it. He acted like he ran the place. But he didn't behave like a boor. Sneezing in my face, Klink fumed silently, was utterly unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.

Fraulein Hilda opened his office door and intruded on his thoughts. "Herr Kommandant, Gestapo to see you." The lovely blonde was clearly nervous.

Klink had barely risen from his chair when a small, serious-faced woman with gray-streaked black hair strode in. This was a new Gestapo officer, one he'd never seen before. She straight-arm saluted Der Furher.

Clicking his heels together, Klink returned the salute less formally, flipping only his hand up. He began to fuss nervously. "How may I help you? I am always ready to help the Gestapo in anything." He gave her an ingratiating smile.

The woman handed him her papers and said, "Lt. Colonel Elena Schmidl."

Klink saw her age listed as 42 years. Except for the hair, she didn't really look it. In fact, she was very attractive—slim figure, perfect complexion, lustrous dark-eyes. Klink felt he could lose himself in those eyes. What was it Hogan said? Oo la la la? Very definitely oo la la la. He returned her papers.

Softly, as she delicately removed her gloves, she answered his question. "I am here to arrest and interrogate Robert Hogan."

Blinking in surprise, he stumbled for a response. "But Lieutenant-Colonel Schmidl, he's a prisoner. What could you possibly want with him? It's not as if he goes anywhere." Klink tried to make light of it. "Are you here to teach him some manners or cure him of his insufferable gall?" His attempts at humor fell flat. Schmidl pierced him with a malevolent gaze. He quickly caved in, whining, "Yes, yes. I will have him brought here right away."

"Have him taken directly to the cooler. And then we will have lunch, no? I always prefer to question on a full stomach."

HH HH HH

Newkirk broke the silence. "Blimey!…."

"Pull the plug on the coffeepot." They turned around to stare at Hogan, who swung himself into a sitting position and reached for his jacket. Kinchloe took care of the pot.

"This is what we do. They arrest me, and you don't wait for me. You get out of here." He looked at them very seriously. "Do not let your loyalty get the better of your common sense. And that's an order."

He sneezed as two guards broke in and grabbed him to drag him off to the cooler.

HH HH HH

Several hours of twiddling his thumbs and trying to sleep later Hogan finally met the lady who'd ordered his arrest. Just looking at her caused his heart to skip a beat. She was stunning, particularly her curveous legs. Controlling himself, he stood up—and looked down on her. He was a foot taller than she. To cover his own nervousness and attraction, Hogan thrust his chin at Klink, right behind her, and quipped, "So, they let midgets in the Gestapo these days, Herr Kommandant?" He yelped in pain as she drove her heavy shoe heel into his arch.

"I am Lieutenant Colonel Elena Schmidl, and I tolerate no wisecracking from MY prisoners."

Hogan sat back down, rubbing his foot. She'd nailed him pretty effectively. "Do I get to know why I am here or are you just going to shoot me?" he wheezed at her.

"I will ask you some questions," she drew her pistol, "and then I will shoot you." She stepped toward him, and Hogan thought for one, awful moment she did mean to shoot him. But, surprising him, she rounded on Klink and the guards, gun still drawn. "I will interrogate this prisoner personally. And alone." To Hogan, Klink looked as if he might protest, but decided against it. He and the guards left. "I'll call when I'm finished."

Hogan decided to attack. "All right, lady. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Schmidl reholstered the Luger, and said, in a decidedly British accent, "I can see how you run this place. You must have Klink around your little finger." Hogan stared at her in disbelief. And sneezed. Achoo. Pause. Achoo. Achoo. He reached for his handkerchief without success. She handed him her lacy one. "Sorry about the cold, old man. If I'd known you were ill, I'd have made other arrangements." Her British voice was sweet and friendly, with an almost musical lilt. She sounded genuinely sorry for his distress.

"Who are you?"

"I go to Salzburg for the Mozart Festival."

Dark brown eyes widened even further before the voice coughed out, "I go to Vienna to visit his grave." Hogan stifled the cough, adding dryly, "Wherever it may be."

She giggled. "You caught that one, too?"

"You're Magic Flute?"

"The one and only." She moved closer to him. He backed away with self-preservatory discretion. Or so he thought. She paid no attention. "Time is of the essence. I have the schematics of the new rockets. London wants these right away." She looked at him. "I am sorry to have frightened you, but I have been in the Gestapo--and stealing information—for several years now. You can get away with many things if only you snarl and threaten a bit. I wanted Klink well away and out of my hair to tell you this."

"Right."

"Don't trust me? I don't blame you, really, but I don't have time for games. The rest of the plan goes like this. Elena Schmidl has her own interrogation techniques. First, a little preliminary pummeling, then some careful, considerate treatment, during which time Schmidl stares silently at her victim. It works—if you don't know it's coming."

"Good cop, bad cop routine in one person."

"This evening, I will have Klink arrange for you to have a hot bath and a good supper in his quarters. You'll play chess under my watchful eye until late into the evening when a call from headquarters will force my return to Berlin. Your man Kinchloe—General Kinchmeyer, I believe—can say anything he wants. After I leave, your men will attack my car on the road back to Hammelburg. It will be blown to bits, and it will very much seem as if Schmidl has met her fate. You get the papers then."

"You want out?" Hogan's ears were burning.

"I have no choice. Both Hochstetter and Feldcamp are suspicious. Schmidl seems always to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—at least from their perspective."

"So they've been digging."

"It's only a matter of time before they blow my cover."

"So you lead them right to me and my men. Thanks a lot, lady!" Hogan's indignation would have carried more weight if he hadn't ended it with a fit of coughing.

"They have got a very good idea of what you've been up to. I took the liberty of rewriting the file on you. It bears only the slightest resemblance to reality. And if I follow my routine, Klink, and even you, will tell the right story."

She gave him no warning before socking him right in his sore nose. Her ring caught him in the lip, cutting it.

"Ow!" Hogan was used to getting kissed, not slugged, by beautiful women. He jumped up to get away from her, but didn't get out of arm's length—and harm's way—before she put the butt end of the Luger just under his right kneecap, dropping him like a steer. The lights went out for Hogan as she brought down the pistol on the back of his neck.

Putting a couple of well-placed kicks to the ribcage, Magic Flute/Schmidl finished her interrogation. She called for the guards.