Authors' Notes and Disclaimer.
This story is written parallel to my story, Meanwhile Back in the Tunnel. I mean no disrespect to Colonel Crittendon, just as I meant no disrespect to Colonel Hogan. Crittendon is portrayed as a rather pompous crackpot in the television series, and that is how my Group-Captain Donovan sees him. I wanted to indicate a few of his positive qualities here before I throw them together in my other story.
I don't know if the Air Ministry and R.A.F. Headquarters were housed in the same building, or were even above ground. I doubt that they were, but, for the purpose of this story, they are sharing the same quarters and it is overlooking a park close to Whitehall.
'Hogan's Heroes' is not owned by this author, and she makes no attempt to capitalize from it other than experiencing the enjoyment of writing about the characters.
Rodney Crittendon is referred to as 'Colonel' in the television series, but as this story is set in London, I have referred to him as 'Group-Captain'. Unless I read the table wrong, that is the RAF's equivalent rank to 'Colonel'. I will appreciate corrections.
Group-Captain James Roberts was neither knight not baronet in the television series, nor do we know much about his history from it, other than that he was Col. Hogan's friend and aide to Air Chief Marshal Lord Arthur William Tedder – on handshake terms with Prime Minister Winston Churchill, which would have made him an important person. My version of his past is only my version.
The Secret Dream of Rodney Crittendon
By marylinusca
R.A.F. Headquarters (or Air Ministry) London.
Office of Group-Captain [aka Colonel] Rodney Crittendon
Spring, 1943.
It was the soft clack – thump, clack – thump, of the Venetian blinds gently, and repeatedly, striking the windowsill. That, and the shrill clamour of children's voices. Feeling most aggrieved by the distraction, Group-Captain Rodney Crittendon, Royal Air Force, rose from behind his desk and stomped across the hardwood floor of his office to shut out the breeze. He had paperwork to attend to, requisitions to authorize, plans to submit. How could he win the war with such a din going on?
The scent of flowers wafting into his nostrils arrested his hand on the latch. Deeply inhaling, he instinctively savoured the air like he did a fine wine, seeking to identify every aroma that made up the bouquet. His eyes closed, and his tense body relaxed.
He loved flowers. Loved to look at them. Smell them. Gently touch them. Loved the smell of damp earth and grass and leaves. Loved digging into the soil, and feel it, gritty, crumbly yet slightly sticky, on his fingertips. Loved to anticipate the tender shoots poking out every Spring. To tend them. To watch them rise, grow strong, bloom. Crittendon smiled and opened his eyes, feeling refreshed. There was nothing better for a man's soul than nurturing a plant to maturity.
Parting two slats of the blind with his finger and thumb, he stared down into the park across the street. What a beautiful sight the daffodils were, their yellow heads bobbing gently like gracious ladies. And the tulips – masses of them – from delicate corals to rich plums, from faintest yellows to deep butters. Solid coloured, striped or variegated, tulips were marvellous flowers. Each head felt soft and heavy like a woman's breast cupped in the hand, yet each stem held it upright like a sentry. Tulip bulbs had been priceless in the past – traded like silver and gold. Hoarded like gold in a miser's vaults. They were almost priceless now, due to the war and the Germans' occupation of the Netherlands. They were beautiful symbols of the Hollanders' brave defence of their land, and the Allies determination to win it, and all Europe, back. Fiercely protective of the tulips, Crittendon was glad to see them growing so close to the Headquarters.
The gardeners had not neglected to plant the bulbs the previous autumn; while he was … he coughed …detained outside the country. Crittendon felt a swell of gratitude. Why had he thought they would think planting the bulbs was a waste of effort? He should have known that in war, as in peace, an Englishman and a gardener always knew what truly mattered, and did what was essential.
Gazing down at the flowers, Crittendon imagined that they raised their green leaves to him, imploring him to come down from his 'ivory tower' and be with them. He shook his head with regret, summoned his fortitude and turned away. Duty first. Duty before all.
But he did not close the window.
The polished veneer of his walnut desk reflected the noon sunlight into his eyes. Squinting, he resolutely moved forward, like the soldier he was, but his fingers involuntarily twitched. He wanted to claw up those papers and hurl them as far from him as he could throw them.
What did knowing how many cups of tea were drunk per man in each squadron of Bomber Command matter? Or how much Devonshire cream was consumed? Or how many Darby cakes? What did it jolly well matter?
It was a glorious day in Spring. London had so few glorious days, shrouded in a sulphurous fog half the time and drenched in rain the other half. He should be outside, smelling the flowers. Everyone should, especially now. It would hearten them; give them that extra lift to win victory from the Hun. The colours alone defied feldgrau and black.
There were so few flowers in Stalag XVI, he recalled. Only a wildflower here and there, surviving in half lit, shadowed places. The guards would call them 'weeds' and pull them out, or make the prisoners do it. It was verboten in Sixteen to allow anything to the prisoners that was not expressly permitted by the Geneva Convention – that is, any extra thing that brought them joy. So, the prisoners pretended to ignore the wildflowers, but they saw them, and cherished them. Yes indeed, we cherished them.
He had missed the geraniums most. The first morning he was back in this office, almost the first moment, he worked out the most marvelous scheme for improving the men's morale by planting geraniums alongside the landing strips. He named it after himself: The Crittendon Plan. When the lads came home from their missions and landed amid the flowers, he reasoned, they would know they were Home indeed. It would be like returning to Mother's cottage.
They would find comfort in the flowers too. He knew, because it was a fact of war, that at least one planeload of their comrades would not be returning home with them.
Nothing came of it though. Not even an acknowledgement. Perhaps it went missing in transit. The clerical girls here are very careless sorts, spending more time gossiping than they did at their tasks.
Drat that noise! Where are those children's nannies? Flirting again with the staff officers, I daresay. I'll have every man of them on report for wasting time.
Crittendon strode back to the window, pulled up the blind and leaned over the sill to catch his subordinates in unmilitary behaviour. The flowers stopped him again. Just beyond the lilacs, (Oh, the exquisite scent of lilacs! Like Granny's perfume.) he saw children kicking clods of earth about like soccer balls. Other children were clambering over the fence surrounding a bomb crater, oblivious to the shouts and gesticulations of the lone bobby guarding the site.
His lips curved in an indulgent smile. Little imps. Didn't matter to them there's a war on. Didn't matter that they have to bed down in a tube station or in a tunnel every night, hearing the whine of the bombs falling and feeling the walls shake. So long as they can play in the dirt and sass their elders and betters, they're happy.
His smile turned wistful. To be a boy again, playing 'pirate' or 'Robin Hood' with the village lads, or rugby and fencing at school. How well he remembered the Sunday he climbed the church steeple before matins on a dare, and got a dozen of the best on his bottom from Father – along with Father's proud brag ever afterward that 'My Roddy's all grit from tip to toe'. Oh to be a boy again, and get into all sorts of delightful mischief.
Listening to the boys' raucous shouts, he heaved a sigh. If he closed his eyes, he knew he would hear deeper voices, shouting the very same insults in a variety of accents. If he let his mind drift for even a moment, he would see them – his brave, staunch lads scuffling in some impromptu soccer or wrestling match upon the dirt of Stalag Luft XVI.
The spring sun's rays felt suddenly oppressive. Crittendon closed the blinds, and leaned his hands upon the sill.
You can't have it both ways. Either you stayed penned up with them, or you came back here, as was your duty.
But maybe it was my duty to stay with them. I was their Senior Officer. Who is taking care of those lads now?
He stood there, pensive, feeling the sun's warmth, smelling the flowers and hearing the cries of the children, but he was still in Stalag Sixteen. He supposed part of him always would be, until his lads were free.
Those boys from Stalag Thirteen: Newkirk, Carter, and the little Frenchman … what was his name? Crittendon sought enlightenment from the ceiling. Oh yes. LeBeau. They did provide much needed help. Amazing luck how they got into Sixteen, found him among all the other chaps, and got him out – although he would have eventually managed to escape by himself.
Dashed inefficient of the Germans to manufacture spoons that break under the slightest pressure. Couldn't dig out more than a few square inches of earth with any of them. Not like Sheffield spoons. Crittendon puffed out his chest proudly at this evidence that British was still best.
Funny that Hogan's men had insisted on also taking the French chap that had recently arrived. They said this Gireau was a professional assassin. Why they had to return to Stalag Thirteen to kill someone instead of prudently continuing their escape, he had not been given time to think about before there were alarms and shots and that black giant, Kinchloe, grabbing him from behind and pulling him into their Aladdin's cave of a tunnel. What he saw there still took his breath away. Armouries. A chemist's laboratory. A fully fitted photographic darkroom. A printing press, with each letter of German Schrift type labouriously blocked and handcut. A wardrobe and a makeup room that would put a theatre's to shame. A radio room like that on an ocean liner. How could Hogan and his men, all of them captives, have assembled such an array in so short a time?
Never noticed the tunnel at all the first time I was brought there, which shows how well they kept it hidden.
Even after making allowances for the fact that no civilized Briton expected disciplined behaviour in Americans, he could not condone Hogan's breezy, lassez faire command style. Yet what a jolly good wheeze Hogan had devised, hitting the Jerries where they lived and hiding right under their noses in Stalag XIII, their own prisoner of war camp. Turning the symbol of Allied defeat into Allied defiance.
What a right jolly good wheeze!
But Hogan was a queer customer. Very reluctant about accepting his invaluable assistance, although he did not mind taking that Frenchman, Gireau, into his confidence. Or would have, if the man had not been shot. Stubborn as a mule about doing everything his own way, though he was always chopping and changing. First, he wanted a fellow killed, but he baulked about using a crossbow – the very thing – to do it. Then he didn't want the chap killed. Then he did, and when the time came to do it, it was old Klink in the car – the wrong man entirely. Very sloppy intelligence, that. Hogan should have recognized his own kommandant.
Crittendon poked his fingers through the blinds and looked down at the daffodils again. Then he slowly turned away from the window, still thinking of his adventurous escape. Real cloak and dagger stuff, just like in The Prisoner of Zenda. And that remarkable tunnel. To have not only conceived it, but to have made it a reality. Astounding!
What I wouldn't give to be in Hogan's place! And it would be a jolly good thing for Allied victory if I were in his place.
What was he doing here? His job seemed so petty and humdrum after Stalag Sixteen. Tea and biscuits. Forms and carbon paper. Banal conversation at the club.
They had no idea what he had endured. He drank his morning Earl Grey and ate his ginger biscuits, but his mouth still tasted the pallid tea from thrice brewed leaves, and the scanty rations grudgingly doled out by his captors. He went dutifully to meetings, but it was all talk, talk, talk; akin to being forced to listen to Jerry gloating about the 'glorious victories of the Third Reich'. Different accents, different armies. Same ass's bray.
Crittendon heard the urchins sassing the rozzer on the beat, and he envied them their total freedom to say what they pleased, when they pleased, to whom they pleased.
No one here adopted his ideas. No one considered his suggestions. They just shoved him out of sight and went on with … what? The war? What did they know of the war, sequestered in the Ministry? The only struggle these people had ever had was in prying apart a staple.
Whenever he described his escape, they edged away with feeble excuses. They called him an old bore when they thought he was out of earshot. They didn't believe him – especially about the crossbow. One man even said it was "Amusing, but a rather silly story, old chap. Best not spread it around. Someone might believe you're potty."
Rumour had it though that the fellow was from Special Operations Executive - Churchill's 'dirty tricks' club. Crittendon had been very scrupulous not to say anything about Hogan or his tunnel, but a wink was as good as a nod. A slip of the lip could sink more than a ship when SOE or the secrets boys were involved. Still, it was as close to daring do heroism as he would ever get. He wanted to brag about it. He wanted to savour it the memory of it.
He wanted to go through it again.
Crittendon glanced round at the grey-white plaster walls. It was a perk of his high rank that he had his own office. He appreciated it. In Stalag XVI, only a thin plywood wall had separated him from the noises of the twenty men of lesser rank berthed in his barracks.
It's too quiet here. That's why I can't concentrate.
In the corner was the RAF flag and the Union Jack. There, on the wall facing him, was the picture of the King – God save him – in his Coronation robes.
"A prisoner's responsibility is to escape to the nearest British unit and to return to active duty." What was so active about his duty here?
After carefully brushing a speck of dust off the King's shoulder with his handkerchief, Crittendon surveyed his desk. Clean and tidy as usual. All the papers lined up neatly in order of importance. Blotting paper foursquare in the center. Pens, pencils, inkwell on the right. Eraser on the left. In tray and out tray in the left corner.
He had the space and privacy due to him, but none of the real responsibility.
Whipper-snappers like Roberts had that. What did Roberts have to commend him to Churchill and Tedder? His title? His old school tie - or was it his 'old school ties'? Crittendon permitted himself a sour chuckle at his joke. Group-Captain Sir James Roberts was one of many good-looking baronets milling about London in uniform. An impeccably tailored uniform too, Crittendon thought sourly. Roberts went to the same school as Winston's son. He moved in the same circles as the Mountbattens. Best clothes. Best schools. Best friends. Nothing but the best for the Beau Brummel of the RAF.
Not that he had complained aloud about Roberts. Who would complain about Air Marshal Tedder's aide? Roberts was the most charming man in the Ministry, and the knife that put the butter on Crittendon's bread might stab him if he did complain at the unfairness of it. He was at least as good at Roberts, but who knew it?
Disgusted, Crittendon fingered a sheet of paper. A request from the training base in Scarborough for additional stockings and boots, to replace the stockings and boots worn out due to lengthy marching over rough terrain.
What about the men in Sixteen? Who's trying to replace their worn out boots now? He picked up a pen, initialed the requisition, and dropped it into his 'out' tray.
I never should have escaped. I made a difference to the lads in that camp. He had instituted morning and evening parade after the roll calls, with frequent inspections to keep them clean and calisthenics to keep them healthy. A slovenly soldier was a soldier who would easily lose heart and fall to the enemy. He was not having that. He had given them countless pep talks, instilling his own excellent standards into them by precept and example. For their sakes, he had kept on distantly courteous terms with Kommandant Oberst Bauer, who was far from being a gentleman. How the German officer corps had accepted such boors into its ranks was beyond his comprehension. Poor country. The sooner we defeat them, the better for them. It had paid off in Bauer's grudging leniency toward minor offenders, and in small privileges like an extra hour of light in midwinter or a ration of wine for the sick.
Small privileges that had meant so much to the men. That wine, and that extra hour of light had been almost life and death matters. Getting them had kept despair at bay. They were hard fought victories in the battles of will between Bauer and himself. Making that lout honour the Geneva Conventions had taken every ounce of grit and determination he had, through every waking moment of every single day.
Certainly he'd see that the lads at RAF Scarborough got their replacement boots. All the lads should get their boots, and their butter, and the best of everything. They deserved them. They were fighting the war – or learning to fight it – not pretending to fight it from behind a desk.
Plopping his bottom into his chair, he opened the left hand drawer of his desk and pulled out his copy of Greenmantle. He ran his hand lovingly over the cover. His eyes glazed as he recalled the story. Oh, to be like Richard Hannay – brave, cool under fire, resourceful, as charming as the Devil and as righteous as an angel. The epitome of all an Englishman aspired to. And the adventures! Why could he not have them? Why leave the thrill and the glory to brash Americans like Hogan?
There was a brisk knock on his door. Hastily picking up his pen, Crittendon muttered a gruff 'Come in' through his moustache. The door opened, then closed quietly. A breath of cool, spice scented air wafted into his nostrils. Crittendon looked up at the newcomer and he bit back a groan as his eyes rested upon the tall, cat neat figure of Group Captain Sir James Roberts.
Reluctantly, Crittendon rose to stiff attention. They exchanged salutes – Roberts courteously; Crittendon with a pompous stiffness that indicated clearly he was saluting Air Marshal Tedder's aide, not the man occupying that position – and studied one another.
They presented quite a contrast.
Group-Captain Roberts had the trim physique of a well-bred, well-groomed greyhound. From his brown hair, sleeked back from his temples and darkened by brilliantine, down his superbly tailored uniform to his highly polished shoes, he was indeed what Crittendon had scoffingly called 'the Beau Brummel of the RAF'. Yet, a pair of very keen, shrewd ice-blue eyes belied any impression of effeteness. Roberts wore his rank and title with the nonchalance of a man born to privilege, but he was a man to be reckoned with.
Roberts had just returned from his own enforced sojourn behind German lines He had been warmly welcomed and made much of by Prime Minister Churchill, even by the King. Air Marshal Tedder and his staff could not do enough to cosset him. He looked quite pale and had lost weight, but he seemed none the worse for wear.
Group-Captain Rodney Crittendon, at that moment, resembled the burly British bulldog at his most defensive. He too was meticulously groomed and his uniform impeccable: thick brown hair brushed back from a high forehead, every hair of his guardsman's moustache correctly trimmed and in its proper place, broad shoulders on a body kept firm by vigorous exercise. 'A sound mind in a sound body' was clearly his favourite axiom. Roberts suggested grace. Crittendon radiated stern determination.
"Well? What can I do for you, Group-Captain?" It came out gruff and sulky. Crittendon thought testily that he wasn't going to cater to the new hero of the hour.
The Air Marshal's aide lounged against the desk, but he looked unusually ill at ease. "Actually, old man, I wondered what I could do for you."
"What do you mean?" Crittendon's hackles rose.
"I read your paper about lining the runways with geraniums." Roberts hesitated, and scratched behind his earlobe.
"And?"
"I never appreciated the scheme before."
Roberts sounded sincere, but Crittendon gave him a sullen glare before he cleared his throat. "I thought it had gone missing."
Roberts rubbed his chin, hiding what Crittendon sensed to be an amused smile. "Yes. Well, recent events have made me notice the thoughtfulness behind it. I wanted to say so." He paused, seemingly intent on finding properly mollifying words. His eyes fell on the book upon Crittendon's desk.
"Why?" Crittendon had no wish to be friendly. He found Roberts' free and easy, Americanized manners disgraceful, what one expected in a former member of the 'Fort Belvedere Set' that had enticed the former King Edward from doing his duty. He always felt Roberts was smirking at him behind his hand, and he knew Roberts had referred to him as an 'old fuddy duddy', and a 'late blooming Victorian rose', just because he kept up the standards of an English gentleman.
"We both survived a German prison camp," Roberts said gravely. "Frankly, Group-Captain, after what I've been through, I'm sick of the 'gin and tonic' war that's played here, and I ..." Roberts looked into his eyes. "I want to talk with someone who's been through what I saw."
Studying Roberts' uncharacteristically somber demeanour, Crittendon reluctantly gave his unwanted guest his due. James Roberts was deservedly one of the brightest stars in the RAF. He had charmingly turned his coat when Edward abdicated the Throne, although, again giving him his due, he had always been a staunch friend of Lady Furness, the former favourite, who had been a good influence in her own way, rather than of Mrs. Simpson, a predatory female in Crittendon's estimation. And it was the former King who had shirked his duty, not Sir James. He had redeemed himself so thoroughly that he was seconded to Sir Alan Lascelles, the present King's Assistant Private Secretary, when the latter accompanied Their Majesties on their North American tour. Lascelles had commended Roberts to Churchill as a highly capable, discreet and trustworthy man. Crittendon had to admit that Roberts had not gotten where he was through his connections alone, and he was far from the image of a wastrel.
Crittendon replied stiffly, but not as stiffly as before, "I've felt that wish too, Group-Captain."
"Don't get me wrong. I respect Air Marshal Tedder. It's an honour to serve such a fine soldier. I'll keep playing the kind of 'diplomatic-politics' war we have here in the Ministry and at the PM's Office if it helps us win the real one. But we both have seen the real one, and frankly, I feel dissatisfied with my current lot."
"So do I," Crittendon replied, still cautious and correct. "But I play the cards dealt to me. So should you, sir. Diplomacy takes a lot of skill, but it's as necessary to victory as guns and tanks." Electric light and wine for the sick. Those boys needed them, and I wheedled them out of Bauer. His chest expanded. Yes, it does take skill, and I was skillful.
The glow of pride was not lost on Roberts. Bit of a pompous ass but his heart's sterling. He must have done in his Stalag what Hogan must do in his own – fight for his men's well-being. From what I know about Hogan, and the little I saw of his camp and his Kommandant Klink [what an appropriate name], I'm not surprised he has a completed tunnel. I'm only surprised he did not use it to escape from there long ago.
He raised a mental glass, the latest of many, in tribute to his imprisoned friend. He wished heartily that Hogan could share its contents with him. He longed to thank him and his men for saving his life [and indirectly the Prime Minister's] by springing him from their prison. There had been no opportunity even to say farewell to him. His escape from the Nazis had depended on Hogan diverting the Gestapo's attention away from him to monitoring his German double's 'escape' while the men got him out of their cooler through their tunnel. It had been an interesting experience, impersonating a German who would have impersonated him, but not one he cared to repeat. Apparently, Hogan and his followers had to accomplish such amazing tricks every day.
"I know you can tie Jerry in knots whenever you like, you reprobate colonial, but come back with those men of yours when you've tired of your fun. Come back soon. I'll throw you the party of the century."
Roberts again thought over Crittendon's escape account. Amazing that he got out on his own. I never thought him capable of it. His brow furrowed as he tried to capture the elusive detail in his own escape that had reminded him of Crittendon's. He had thought poor old Crit had told that preposterous tale of breaking into another prison camp with a crossbow merely to make himself look heroic. The embellishment had only made him appear sillier than ever, but… .
He had not been in Hogan's tunnel for more than a few minutes. In under the sink in his cell. Out through a tree stump. But, during those few minutes, a young, fair-haired American sergeant had handed him a Luger. Yes, he had not imagined it. Behind the sergeant, among the guns and ammunition in their arsenal, he had seen a crossbow.
Had Hogan fetched Crittendon from Stalag Sixteen to Stalag Thirteen to shoot a man with a crossbow? Crittendon could never have escaped successfully by himself. Hogan must have engineered it. Roberts knew his friend loved to do the outré, but Crittendon and a crossbow?! We must get you home, old son. We really must get you home.
Still, if true, it showed there were untapped resources in Crittendon.
Roberts nodded to the book. "Greenmantle. Foreign intrigue." His eyebrows rose. "Is that the sort of life you hanker after?"
"I want to serve my country in whatever capacity she believes me fit," Crittendon replied stiffly.
"But you think you're wasted behind a desk, authorizing supplies of tinned beef and submitting plans no one adopts."
Crittendon maintained his silence.
"Flowers to welcome returning heroes. You've got imagination, old scout." Roberts paused. "I thought I'd never see home again." His voice caught. "I can't tell you the details, but, if it wasn't for a brave, smart friend, I never would have seen it, or anything else."
Crittendon saw Roberts' distress and unbent slightly. "Your friend…"
"… is a prisoner of war. I left him back there." He looked at Crittendon. "Did you leave friends back there?"
Crittendon nodded and swallowed. "The lads at Stalag Sixteen. Staunch fellows." He looked at Roberts with a plea in his eyes. "I was their senior officer."
Roberts studied his face. "You wish you had stayed with them?"
Crittendon nodded again.
"And it bothers you that no one here cares." Roberts' voice held a hint of awe.
Crittendon pulled himself together. "Why should they? Nothing GHQ can do about it."
Roberts took a step toward him. "Crit, I'm sorry. I didn't appreciate what happened to you, or them, until it happened to me. I still can't sleep for thinking about my friend."
"I didn't appreciate it myself … before it happened to me," Crittendon admitted.
Roberts looked apologetic. "I can't put your scheme before Tedder. He won't accept it. But I'll find you more meaningful work than accounting for sticky buns and Darjeeling, if you want it."
"Back in the field?" Crittendon involuntarily glanced at his novel.
Roberts winced, but answered without faltering, "I know a chap from my University, who knows a chap who knows a chap in the know. If you can stomach the training, he could get you into the Commandos."
He gestured around the room with a wry laugh. "I found out I like my creature comforts too much to join you, but 'every man to the devil his own way.'"
Then he sobered. "Think it through, Crit. I'd rather you came on Tedder's staff. You are the only one here but me who's felt Jerry's boot and who cares about absent friends. Is Richard Hannay's life what you really want?"
Crittendon saw the possibilities. If he was a commando, he could get those brave lads out of Stalag Sixteen and back to active duty. Or he could start a similar operation to Hogan's. Perhaps they could join forces, with him in overall command. After all, he outranked the American, and he was sensible, and much cooler in a crisis. Hogan was too scatterbrained, too softhearted, too emotional, but he did have imagination and drive. They could accomplish much.
He glanced at the book, then squared his shoulders and raised his chin.
"It is what I want, Sir James," he said formally. "And it's what England expects of me."