A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.
Written as an entry for the 2014 Short Story Speedwriting Challenge.
It's also in response to a challenge posed by Book 'em Again and echoed by konarciq: to write a story about a German who is NOT an Allied sympathizer. The story takes place shortly before the events of "German Bridge is Falling Down".
First line is from "Tuttle's A Series of Highly Unfortunate Events", by Tuttle4077.
There were quite a few things in life that he knew not to do.
He knew he must never question authority. He knew he must never forget to send the Gauleiter the first harvest of his potatoes. And he knew he must never voice any doubts of Germany's eventual glorious victory.
But lately, the most important thing he knew was this: he must never ignore droning noises overhead. Even in his sleep.
Not again.
Oh, no, not again.
The unmistakable rumbling of bombers approaching woke Jürgen, and he lay still for a moment in his lonely bed, hoping against hope that it was only thunder in the distance. But it only took a moment to realize that another air raid was in progress, and Jürgen did the only thing a farmer could do in this situation.
He flung back the covers and winced as his bare feet hit the cold floorboards. He stood up and reached for his trousers, fumbled for his socks and boots, and in a matter of moments was clattering down the steep and narrow stairs to the kitchen. His woollen coat hung from a peg near the door, and he grabbed it, shrugging his shoulders into the garment even as he headed out the door.
It was dark, the moonless, overcast dark of midwinter; but Jürgen didn't hesitate as he crossed the farmyard to the stable door. Once inside, he reached blindly for the lantern that always hung near the entrance, and the scratch of a match was heard briefly before the wick flared into light.
All of the farm animals had been gathered into the snug stable for the night, and Jürgen held the lantern high as he went from stall to stall, making sure that all was well.
The hens were snuggled down in the straw in a corner of the stable, and they barely stirred as the lantern light swept over them. The sheep and the cow, too, were quiet. The pig was more restless, and he shifted uneasily as the rumbling overhead intensified.
"Shush-shush," Jürgen said, and the pig flopped onto his side and closed his eyes.
In the next stall the old plow horse was on her feet and swinging her head toward Jürgen as he came near. He reached up and scratched between her ears. "Never mind, Schatzi," he told her. "It will be over soon."
He could only hope that he had spoken the truth. The Adolf Hitler Bridge was only a kilometer away, and lately this bridge in the middle of nowhere had become a target for the Allies. Perhaps it was because of its name: it had once been known simply as the Braunstadt Bridge, until the city fathers of Braunstadt decided to name it after the new Führer. It had originally been a minor viaduct over a branch of the Franconian Saale: picturesque indeed, with Schloss Saaleck visible in the distance, but not a much-used structure.
Which had been just the way Jürgen liked it: little traffic to bother his livestock, but conveniently close by, enabling him to easily reach Braunstadt on market days.
Now, of course, things had changed. The massive military buildup had caused the quaint stone bridge to be enlarged and reinforced to handle heavy armored traffic. And that, no doubt, was the reason the bridge was so tempting to the Allied bombers. More than once over the last few weeks the Allies had attempted to destroy the bridge.
No longer were the long winter nights quiet and undisturbed. No longer could Jürgen and his livestock enjoy a good night's rest.
If those same bombers had been at all effective, though, the bridge would have been out of action long since and Jürgen's farm and his animals would now be left in peace. But so far, the bombs dropped by the Terrorflieger had meant destruction only for Jürgen's farm, leaving the bridge intact. The fields that had once stretched to the riverbank in an unbroken carpet of green were now scarred and cratered from the explosives dropped from the sky.
If only that damned bridge weren't so close by! Jürgen would gladly take a longer route to Braunstadt on market day if only that bridge were gone. If only...
He sighed and sat down on a nearby bale of straw. How much more could a man take? His only son had been killed on the Russian front last year. Just a few months later his Johanna died in her sleep; the doctor could not give a reason, but Jürgen knew very well that his wife had died of a broken heart.
Now he was alone, except for this besieged little farm and the animals entrusted to his care.
The noise overhead grew ever louder now and the rafters of the old stable shuddered. Dust sifted down upon the occupants of the structure and Jürgen found himself clinging to one of the sturdy posts that supported the roof. His heart was pounding and his hand shook as he reached out to set the overturned lantern upright before it could set fire to the loose straw.
He got to his feet again and looked around at his animals, all of whom were awake and restless now because of the thundering noise that seemed to press on them from all sides. Their heads were turned toward him, and their eyes were as trusting as ever. His throat tightened and tears came into his own eyes.
Jürgen couldn't control what the war was doing to his farm. There was nowhere to hide, and no way to protect these innocent creatures. They were his friends, all he had left in the world, and he grieved over their probable fate.
But if an Allied bomb found its way to this stable tonight, at least they would not die alone.