Chapter 2
Why don't I feel anything?
Maybe there were some emotions that were too raw, too . . .
He had to get off the road; it was too open, too . . .
Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Wilhelm Klink walked down the road, past the wall of the camp's motor pool, past one of the manned watchtowers and rounded the southeast corner of the camp. There, he began climbing the hill that overlooked the camp.
On the crest of the hill, he sat on a fallen log. His trembling fingers opened the crumpled map and he stared at it. Stared at Leipzig, sitting in the middle of the Soviet zone.
I didn't expect . . . Didn't think . . . My God, why? Why?
Because of that madman in the Berlin bunker.
A surge of hatred such as he'd never felt before blazed through him. And just as suddenly, it vanished, leaving him drained.
He'd been a soldier for more years than he liked to think about. And in all those years, he'd rarely stayed in one place very long. He'd told Langenscheidt that the five years he'd spent at Stalag 13 was the longest time he'd spent in one place since joining the military. And it was. But despite those years, despite the absences, there was still one place he thought of as home — Leipzig. And when this godforsaken war was over, he longed to go back to it.
Oh, not to stay, not to live. His life had changed too much over the past eleven years to live there permanently. But it still meant more to him than any other place. He wanted to walk the streets of his youth, to again visit the places that he loved, to show . . . He still had close friends there, and family and . . .
Well, what did you expect? Did you expect them to consider your feelings when they dismembered Germany?
They should have! They . . .
They don't give a damn. And you know it.
Some do. Like Edmondson and . . .
And what about Churchill? For God's sake, the man's the prime minister!
And Churchill is a politician in a country that has been bloodied, nearly conquered, because of the ambitions of vengeful hate-filled men.
He'd met Winston Churchill three times. The first time was before the war, before Churchill became prime minister. Churchill had been one of the few who'd listened to him, and Churchill had pledged to help as much as he could. And Churchill had kept his word.
Their second meeting hadn't started well. The war had started and England had been under attack for nearly a year. Churchill was angry and frightened, and having a German around, even one allied with him, had disturbed him. Mark Richmond(1) had played peacemaker, and the next day, Churchill had gruffly and reluctantly apologized for his behavior. During the next three days, they'd talked about many things, not just the war. And they'd parted as friends.
Their third meeting in the beginning of 1944 was rushed. But Churchill had, almost apologetically, told him that Roosevelt was taking an inordinately hard line toward Germany. Roosevelt had been the one who pushed for an unconditional surrender at the Casablanca conference with Stalin in 1943. And when Churchill couldn't get Roosevelt to change his mind, the Prime Minister, at least in his public statements, had to keep up a united front and agree with his stronger ally. Churchill had said he would try to get Roosevelt to see reason — top Allied military leaders, including Marshall and Eisenhower, were opposed to the unconditional surrender demand — and he would try to convince Roosevelt what a threat Stalin was. But for reasons Churchill couldn't fathom, Roosevelt was blind to Stalin's faults and ambitions and thought he could handle the Soviet leader.
And I'm the one who pays! Despite all that I've done for them, I lose everything!
Everything? Despite his anger, his innate honesty wouldn't allow him to lie to himself.
No, not everything. But . . .
He looked up at the heavens. Is this the price for all those impossible missions that shouldn't have succeeded? When I, what is the phrase the Americans use, snatched victory from the jaws of defeat? For staying alive when millions of others died?
A ragged breath. Leipzig in exchange for Germany. Another piece of his soul gone. Another . . .
Mama! How do I tell her? Tradition, roots, they meant more to her than anyone else in the family. Twenty generations of Klinks had lived in Leipzig. Once there had even been a title(2) that had been lost when another Klink followed his conscience and defied the ruling prince. And his mother's family had lived there nearly as long. The house they occupied in Leipzig had belonged to his mother's family for some two hundred years. Once, the entire block the house stood on had been her family's estate until time and circumstances took the money that had paid for that way of life. Now there were elegant townhouses on the once extensive estate whose history very few remembered.
But Mama; she remembered. And raised her children to remember that they had come from an aristocratic bloodline. Not in a snobbish or patronizing way. Manners, culture, duty — those were the qualities that defined the true aristocrat, she'd said. Those were the important qualities, even if there was no money, no title to go along with the name. Franz, Wolfgang and their families lived in the house with Mama. They, much more than he, had strong ties to Leipzig. Dieter and Therese had gone to Konstanz, but neither of them had thought that they couldn't return to the city they still called home.
How do I tell them they will no longer have a home? And —
Anna . . . Dear God, Anna. She'd have to leave as well. They were kindred spirits; one reason they'd become so close. And he knew she could no more bear to live under Stalin than he could. More, she had real wealth and influence in Leipzig — that made her dangerous to the Soviets. She'd already lost her husband and only child to the war. And now, when the end was so close, now she would also lose the home she loved.
Then the others, those who'd followed him. Karl, Richard, the men and women in their sections — they would also be in the Soviet territory.
I'll have to get the word out . . . I'll have to . . .
The numbness returned and with it an unbearable fatigue.
Lt. General Edward Edmondson found his aide, Captain Elliot Mason, with Robert Hogan near the front gate.
"I'd like to get the men in the infirmary out of here," Hogan was saying. "They're stable, but they're not getting better."
"I understand, Colonel. But right now . . . General, sir," Mason said, catching sight of Edmondson.
"How's it going, Mason?"
"Fine, sir. Colonel Hogan gave me a list of equipment and supplies he'd like to get."
Edmondson glanced at the list and raised a brow. "That's a lot of weapons, Colonel."
Hogan nodded. "There's a whole Army group still out there, sir. Right now, we're cut off from them. But there's no guarantee things will stay that way. I'd like to be ready, just in case. But what I'd really like is an engineering aviation battalion to fix the airfield south of here and send many of these guys home."
Edmondson smiled faintly and shook his head. "I wish I could get you an EAB, Colonel. But there aren't many EABs and they're spread pretty thin. We can get you everything else on that list, but not that. At least, not yet."
Hogan looked at him. "Sir, I just realized . . . How are you getting out of here?"
Edmondson smiled. "A small plane coming in after dark. It's been useful in the past, as you have reason to know."
Hogan smiled as well. "Yes, sir." He looked around. "Where is he, sir?"
"I left him outside," Edmondson said. "I'm afraid I gave him a shock."
The smile left Hogan's eyes. "Sir?"
"I just told him that Leipzig will be in the Soviet zone after the war. It means he won't be able to go home, at least not permanently, not for a long time."
"But . . . " Hogan started. And stopped, remembering what Klink had told him about Stalin. "I guess he couldn't live under Stalin any more than he could live under Hitler."
Edmondson nodded. "It's more than that, Hogan. Our relations with Stalin haven't been the easiest. Hell, we've had fights with Churchill too. But Stalin hates us, regardless of what Roosevelt thinks. And he hates Germans. He's also paranoid. If Stalin's people ever discover who Klink is, what he's done for us . . . " He shook his head. "Which is why we're going to clamp a security classification on his operation and by extension on yours so high that no one will ever know the Stage and Papa Bear existed."
"Oh."
"Disappointed, Colonel?"
"Not for me, sir, but for the men. Many of them have given so much, especially those who were here from the beginning. I'd like to see them get recognition for what they've done. I mean their friends and families know they're here and I know that there are going to be questions and comments about them sitting in a safe POW camp — "
"What?"
Mason, responding to Edmondson's tone, melted away.
"Colonel Hogan, do you know what you're saying?" Edmondson asked.
Hogan's jaw tightened. "I'm saying, sir, that the folks in the States are going to think that the men here had it easy. And they're going to wonder why these guys just sat here and didn't try to escape."
"The hell they will. Look, we've already liberated a number of POW camps. And their stories are being told. Not specifically, of course; detailed information about the camps will be top secret for a number of years. But most of the folks at home know that it hasn't been easy for POWs. As for escapes," Edmondson eyed him, "I think we made a mistake not telling you."
"Sir?"
"Hogan, you've processed hundreds of evaders and escapees as well as others through here over the past three and a half years. Some of them were pretty important people."
"Yes, sir."
"Not all of them got to where they were supposed to go," Edmondson said in a quiet voice. "The ones we picked up directly by plane or sub — well, they made it. But the rest of them, the ones who had to go through the occupied countries, most of them didn't make it."
Shock froze Hogan's expression. Most of them! "But . . . "
"It's not easy to make a home run(3), Colonel," Edmondson said almost gently. "Especially from Germany. Getting through Germany, then through the still occupied countries — France or Holland or Belgium — with few of them knowing the language, the habits, the culture, having faked papers, well, many of them made mistakes, trusted the wrong person or were betrayed. A million things could and did go wrong. The fact that any of them did get home or made it to safe places is something to be proud of."
"And the rest?" Hogan managed to ask.
"Most of them were caught and sent to other camps. But some were killed. Some," his eyes met Hogan's, "we killed."
"We . . . "
"The traitors and the Germans who didn't want to defect," Edmondson said. "The ones who could have and would have destroyed your operation, and by extension the Stage's, they were trouble the minute they were out of your hands. Those men, like Seifert(4) and Williams(5), the second they thought they could do it, they tried to get away. The men accompanying them had no choice but to silence them. And that attracted unwanted attention to those men. Only two of them managed to make it to safety, and it was a miracle they did. The rest . . . Some of them were killed. The rest were sent to other prisons, and given the disruption in communications, I don't know if most of them are alive or not." Edmondson looked at Hogan's frozen expression. "Do you really think it was that easy, Colonel?" Edmondson asked in a soft voice. "Do your men really think all they had to do to get home was to get out of here?
Hogan couldn't reply, and he half-turned to evade Edmondson's gaze. But he couldn't evade Edmondson's words. Were we truly that naïve? Not we — me! Did I really think all I had to do was send men out of here and they'd make it home? And not just them. I sent Resistance groups out of here too.
"What about the others?" he asked in a low voice. "The Resistance people who had to leave."
"We don't know about most of them," Edmondson said. "They at least had the advantage of knowing the language and customs. Hopefully, they were able to make it to safe houses. The truth is we may never know what happened to most of them. While they helped you, they weren't Allied personnel. We had no reason to keep track of them. For the most part, we don't even know who they were. Hell, except for the Six and a few others, we don't know the names of the Stage's people. And I very much doubt that he knows most of them. That's like asking a general if he knows the names of the men in his division. Do you know the names of all the men here?"
Hogan looked rueful. "I used to. Or at least Kinch did a few years ago. Now?" He shook his head. Then a look at Edmondson. "General, there was a girl," he said. "We sent her directly to London(6). Her code name was Tiger; her real name was — "
"Marie Louise Monet," Edmondson finished in a soft voice. "Beautiful girl." Edmondson smiled. "She made it." He began walking slowly. "She had quite a bit to say about you. And the camp."
"Oh."
Edmondson's smile grew. "My wife and I had the pleasure of her company for several dinners in London. Reminded us of our eldest daughter."
"Is she still in London?"
Edmondson shook his head. "She returned to Paris after the liberation. My wife received a note from her just before Christmas, saying she'd arrived safely and was reunited with her family. We haven't heard anything since then."
"I suppose she's back in the Resistance."
Edmondson looked at him with surprise. "What the hell for? They're done. De Gaulle is in charge of France; the French Army is marching into Germany in the south. And the French Resistance units sure aren't welcome in Germany, even along the borders. I know they're being debriefed regarding collaborators and the like. But that's it."
Hogan nodded. "I guess I should be glad about that. But — "
"But she was a big part of your life," Edmondson said with a smile. "For a number of years." A candid look at the younger man. "But she's French, Colonel. And, believe it or not, she talked more about France and the people she knew there than she talked about you. That last mission when she was caught, the last time you saw her when you saved her from a very nasty fate(7), that scared her more than anything else that had happened to her. She wants, like many men who are fighting the war, nothing more than a life without fear in the country she helped save. A normal, uneventful life in France. Can you, no matter how much you care for her, give her that?"
Hogan almost answered, "Yes," without thinking. And I'd look like a bloody fool, he admitted to himself. Because Edmondson and I both know I don't want to live in France, even with a woman like Tiger. Tiger. But she's not Tiger any more. She's Marie Louise Monet, a girl forced by circumstances and, yeah, love of France to be a Tiger. Hogan looked at Edmondson and saw the understanding in his eyes. "No, sir, I couldn't. After all these years, she deserves to be happy. If an uneventful life makes her happy, then she should have it."
Edmondson nodded. "And what about you, Hogan? What would make you happy after the war ends?"
The million dollar question! And he shrugged. "The truth, sir, I'm not sure. I know I want to fly. And I'm really itching to fly one of those jets!" He grinned at Edmondson's smile. "But for the rest . . . I want to make sure my men get the recognition they deserve. And that they get to wherever they want to go in one piece. But," his eyes met Edmondson's, "for now, I can't think that far ahead. Maybe I'm afraid to."
Edmondson nodded. "I know. But the war won't last much longer. Just stick it in the back of your mind and drag it out every once in a while. Okay?"
Hogan smiled. "Okay, sir. If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to see how Klink's doing."
Another nod. "Good idea." He glanced at some of the Germans looking at him with interest. "And when you see him, you two might want to come up with a story to tell those curious former guards about my visit."
"Yes, sir. If you'll excuse me, sir." Hogan saluted smartly and walked away.
Edmondson glanced at the Germans again and looked around for . . . "Mason! How about a tour?"
"Of course, sir." And the two men walked off.
"There you are!" Hogan called when he spotted Klink sitting on a log. He climbed the few remaining feet to the crest of the hill overlooking the camp. Hogan glanced at Klink, noting the uncharacteristic slump, and he turned back to the view. "Wouldn't know there's a war on from up here, would you? Well, except for the camp," he continued. "But get rid of the camp and it would be a nice place to visit, maybe camp out. Maybe," he glanced at Klink as a thought hit him, "maybe even a nice place to live. Yeah," his eyes went back to the view, "build a nice little cabin or whatever the German equivalent is. And plant — "
"What the HELL are you babbling about?" Klink interrupted.
"Nothing at all." He faced Klink squarely. "I just wanted to get a rise out of you."
Klink blinked at him, his expression still blank. "Edmondson told you."
"Yeah. Want to talk about it?"
There was a long silence. One that was becoming very uncomfortable to Hogan. "I guess not," he murmured and turned away. He took a couple of steps down the hill. "Not talking isn't going to make it better." A few more steps down the hill.
"I'm tired, Robert," Klink said, his voice still flat. "And wondering why I bothered . . . "
"Don't you dare finish that!" Hogan said in a taut voice. "You more than most know why! Just because you're feeling sorry for yourself!" Klink stared at him. "Don't give me that look! You know that's exactly what you're doing!"
"And of course you never felt like that!"
Hogan stood still as a memory washed over him. A memory he wasn't too happy about. Slowly, he climbed back to Klink and sat down on the opposite end of the log. "Boy, that's probably the wrongest thing you've ever said."
"Wrongest?"
"Yeah, wrongest." A small smile. "It's in the dictionary; look it up. But . . . Remember last year when that Gestapo guy Major Pruhst showed up?(8)"
Klink nodded.
"I'm not sure what you thought was going on with me. But he scared me! More than anyone did before. He had me cold. And I knew it."
"I know," Klink said. "But you got out of it. After your bout of chicken pox(9)," he added with a small smile.
Hogan stared at him. "You don't really think I came down with chicken pox?"
"Of course not. I just assumed you took the time to figure out what to do next. Which you did with that Captain Scharfstein impersonation."
A thin smile. "Scharfstein was an afterthought. What I really did was run away."
"Of course, to the infirmary."
"No," Hogan's voice dropped to a whisper. "I ran away to the train station and headed as far away as I could."
Klink looked at him with astonishment.
"The guys cooked up the chicken pox scheme. Olsen impersonated me in the infirmary and I took off."
"You took off . . . But, but you came back."
"Yeah, I came back." He stood up and stepped away. "I saw Morrison, uh, Hans Teppel(10). We had quite a talk about commitment and things. I came up the Scharfstein idea on the train trip back here."
"I'm glad you did," Klink said quietly. "It saved me a lot of grief. And work."
Hogan smiled as he turned back to Klink. Klink's defeated look was gone; so was the slump. His grin grew. "You really thought that was me in the infirmary?"
Klink chuckled. The chuckle grew into a loud laugh. A laugh that had Hogan joining in.
Finally, the laughter stopped, but the smiles remained.
"Ready to go back?" Hogan asked.
Klink stood and nodded. "Now, I want to hear the whole story of the chicken pox."
A short laugh. "Okay. But first, Edmondson wants to know what we're going to say to your guards about his visit."
"Oh, that," Klink said in a dismissive voice. "That's Schultz's problem."
"Schultz, uh?"
"Of course. He is still the Sergeant of the Guard. Now, about that chicken pox . . . "
Hogan laughed again. Klink's laugh joined his as they climbed down the hill to the camp.
Dinner in Klink's quarters had just concluded. Louis LeBeau and Andrew Carter had removed the dessert plates from the dining table and taken them back to the kitchen. LeBeau was back a moment later holding a silver tray with a bottle and three glasses. He placed the tray in the middle of the table and bowed. "Will there be anything else, Messieurs?"
"No, thanks, LeBeau," Hogan said, reaching for the bottle. "And don't bother cleaning up. That can wait until morning when — " He turned to Klink. "Who's cleaning tomorrow?"
"Hirschfeld and Adler," Klink said.
"Yeah, right. They can do it."
"Oui, Colonel. Then, bon soir, Messieurs."
LeBeau bowed and left the room.
Edmondson patted his stomach as he leaned back against the chair. "I can't remember the last time I had a meal like that! He's a genius with food. What's he doing in a POW camp?" He took the glass Hogan handed him. "Thank you, Colonel." He looked at Hogan over his glass. "I don't suppose you'd let me steal him."
Hogan laughed. "Maybe after the war."
"C'est la vie!" Edmondson took a sip. "Wonderful cognac. Where did you get this?"
Hogan gestured at Klink and smiled. "You'll have to ask him, sir."
"I bought it the last time I was in Paris," Klink said as Edmondson looked at him. "An obscure little shop near Montmartre."
"Is the shop still there?" Edmondson asked.
A faint smile. "I'll have to check with Henry."
"Henry?" from Hogan. "One of 'the Six' Henry?"
Klink nodded. "The shop owner is a cousin of his. It attracted a number of German officers who enjoyed the finer things in life."
"Officers with big mouths?" Edmondson asked.
"Of course."
Edmondson guffawed and took another appreciative sip of his cognac.
Hogan looked at the mellow General and began slowly, "General, about that engineering aviation battalion."
Edmondson laughed and looked at Klink. "Does he ever give up?"
"Not if he really wants something."
"Get on your nerves much?"
"All the time."
Edmondson laughed again. "Okay, Hogan. Say your piece."
A faint smile. "Yes, sir. As I said earlier, I'd like to get the sick men out of here. We don't have the materials or expertise to rebuild that runway south of here." A rueful, "We did too good a job of destroying it. More than once."
"Well, who kept rebuilding it?"
"Luftwaffe personnel," Klink answered. "When they evacuated during the fire, all their equipment and people left with them."
"So," Hogan continued, "even if we had men capable of doing the work, which we don't, we don't have the equipment."
"Okay, Hogan, you made your point about the EAB. But diverting one from areas that need an airfield for the war effort is a harder sell." He looked at the two men. "I don't want to be callous, but that's a hell of an expense in manpower and materials for the sake of a few sick men. It would be far easier to send in a medical unit."
"Oh." Hogan thought a moment. "I see your point, General. But one of the things Randall," he still couldn't keep the hatred out of his voice, "mentioned was that the brass was thinking about using us as a supply area or the like. Wouldn't that need an airfield?"
Edmondson laughed. "Now you're thinking like an administrator, Hogan. Good." He thought a moment, while noting the exchange of looks between Hogan and Klink. "I think an experienced EAB is out of the question; there's just too much demand for them. But I think I can wangle a green EAB. Any objections to that?"
"I'll take anyone who can rebuild that airfield."
"I'm not sure, but I think there might be a Negro EAB rotating to England in a week or so. Zero experience . . . "
"I'll take them," Hogan said.
"Can't guarantee how trained they'll be. Most Negro EABs weren't given the best training."
"They'll learn. If they're anything like the men here, they'll make up for it with enthusiasm."
Edmondson smiled. "I agree. Okay, Hogan. I'll grab them for you."
"Thank you, sir."
"Anything else, besides the list you already gave Mason?"
Hogan started to shake his head. And stopped. "I'm not sure this is in your purview." Edmondson looked at Hogan over his glass. "Any chance of getting a Red Cross observer here?"
Klink and Edmondson stared at him.
"Whatever for?" Edmondson asked.
"Well, we do have a town here that's in really bad shape. A neutral party may have some ideas for them."
"A neutral party may not be able to help, Hogan. Technically, the town is under martial law and bound by military occupation rules. And they're pretty strict."
"But — "
Edmondson held up his hand. "I know. This area is special. Between you, and you," he nodded at Klink, "this area was only nominally enemy territory." A sudden smile. "I wouldn't worry about the town. Or your friends here, German or Allied."
"Thank you, sir," Hogan said and added, "If you do get a Red Cross person here, I'd like to recommend someone."
Edmondson chuckled. "You're full of requests, Hogan. Okay, who?"
"Her name is Vrina Barish."
Klink blinked at the name.
"She visited the camp last July," Hogan continued. "Remember, Kommandant?"
Klink nodded. "I didn't think you were very impressed with her."
"Well . . . "
And Hogan remembered.
It was a glorious day in early July, a day rendered lovelier by the very scarceness of such days. Warm, sunny days with blue, cloudless skies were not the norm for northern Germany — even in summer.(11)
Hogan and most of the other prisoners had been in the compound when General Burkhalter's car pulled through the main gate. Hogan's first thought was, "Uh-oh . . . what does he want?" Looking across the compound to Klink's office, he saw Klink coming down the steps with an expression clearly indicating his thoughts mirrored Hogan's.
"General Burkhalter, what a pleasant surprise! And what brings you to our little camp, sir?"
"This is a surprise inspection, Klink."
"Oh, I'm certain you will find everything in order, Herr General," Klink fawned.
"Yes," Burkhalter said dryly. "But I am not the one to please."
Hogan looked back at the car, suddenly realizing there was someone else in it.
"It's a girl!" LeBeau exclaimed.
She was bending over, gathering some papers that had spilled from her briefcase, which was why no one had noticed her before.
Hogan couldn't hear Burkhalter's introduction over the comments of his men. And he needed to know who she was and what she was doing there. He headed closer to the General, in time to hear the woman say in a pleasant voice, "How nice to see you again, Kommandant Klink."
Klink bowed over her outstretched hand. "Fräulein Barish. How may I assist you?"
"I am here to inspect the camp, Kommandant," she said, smiling. "I should warn you, it will be a thorough inspection. I need to look over all your records, check your facilities, and interview the prisoners. Unsupervised, if you please. I should warn you that it will take some time."
"Of course, Fraulein. Take all the time you need."
After listening fruitlessly for a while as the girl in Klink's office turned page after endless page, Hogan went back outside. He found Klink wandering alone around the perimeter wire. Burkhalter and his staff car were absent.
"So who's the lady, Kommandant?" Hogan asked.
"Her name is Vrina Barish. From the International Red Cross. She's inspecting the camp. You and your men should keep yourselves available; she may want to interview you later."
"Well, I'll have to check my social calendar — "
"I'm not in the mood for your jokes, Hogan."
What else is new? "I got the notion that you know her. Had you met before?"
"Some years ago. In Munich."
"Where's General Burkhalter?" Hogan asked.
"He went into town. The Hofbrau I think."
"And didn't invite you? Shameful."
"Colonel Hogan, General Burkhalter enjoys my company no more than I enjoy his."
"Brave thing to say, Kommandant!"
"Yes, and if you quote me, I regret I shall have to have you shot," Klink replied with a smile. Hogan smiled back — for a second. Then he turned on his heel and went back to the barracks.
Shortly after that, Fräulein Barish called Klink into his office, and Hogan's men gathered around the coffeepot to listen in on the conversation.
It didn't yield much, beyond her description of some slight irregularities in one record, and a minor accident. She had knocked a stack of papers off Klink's desk, and then bumped into Klink in her apologetic attempt to pick them up.
After a short pause, they heard her say, "I'd like to tour your Stalag, Kommandant."
"Of course, Fräulein. After you."
Hogan yanked the wire from the coffeepot hastily and carefully put the listening device away.
The door opened and Klink entered with Vrina Barish, a petite woman with a decent if not outstanding figure. She seemed young with big, chocolate-brown eyes framed by thick glasses and curling brown hair.
Klink made the introductions. "Colonel Hogan, I would like to present Miss Vrina Barish of the International Red Cross. Miss Barish, this is Colonel Robert Hogan, senior POW officer."
"Colonel Hogan." She spoke in English, extending a small hand.
"American?" he asked her.
She smiled. "Well, some people will argue that New York City is a country all its own."
Not bad looking, not afraid of Klink, or Burkhalter, and she has a sense of humor.
Klink gave the men instructions to cooperate. Klink then bowed and exited with a more subdued exit than the usual pompous departure.
"Coffee?" Hogan asked, and smiled winningly as she accepted a cup. "Klink tells me he's known you for a while."
"I was in Munich on business during the '30's. We met there."
"The '30's? Aren't there laws against child labor?"
Hogan's men laughed and gathered around her as she looked down at her coffee cup.
She smiled. "You're quite gallant, Colonel. But I assure you I am older than I look. Now, I have some questions to ask you and your men." She took out a notebook and pen, looking around at the men. "Don't be afraid of speaking your minds. Nothing you tell me will get back to the Germans unless you want it to."
The men readily agreed to the interviews, and for the next couple of hours, they had a mutual exchange of information. Hogan noticed with reluctant admiration that she was very good at what she did, gaining the men's trust and getting them to open up, asking questions that led to stories, anecdotes, and more complete answers than they might have otherwise given. And in turn, she talked to them, filling them in on the world outside, telling what she knew about the progress of the war.
Afterwards, Hogan took her around the camp, walking her through the rows of barracks.
"All things considered, Colonel," she said, "your men are coping very well in this camp. Decent food, decent treatment, no crowding, and the discipline seems to be within acceptable bounds."
"A veritable paradise," Hogan said flippantly.
"Hardly." Her voice was dry. "But believe me when I say conditions are worse in many camps I've seen."
"I guess."
"How long have you been here, Colonel Hogan?"
He stopped walking and looked at her, his hands jammed into his pockets. The bitterness was apparent in his reply. "Too long."
She looked at him calmly, and he felt guilty for snapping. "I'm sorry. About two and a half years."
"That is a long time," she agreed quietly. "I have carte blanche crossing the border, Colonel Hogan. I can take a message to your family, if you like. Verbal or written."
He smiled faintly. "Thanks, but no thanks. I have nothing to say and no one to say it to."
"According to your file, Colonel, you have at least one person to say things to. Your mother is still alive."
"My mother couldn't even help me when I lived at home," Hogan replied. "Nice lady. Baked good cookies, but she couldn't keep the bad things from happening. What would she do with me here? I write duty letters once a month. She knows I'm alive. She sends cookies, and the guards eat them. Just as helpful as she ever was, my mother. So, what is there to say?"
She looked silently at him, and he sighed.
"As Newkirk would say, I think I'm in a 'bit of a snit' today. I'm sorry," Hogan said, smiling ruefully. "I'm normally a lot more charming, especially when the people I'm supposed to charm are women."
She laughed. "I'm sure you are, Colonel. Burdens of command, I suppose."
"Yeah." A dramatic sigh. "It's lonely at the top, as they say."
She looked thoughtful. "You should have someone to talk to. Your men seem to like you."
"My men like me because I always come through for them. Someday I'll make a wrong decision, or maybe even one they don't agree with — and they'll want to walk. It's happened before."(12)
"In a POW camp, Colonel, such a situation shouldn't arise. At least, not under normal circumstances."
"Maybe things here aren't so normal." And he looked away.
"Maybe you should talk to Kommandant Klink. He knows how it feels to have responsibility for men's lives."
He looked at her incredulously. "And you had me thinking you were smart, lady."
"You don't think much of Kommandant Klink, do you, Colonel Hogan?" she asked.
"I don't think of him at all."
"Yes," she said dryly. "Obviously not. May I ask why?"
"Well, let's just say we have nothing in common."
"You have one thing in common, Colonel. You are both human."
Hogan stopped the thought as Klink and Edmondson looked at him curiously. "Yeah, I guess I wasn't too polite when she left the next day. But I met her again when Field Marshall Strommberger 'volunteered' us during the Battle of the Bulge(13). She was stranded at the fuel depot we helped keep in Allied hands." He looked at Klink. "I never did tell you the story, did I?"
"Life became very hectic for both of us with Hochstetter prowling around and the budget cuts," Klink said. "And then later, when you kindly saved my life." He sipped his cognac. "There are a great many things we've never talked about."
"Well, you've both got time now," Edmondson said philosophically. He leaned back with a sigh and smiled at Klink. "Now, where did you say that shop was?"
Sergeant Hans Schultz walked into the mess hall with Sergeant Karl Langenscheidt. Nearly all of the 117 former guards were there for the evening meal, most of them already seated and eating. Ten of them, part of the camp's regular mess staff, were filling the trays of those still on the mess line. The rest of them, save for Captain Gruber, came in after Schultz and Langenscheidt and joined the mess line.
"Where is Hauptmann Gruber, Sergeant?" asked Rolf Adler, a somewhat chunky 18-year-old private standing behind Schultz.
"He was invited to join the captains and the General's aide for dinner. Danke, Freitag," Schultz said to the private who had just put a couple of pork chops on his mess tray; mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables followed. A small portion of canned fruit was added at the end, along with a cup of coffee.
"Is there any dessert?" Schultz asked Lt. Brian Gayles(14) who was standing at the end of table.
Gayles grinned at the large sergeant and nodded toward a smaller table. "Help yourself when you're done, Schultz."
"Danke!" Schultz said with a lilt in his voice.
Schultz sat at the table closest to the dessert table. He was joined by Langenscheidt and the other corporals — Jakob Nagel, Klaus Krieger and Oskar Kaufmann.(15)
"That's an honor, isn't it, Sergeant?" Adler asked as he carefully carried his tray to a table where some of the youngest former guards were sitting.
"Ja." And Schultz applied himself to his dinner.
As Schultz ate, no one asked him any questions. But he knew it was a temporary situation. The men were more than curious about the visiting general who had made a point of talking with the Kommandant alone. And Schultz wasn't sure what to tell them. The Kommandant had told him to answer the men's questions truthfully as long as he named no names. And had told him to use his judgment as to how much to tell the men. And that was Schultz's problem. He had known these men, some of them no more than boys, only a few months. He trusted some of them implicitly, such as Kaufmann, Reinwald, Hirschfeld, Krieger, Nagel and a few others. But could he trust all of them? The real troublemakers such as Wendorf and Schuster had left with the Nazis weeks ago(16). But some of these men were incapable of taking that long and arduous trip down to the plains, and he wasn't sure if he could trust all of them. Schultz gave an inward sigh as he finished his meal, stood and put his discarded tray on a side table. He went over to the dessert table, and took a large slice of cake, marble cake Lt. Gayles had called it, and some cookies. Back at the table, he began eating slowly. Slowly to enjoy the food, and slowly to forestall the questions he knew were coming.
Finally, he could stall no more. Freitag silently refilled his coffee cup and took his dessert plates. Schultz put a generous helping of sugar and powdered milk into the coffee and stirred slowly. His eyes swept the mess hall's occupants as he took a long sip of the hot coffee. Most of the men had finished eating. Only the men who had been on mess hall duty were still eating. Lt. Gayles had disappeared along with his Allied staff, leaving the cleanup to the Germans. Now, only the former German guards remained in the mess hall. Former guards with questions. But . . .
Schultz slowly, deliberately, put his coffee cup on the table and looked at the men. Each of them. The former prisoners would have astonished at his inspection. He was no longer the jovial, rotund sergeant who had looked the other way or closed his eyes to what was going on around him. Now, one could see him as the owner of a successful business in prewar Germany, the man who had taken a small local toy shop and turned it into the largest toy company in Germany. And these men were his employees. And while an owner owed his employees the truth, he did not owe them all of it.
"Sergeant."
It was Private Fritz Gottschalk. Gottschalk was one of the last guards assigned to the camp, one who had supposedly been in combat, one who had been able to avoid being wounded and had managed to be assigned to a safe POW camp. He had been a supply clerk, Schultz remembered. One who had thought he would be assigned to the same position in Stalag 13 and was angry to discover that Langenscheidt was in charge of the supplies. Langenscheidt who had once liked everyone, who had once trusted everyone, and even feared to one degree or another everyone, Langenscheidt instinctively didn't like or trust Gottschalk. Which meant that Schultz, and by extension the Kommandant and Hogan, shouldn't trust him either.
Schultz deliberately picked up his coffee cup. "Ja?" He took a sip of the liquid as he eyed Gottschalk.
"The Kommandant . . . He and that Ami General . . . They were very friendly."
"They have known each other for a long time," Schultz said with a shrug. "Since before the war."
Gottschalk looked disbelieving. "Before the war? Why would a German know an American general? How would a German know an American general?"
Schultz shrugged again. "The Kommandant has had a long career. He met many officers from many countries. Some of them attended the same military schools that the Kommandant attended."
"German military schools?" Gottschalk said in an incredulous tone.
Schultz's lips curled in open derision. "Are you that stupid, Gottschalk?" One of the younger privates tittered behind Gottschalk. "There were American observers in German military schools and Germans in American military schools for a good many years before the war. It is not unusual that some had become friends."
"It is when there is a war!"
"Ja, the war." Schultz took another sip of coffee. "You care about the war?"
"What do you mean? Of course, I care about the war."
"Then why are you here?"
"What?"
"You were assigned to Model's Army Group B, the 15th Army, as one of their supply clerks," Schultz emphasized the last word. "You should be somewhere near Kassel, not here."
"I was assigned here."
"Ja, you were. You were a sergeant; you were stripped of your rank, accused of the theft of military supplies, and assigned here."
Gottschalk flushed. "It was a mistake. I should not be here!"
"You had your chance to be gone," Schultz said coldly. "You could have left with Schuster and the others to rejoin the fighting. Or later, before the Kommandant surrendered the camp and let those who wished to go leave. But you did not. You have no physical problems to prevent you from going, you still believe the lies told by those Hunde in Berlin, and you sneer at and belittle everyone when you think they do not hear you. So, why are you still here?"
Gottschalk glared at him.
Schultz let the silence linger for a few moments. Then, "Instead of complaining that the Kommandant and the General know each other, you should be grateful."
"Grateful?"
"Ja, grateful. You have just finished a meal such as none of us have had in many months, such as most of our countrymen are denied because of those fools in charge of our beloved Germany. But then, those in charge do not deny themselves, do they?"
"Nein, they do not!" shouted Pvt. Ruprecht Finster. A former artillery man in his early thirties, he had lost an arm and a leg to a defective German shell. "When I was hospitalized, I saw them. We patients got the dregs, but the Party people, inspectors and officers, they got what we should have had!"
Some of those who had been previously injured nodded in agreement.
"And the Gauleiters(17)!" added sixty-year-old Ludwig Dengler. "The one in charge of my home district — he lived like a king in a castle at the expense of the people he was supposed to care for. Some complained." A derisive snort. "They found themselves in cells or in combat!"
There were even more nods of agreement.
And there were more comments from others along similar veins. And open discussions among the men about things they'd seen and heard over the past ten years. But Gottschalk, Schultz noticed, stayed out of them. He didn't even bother defending the Nazi government or the military from the oozing anger of the men.
"Schultz," Nagel, half-shielding his burned face, whispered in Schultz's ear, "he is trouble."
"I know."
Kaufmann leaned closer, carefully easing the stump of his left arm unto the table. "We will keep an eye on him."
"How many others?" Schultz finally asked.
"Perhaps a dozen, if that," the elderly Klaus Krieger said. "But Gottschalk is the leader; he talks well when he knows you are not around."
"If you are around?"
"He is cautious," Nagel said. "But not suspicious."
"Gut. Make certain you see Nothing."
Nagel hid his smile as he got up to leave.
Later that night after Edmondson's plane had left, Wilhelm Klink was on his porch, watching the nighttime sky.
Hogan walked over. "I just heard that Operation Varsity is in full swing at Wesel. And Operation Plunder."(18)
Klink nodded.
"And I suppose you know all about them."
Klink shook his head. "Not in any detail. My people have been radioing information on troops and weapons in that area to London for a while now. And there have been intensive bombings by the Allies for the past couple of weeks, as well as camouflaging smoke covering the preparations. I guessed it was going to be a big operation."
Hogan snorted. "Big is an understatement. According to the reports we're getting, it's the largest air operation of the war.(19) One report said that planes were strung out over 500 miles flying in paratroopers and supplies. We were damned lucky to get any free planes out of the 8th Air Force to deliver our stuff this morning. Montgomery and Simpson's forces number over a million British, Americans and Canadians on the ground, which makes it the largest European land operation since D-Day."
Klink winced.
Hogan noticed. "Yeah, I know. A lot of dead men."
Klink took a deep breath. "Not as many as you might think. The German forces in that area are barely a tenth of the Allies. And by now, most no longer believe Hitler's lies. Hopefully, that will keep the casualties down on both sides."
"Yeah, hopefully." Hogan looked at the evening sky. "Looks so quiet, doesn't it. And a few miles away," Hogan's head shook, "thousands of guys fighting for their lives."
Klink nodded.
A sudden laugh nearby broke the silence.
"We're lucky we're here," Hogan said.
Klink nodded. "So far."
Hogan looked at him in surprise. "You think they'll reach us?"
Klink shook his head. "Not for a while. Montgomery's been told to stay away from here. And the Panzers can't get to us. Not that they'd want to; they're too busy fighting Montgomery's men who are heading east, not south. And Model's still concentrating on the Allied armies across the Rhine and south of Köln. But in time, both sides will find us."
"Well, yeah. Hopefully, the Allies first. If Edmondson can get us an EAB to repair the airfield, then we can send the sick men out of here. And get regular supply flights in as well."
Klink nodded.
"Maybe get the Red Cross here."
A thin smile from Klink. "That might be harder. The Red Cross doesn't answer to the Allies or Germans."
"True. But I can hope."
Klink glanced at Hogan. "I am a little curious. Looking back on it, you were less than charming to Fräulein Barish. May I ask why?"
A rueful half-smile as the memory came rushing back.
"You have one thing in common, Colonel. You are both human."
Hogan laughed without amusement. "That's a matter of opinion. Or for educated debate. God! I have been here too long!"
He turned away abruptly. She laid a timid hand on his arm and he didn't even stop to think. He pulled her to him and bent his head to hers.
And then stopped. She had gone stiff the minute he touched her; her hand was on his chest, not to caress, but to push away. He let go, and she swiftly moved out of reach.
Jaw clenched, she said, "I'm afraid my intentions were misinterpreted."
"Call it male ego."
"Ahh. You made a, what is it called, 'a pass'. And she didn't appreciate it."
"No, she didn't."
"And you are not used to your charm failing."
"No."
"Is that why you want to see her again? To try to charm her?" Klink asked.
"No . . . Yes . . . Hell, I don't know."
"Didn't you try at that fuel depot?"
"Heck, no. I was too busy trying to keep us from getting blown to kingdom come by the Germans and the Americans. It was a mess."
A thin smile."I suppose it was."
"Woman's got guts. She stood up to Strommberger, told him she was moving the USO girls to a safe location, and did it. She took them to the separate chapel building, away from the danger zone. And kept them there until it all ended. Then she took on Patton on behalf of the German prisoners! Anyway, at the end, she wasn't mad at me when she left for Switzerland. Even gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek."
"Hmm."
Hogan glanced at him. "You look all in."
"It's been a long day."
"Yeah, it has. Well, good night, Kommandant."
Klink nodded. "Good night, Colonel."
Klink turned and walked into his quarters. Hogan looked after him, concern in his eyes. Klink was looking more tired than usual. He still hadn't fully recovered from the past few weeks. And learning about the Allies' plans for his hometown . . .
Hogan shook his head as he ambled down the steps toward his own quarters.
Endnotes
1 Act Three
2 "Oil for the Lamps of Hogan"
3 Getting home was called getting a "home run" by the POWs.
4 "Eight O'clock and All Is Well"
5 "One in Every Crowd"
6 "Operation Tiger"
7 "Operation Tiger"
8 "Hogan's Double Life"
9 M. Hughes: Dress Rehearsal has the real behind-the-scenes account.
10 "Bad Day at Berlin"
11 For a complete account, see Mel Hughes, Dress Rehearsal. With the permission of the author.
12 "How to Catch a Papa Bear"
13 Mel Hughes, unpublished Dress Rehearsal, Encore"
14 Act Four
15 Ibid
16 Ibid
17 Party officials in charge of large areas akin to the old states of Germany.
18 Charles MacDonald's The Last Offensive, one of the volumes in the official UNITED STATES ARMY IN WORLD WAR II series, a must for anyone interested in the last year of the war in Europe. It is now available online for free. Derek S. Zumbro's Battle for the Ruhr also talks about both operations using a more first-hand accounts approach.
19 A Stars and Stripes article dated 03/25/1945 announced the operations, though not by name.
