Chapter 1
September 30, 1942, mid-afternoon; London:
Colonel John Wimbley accepted the envelope from the courier, but, before he could open it, the phone rang. "It's over, John," came the tired voice of his commander. "I've just got word; surrender will take place at 0900 tomorrow morning. Implement contingency plans immediately."
"Yes, sir." His hand shook as he hung up the phone. As he reached for the intercom, his glance fell on the momentarily forgotten envelope, stamped "urgent" multiple times as if for emphasis, and he paused a moment to peruse its contents. Then, with a sigh, he ignored the intercom and instead went to the outer office, where men and women bustled about, the great computer's little white lights resembling an anaemic Christmas decoration in the background. He called for attention in his best parade-ground voice, and all human activity ceased.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our high command is admitting defeat," he said quietly. "Shut down the computer; destroy all printouts. Shut down all communications at once."
"What about our agents in the field?" one woman asked.
"Shut down all communications at once," Wimbley repeated unhappily. "I'm sorry, but those are the orders."
"Well, ain't that just ducky," Mavis Newkirk muttered under her breath, reverting to her Cockney accent momentarily, and had the grace to look at least a little embarrassed when the remark carried farther than she had intended. "What about the files, sir?" she asked then.
"Leave them," Wimbley said, then stopped He'd be damned if he'd just throw his best field agents to the wolves without trying to do something to protect them! "Except the PAPA BEAR files; pull them and bring them to me."
Same time, Stalag 13
The sun was slowly heading toward the west when the big black staff car ghosted through the opened front gate, followed closely by a large covered military truck. Loafing prisoners watched them come to a stop outside the Kommandantur, evincing nothing but bored, idle curiosity in all but the tall, lean man who'd been lounging beside the doorway to Barracke 2. Casually, he now pushed away from the wall, exaggerating a shiver, and headed inside as fast as possible while appearing not to hurry at all. It was an art-form, the ability to be so casual, and Carter was a master at it. He'd had enough practice, he thought with a quiet chuckle. "Hey, Colonel? Staff car just came in," he called as the door banged shut behind him. He shivered again, for it wasn't any warmer inside the barracks; it was just that the majority of the chilly autumn breeze was missing.
From within a private room at the end of the barracks came a handsome, black-haired man, his dark eyes stirring with curiosity. "Who is it, Carter?" he asked as he joined his man near the door.
"Don't know; some general," came the excited reply. "He's got an aide with him, and a big truck full of something important, Colonel; four guards jumped out when they stopped and took up posts around it."
Hogan watched as the newcomers followed Klink toward his office, but did not wait for them to mount the steps; he immediately whirled and headed to his private quarters, his "staff" hard on his heels.
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General Friedrich Sebastian Mannheim took a deep breath as his staff car eased to a silent stop. Somehow he managed to control his grimace of distaste as the Kommandant, one Oberst Wilhelm Klink, bustled out of his office and down the steps, groveling gratuitously even before Lt. Weber could get his superior's door open. «Ah, Herr General, how nice it is to see you! Welcome to Stalag 13! What can I do for you?» Klink gushed as his visitor exited the car.
Mannheim just handed off his briefcase to his aide and headed for the office steps, Klink bowing and scraping in his wake.
«Won't you have a Seat, General? Some Brandy, perhaps? A Cigar?» Klink kept up the flow even in the office, watching in open nervousness as his visitor stopped before the leather-topped desk.
«Colonel, I am General Mannheim, of the Inspector General's Office,» the stranger said officiously. This was obviously the only way he'd get this blithering idiot to shut up---and it worked. Manheim gave a silent prayer of thanks that at least this bit of information was correct. He reached into his coat's inner pocket, withdrawing a packet of documents. «My Papers and Orders,» he announced, passing them to the momentarily silent colonel.
He did not give Klink time to look them over, retrieving them from the Kommandant's limp grasp almost immediately. Instead, he pasted a forced smile on his face and began to butter up the fatuous fool. «Klink, we've heard very good things about you lately, even in Berlin...»
«Yes, Herr General,» Klink interrupted eagerly. «This is the toughest POW Camp in Germany. We've never had a successful Escape from Stalag 13. My Prisoners don't stand a Chance...»
«Klink, shut up!» Mannheim snapped in irritation, then gathered his composure again and continued. He had been warned about the man, after all. «As I was saying,»he paused to glare at the balding man before him as if daring him to interrupt again, «we have heard good Things about you and your Camp. I have come to see for myself. Should even half of what I've heard prove to be true...well, there's no telling how far you will go.» Like to the Eastern Front, he thought grimly, showing nothing of this thought on his face.
«I can assure the General,» Klink began, falling silent at his visitor's threatening scowl.
«I would like a Tour of the Camp, Klink,» Manheim calmly announced, «But first I would like to see your Prisoners. Call a Formation, if you would be so good.»
«Certainly, Herr General,» Klink agreed eagerly. "Shuuuuultz!" he bellowed for his sergeant of the guard.
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant?" the portly sergeant responded, coming into the office with such alacrity that it was obvious the man had been trying to listen at the door. But he came to a creditable attention in front of the visitors, so Mannheim just hid another sigh. So far, this place was living up to its reputation fully. Most unfortunately...or not.
«Schultz, have the Prisoners fall out for a special Roll Call,» Klink was ordering, one eye carefully on the visiting General. He so wanted to make a good impression. If only Hogan and his men would behave themselves, perhaps he would get his long-coveted promotion. Imagine...General Klink.
Klink's rosy vision for his future suddenly turned gray at Schultz's protest. «But, Herr Kommandant, we just had Roll Call two Hours ago.»
«Call. Another. One.» the colonel ground out between clenched teeth, his balled fists resting on his desk as he leaned threateningly toward his hesitant sergeant.
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!" Schultz replied and headed for the door. Very faintly, Mannheim could hear the corpulent sergeant muttering, «Colonel Hogan is not going to like this,» as the door shut behind him.
Klink looked over at General Mannheim and laughed nervously; he looked as though he were going to say something, but apparently thought better of it. After a last deep breath for control, he motioned toward the door. «After you, Herr General,» he said, stepping back to allow his illustrious visitor to precede him.
The general went, for he could hear the guards rousting the prisoners from their barracks; he could also clearly hear the protests and complaints of said prisoners. ("Aw, c'mon, Schultzie, we just 'ad roll call!" from one distinctly Cockney-accented man, and "Pipe down; it's just another dog-and-pony show," from another, whose accent was clearly American.) Mannheim supposed that he didn't really blame them, for the afternoon breeze was quite brisk, billowing his greatcoat around his lower legs. The assembling prisoners were not so warmly dressed; they shivered and shifted as their formations filled in. He watched the guards make their counts as he stood on the front porch of the Kommandantur, partially shielded from the wind.
The American colonel rocked on his heels as he waited in the front row of Barracks 2's formation. As he'd suggested, it was indeed another of Klink's dog-and-pony shows, put on for the benefit of the visiting general. They hadn't heard much from the bug in Klink's office; no hint of why this high-ranking officer might be interested in their humble little Stalag. He seriously doubted that anyone on the general staff would be interested in or impressed by Klink, except maybe by his stupidity and overweening conceit. No, Hogan mused; it was more likely to have something to do with whatever was in that truck. They'd have to think of some way to look inside later. The posted guards had kept his men well away from it so far.
Mannheim strolled casually from group to group, watching the prisoners, evaluating. Most appeared bored, totally uninterested in him. There were some outstanding exceptions, though. There was at least one man in each barracks group who watched his progress closely, although they tried to disguise the fact. And the small group of men who stood the closest to...Hogan, the name tag on his leather jacket read...yes; those would be his men. They were rowdy and disruptive, just the sort of behavior to distract someone like Klink, or Schultz-the-sergeant. But there was too much calculation in their eyes as they acted like fools. No, those men knew exactly what they were doing.
How ironic, he thought in amusement, that the little sadist Hochstetter could have been correct about Hogan and his men, but never able to prove it. Still, the SS and Gestapo were totally discredited now, most of their members already tried and convicted as war criminals. Both groups had fallen out of power after Hitler's assassination, later to be disbanded, and Germany had been the better for it. All that remained for those people were their executions, to be carried out once the war was over.
He turned to look at Klink. «I will interview some of these Men, Colonel. You will have the ones I pick wait in your Office for me.» He turned back, taking Klink's compliance for granted. Several men were selected from various barracks, including one from Barracke 2. Most were random choices, all except the British corporal from Barracke 17. That one Mannheim looked forward to speaking with. This pleasure he could not yet permit himself, however; he could not risk the fox's slipping away.
Hogan watched the Germans' antics with mocking amusement on his handsome face. Soon, he knew, Klink would send for him, to show this general how thoroughly cowed the prisoners were, and he would act like a tame prisoner, the degree of his insolence being determined by how much of a jerk he felt the general to be once he'd spoken to him personally. It was the same old game that he'd played almost since he'd been shot down and captured two and a half years ago. He stepped forward with the rest, not even wondering why this general wanted all the formations to step forward three paces.
Then the world fell apart. Out of that guarded truck jumped soldiers, who took up positions between the prisoners and their barracks. All the men from Barracks 2 were herded over to that truck, and manacles were placed on them even as three more large trucks rolled into camp. More soldiers climbed out of these, and Hogan and his men were loaded into two of them, to be taken to the holding cells beneath the old Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg.
Mannheim smiled, a grim little smile of satisfaction as he watched the first two trucks roll out of camp. He turned back to the other stunned prisoners, studying them most carefully before beginning to speak. "You will all, no doubt, be pleased to hear that the war in the West is over. The allies will be officially surrendering tomorrow morning at 0900. Soon you will be sent home, you British and French. Only on the Eastern Front is there still fighting, but the Russians are being pushed steadily back.
"You will be allowed to listen to the official broadcast from the BBC over the camp loudspeakers tomorrow. Until your official release, however, you still remain prisoners of war, so make no mistake in this regard: Even at this late date, any attempts to escape will be dealt with severely, up to and including possibly being shot. I strongly recommend patience on your parts, for just a little longer.
"You will be allowed back into your barracks once I have spoken to the men I have chosen. Be aware that my troops are not the 'tame' guards that you are used to. Do not antagonize them, and you will safely regain your barracks." With that, Mannheim turned on his heel and re-entered the Kommandantur, with Lt. Weber following into Klink's office. One by one, he had the men he'd singled out brought to him there, asking each man questions read directly from a list that he'd left lying on the desk in plain sight. He kept his amusement hidden as he watched several of those men study the list, clearly reading the German although it was upside down to them and in the peculiar zig-zag script that most of the Allies found nearly indecipherable. He could tell which ones actually understood what was written there, for they relaxed by the third question on the list, having read what questions were coming. This suited him well, for these men were but the smokescreen, covering the identity of his mole.
Third from last, the man from Barracks 17 was brought in, the British corporal known in the camp as Baker. He came to attention in the British style, saluting the superior officer before him, not relaxing at all...until the door closed behind the escorting guard. Then his manner changed radically.
«Hauptmann Bachmann reporting, Herr General,» he snapped out quietly, his salute precise.
Mannheim looked at the young Abwehr captain before him with approval. «At ease, Captain; be seated.»
"Danke, Herr General," the Intelligence officer replied, sitting as requested. He did not relax totally; that would not have been proper, and Horst Bachmann was a very proper young officer.
«You seem to have survived, Captain,» Mannheim said, his voice kept low. «Were you able to learn much?»
Bachmann allowed himself a small smile of triumph. «Jawohl, Herr General. Here is a List, with the Names of most of the Barracks Chiefs,» he said, passing over a small, many-times-folded piece of paper. «You will also want to take a Medic, a Sergeant Joe Wilson, for he had knowledge of the Operations, even thought he did not actively participate in any Raids. He did repair and cover up all Damage sustained by the Commandos, but reported nothing to the Authorities.
«Most of the rest of those actively engaged in Espionage and Sabotage were housed in Barracke 2, especially Sergeants Carter, Baker, and Kinchloe, and Corporals LeBeau and Newkirk. There are others; I have included them on the List also.»
«You have done very well, Hauptmann; a difficult Assignment, and so short a Time to accomplish it. »
«Once they accepted me, Herr General, it was easy; they showed me everything accessible to the general Camp Population. I did not try to penetrate their inner Organization, as my Orders said not to do so. It was just as well, for they were very suspicious. My Cover could easily have been blown, had I tried for too much.»
"Ja," Mannheim agreed soberly. «This has happened many times in the past, here. Our Agents were always discovered when they got too close to the central Leadership. It was more important to learn the Extent of the Complicity of the rest this Time.
«But you cannot stay here longer. Here is the List of Questions which you were asked, like all the rest. You will be removed in a Day or so. Or do you believe yourself to be compromised and to need immediate retrieval?»
The young Abwehr captain actually gave this some thought as he looked over the question list. Finally, he shook his head. «I think I should be all right for several more Days. I've managed the last three Weeks, after all,» he responded, his voice and eyes steady.
«True, true,»the general murmured, but he paused, then grinned. «Nein, I believe we will take you out when we take out Wilson and the others on your List. That should be enough Cover, in case we need to use you here again.
«Very well, Captain; you are dismissed.» Then General Mannheim's aide opened the door, calling for the guard to remove this prisoner and bring in the next.
At last he'd spoken to each and had had all the men returned to their formations. He stopped then, studying the heavily shivering men who still stood out in the cold. Again a chill smile showed on his face. "Each of you known as a 'barracks chief' will step out from your formations, away from the rest of your men," Mannheim ordered and watched as fear crossed many faces.
Prisoners looked at each other with rapidly growing concern, but what else could they do? Evacuation was out of the question, with their access to the barracks, and the tunnel entrances within, blocked. The men could only watch helplessly as their barracks chiefs, the men responsible for them, for keeping order and reporting problems, slowly stepped forward, clearly expecting to be shot down. Nothing happened, however, except that the general's young lieutenant rapidly went to each man and wrote down his name. This list was checked against another---wonder where that came from---then was shown to the general, who nodded and looked pleased.
"Very good. You men will go with the guards," the general ordered, motioning them towards the last two trucks. "The following men will step forward also and join your comrades by the transports."
Silence. Dead silence then, except for the German's voice reading off names from his list. Without Hogan there to speak up or protest, no one else dared say a thing, lest he be added to that list. The men named moved forward, zombie-like, counting themselves already dead. They went only because they felt they had no choice.
"General, you can't do this!" Klink protested, breaking through his own shock at last.
"Klink, be silent before you join them." There was no room for further argument in Mannheim's voice, no warmth, no compassion. He watched, a statue in a fluttering greatcoat as these prisoners were also manacled and loaded into the trucks. The extra troops were withdrawn and climbed into the carriers. Then, at last, the formations of chilled men were dismissed.
Mannheim looked at the very subdued Kommandant and sniffed in disgust. «Come with me, Klink,» he ordered, then turned and headed back to the warmth of the building. He glared at the older man, once they were back in the privacy of the office.
«Klink, you've managed to survive this War; don't push your Luck now. There has been an Underground Unit flourishing here for Years, under your very Nose. We have reliable Information that it was headed by your Colonel Hogan; I need not explain any further to you.
«Here are your Discharge Papers; you are being mustered out with full Retirement Pay. You are being given the Benefit of the Doubt, and it is being assumed by High Command that you had no Idea what was going on here. Even though you should have known. Your Relief, a Major Grüber, will be arriving Tomorrow with Orders from Berlin. See that you are packed and ready to go. Take Sergeant Schultz with you; you will find his Honorable Discharge Papers in the Folder with your own.
«That will be all. Dismissed!» He passed off the fat envelope to the poleaxed Colonel Klink, then strode out of the office and outside to his waiting staff car. It had been a long day; he looked forward to a quiet evening and a good meal back in Hammelburg. Tomorrow would, after all, come way too soon.
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Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, US Army Air Corps...or it should have been. Instead, it was Group Leader, RAF, since the United States had never entered the war against Nazi Germany. He still stubbornly thought of himself as an American colonel, however, being a true son of the US of A, an illusion helped along by the American gear he was allowed to wear when flying, as he commanded a unit made up entirely of Americans. The young colonel shook his head once more. He wished he could figure out what was going on, but nothing was making any sense. He hadn't had any dealings with the Abwehr before this; he'd been worked over only by the SS and Gestapo, and that only in the early years of his captivity. Once they had been disbanded, he'd faced no further strong-arm interrogations. Still, this made no sense at all.
The prisoners had been unloaded outside of the old Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg; there had been no doubt of that. He knew only too well what that place looked like, both inside and out. They had brought him, and all the rest of the men from Barracks 2, inside and down to the holding area, but, surprisingly, they had been no rougher than necessary. The strip-search to which they'd then been subjected had come as no big surprise, but then they had been allowed to dress again, albeit minus belts, ties, and shoelaces, and then they'd been locked into cells. He'd thought he'd heard a second group coming in similarly, not long after they'd been processed.
Meals had come regularly and had been adequate---or at least no worse than the food at Stalag 13. Hogan guessed that they'd been there, unmolested, for at least four weeks.
They'd heard a broadcast that the war was over, that the Allies had surrendered to the "victorious German forces." And that had been over the BBC, shockingly enough. But the worst shock had come only last night: the announcement, sent from the United States via recording, that all Americans who had fought for the English and other Allies had been stripped of their citizenship and declared to be criminals. They would not be allowed to come back to the States, even if the Germans were willing to repatriate them. They no longer had a home to return to. This meant that the Germans had been given free rein to slaughter them all as war criminals. But still no one had come near them except to bring their meals.
A door clanged open far down the hallway. Numerous sets of jackboots echoed in step, drawing closer and closer. Hogan knew that his cell was farthest from the exit, no doubt to keep him more securely. Idly he wondered yet again who had informed on him. It could have been anyone; many former Underground fighters knew who he was, of the double life he'd led.
The Underground had been giving them less and less support ever since the SS and Gestapo had been disbanded. They had all been loyal Germans, after all, fighting only against Hitler. Once he had been assassinated by the High Command, the Underground had ceased all sabotage and espionage operations. The only thing they had still helped Hogan and his men to accomplish was to aid downed flyers and escaped prisoners back to England. Even that had gotten harder, Hogan admitted in belated realization, almost as if his former partisan allies had begun hindering his efforts, instead of helping.
The boots stopped outside his cell; a key rattled in the lock. Hogan moved to the back of the cell as the door swung open, not wanting any trigger-happy guard "accidentally" shooting him for being too close. Two guards entered, stepping to either side to clear the doorway, while a third covered Hogan with a machine pistol. Resistance was futile, so he allowed his wrists to be cuffed behind his back and docilely accompanied the guards out of the cell and down the corridor. As he went, he could hear the cell next to his being opened, and guards entering. Thankfully, he heard no gunfire.
They brought him to a different wing, this one containing larger group cells. He was stood against the solid wall across from one such large cell, where he felt an additional cuff being locked onto one wrist, holding him securely in place. Sick at heart, he looked over the men imprisoned in the cell he faced: all the barracks chiefs from Stalag 13. The cell beside that held most of the men from Barracks 2, and others who had assisted with their various operations. But some were missing---No, here came Newkirk, firmly in the grip of guards, to be chained to the wall beside him. This looked very bad, Hogan thought, feeling sicker still as first Baker, then Carter and LeBeau, and finally Kinch were brought up to join him at the wall.
No one spoke; they all knew that talking among themselves would not be allowed. This was serious, unlike the formations back at camp. Hogan sensed that their lives would hinge upon what happened here next. The wrong wisecrack now could easily get his men killed, and that was to be avoided if at all possible.
Time dragged as they waited in that corridor. Hogan made no attempt to guess just how long they stood there like that, but finally he could hear several other sets of footsteps approaching.
Mannheim paced down the corridor, face grim, Lt. Weber at his heels. He'd given Hogan and his men plenty of time to worry, he felt. Now, if the American colonel would only be sensible. They still hadn't found the center of his operations, but he'd gotten signed statements from former Underground members identifying Hogan and his "inner circle" as the men who'd plagued the area, who'd caused so much destruction and confusion. They had identified photographs, even if they hadn't always known the names of the men pictured. It would be easy enough now to put all of them before a firing squad, if not within the hangman's noose.
But what a waste of genius that would be.
He got his hopes, and his face, under firm control before entering that last corridor and coming face to face with Hogan.
It was harder than he'd expected, keeping his smart mouth shut, Hogan found as he was faced with the general he'd last seen at Stalag 13. Is he to be my personal nemesis? he wondered as the man stood and studied him intently. Hogan could feel his nerves drawing tighter even as the German gave a small, tight smile and nodded his head briefly, as if he'd confirmed something he'd only suspected up until then.
"Ah, Colonel Hogan," Mannheim purred. "How nice of you and your men to join us. I have a few---a very few---questions for you that it would be to your advantage to answer as quickly and completely as possible.
"How many of you here were actively engaged against the Third Reich while technically prisoners of war?"
Hogan gaped at the general. Surely he didn't really expect an answer to that question! Not after all the pain and misery the Gestapo, in the person of Major Hochstetter, had put him and his men through.
"Come, come, Colonel," Mannheim prodded, his voice still maintaining a pleasant, conversational tone. "I have depositions, sworn to by reliable witnesses, that name you and various of your men specifically. I would hate to execute men whose only crime was to remain silent while you and yours pursued your own private war."
"General, I…" Hogan began, only to be stopped by the German's upraised hand.
"Please, Colonel Hogan. No protestations of ignorance or innocence. I truly have no desire to punish the mostly innocent. I will be satisfied with the names of your innermost circle, those who actively engaged in sabotage. The forgers, makers of uniforms---that sort of thing, all prisoners try to do, in order to escape. I do not hold those activities against them. The war is over, after all. I believe that I have most of them already, so you won't be betraying your loyal men.
"If you don't confess, I will have all the men remaining at Stalag 13 shot, for you will have left me with little choice. You do need to be aware that many identifications have been made based on photographs of your men, so you should not try to leave any of the guilty out.
"You may have a few moments to think it over. Be aware that once I issue execution orders, I will not revoke them should you have second thoughts." Mannheim paused then, allowing time for Hogan to think, as promised.
He was about to speak again, to ask for confessions one last time, when rapidly approaching footsteps caught his attention. One of his staff sergeants burst into the hallway, a dispatch clutched in one hand. Despite the man's obvious excitement, he stopped long enough to come to attention and salute his general with precision, then hurried over to whisper in Mannheim's ear.
«Ah, truly? Sehr gut!» the general exclaimed in open pleasure. «Have Pictures taken; we will wait for the developed Photographs before continuing here. Tell them I will be there personally as soon as possible.»
"Colonel Hogan," he announced, looking at his captives once more, now wearing a large smile. "You will be interested to learn that my men have found your tunnel system, and all the…equipment…that it contained. Most ingenious, I am told. If I had needed further proof, which I did not, I have it now. Consider carefully, Colonel. We will talk later." Then Mannheim left, withdrawing all his men so that his captives could talk among themselves at last.
The uproar in the hall was incredible. Hogan could only stand there in shock at first, at a total loss for the first time since he'd started operations at Stalag 13. Only Newkirk's voice rising above the rest shook him out of it.
"Well, an' don't that just tie it!" the British corporal snarled, his Cockney accent distinctive.
It was all the stimulation Hogan needed. "Okay, pipe down!" he snapped, his voice decisive now. "This isn't going to help us at all." He looked around at the panicked faces of his men. "We'll wait and see if they really did find the tunnels before we do anything else. And if they have, I'll take the fall for the rest of you…"
Again he was drowned out, this time by their protests and objections. "That's enough!" he yelled, fighting to be heard above their voices. "We always knew this could happen," Hogan insisted once the others had quieted a little. "It's my job to take the blame, just like I was the one responsible for giving the orders."
"Beggin' th' Colonel's pardon," Newkirk cut in, "but you seem t' be forgettin' that we're all bloody volunteers 'ere."
"I'm not forgetting anything," Hogan snapped back before the uproar could start again. "The only thing most of you volunteered for was to stay in camp as cover for us, to support the 'no escapes' policy. I'm not about to let you face a firing squad for that."
"Colonel, these Germans aren't stupid," Kinchloe commented in his deep, quiet voice. "They'll know good and well that you had help. No way you could have done all that by yourself. You heard what the General said: He has witnesses for you and others. If you try to protect us, you'll condemn everyone."
"Oui, mon Colonel," LeBeau put in. "You will 'ave to let us go down with you. You can only fool le Boche so far."
Hogan prepared one last protest, but he never uttered it. They were right. He only had to look around at the men held there to know it. All his barracks-chiefs, Wilson, Olsen, and the others from Barracks 2…His entire organization was there. There was not a single innocent man down there in those cells, or chained to the wall…except one. "Who're you?" he asked, nodding towards a British corporal being held in the cells with the barracks chiefs.
"Corporal Gerald Baker, RAF, sir," the man replied, looking as nervous and unhappy as all the rest.
"You don't belong here, Corporal," Hogan said, his eyes going thoughtful. "I don't think I know you…"
"He's been in wi' my lot, sir," Brockington, chief of Barracks 17, said. "Came in about six, seven weeks ago. Said he were shot down in that raid o'er Munich, the freight yards, y'know? Quiet chap."
"Hmmm. Right," Hogan finally said. "Still, you don't belong with this group. I'll see that you get out of here, at least, Corporal."
"I'd appreciate that, sir," Corporal Baker said, a good bit of relief now to be heard in his voice. Inside, the mole's respect for this man Hogan grew, that he would actually worry about someone he felt to be innocent while his own world was crashing down around his head.
"Colonel, you're gonna have to tell him about us," a quiet, high tenor said. "It's the only thing you can do. After all, 'Honesty is the best policy,' as my third-grade teacher, Miss Pruitt, always said. She said…"
"Andrew!" the others chorused, silencing the young American, who had the grace to blush slightly. Somehow he always managed to get carried away.
"He's right, though, Colonel. You're going to have to give us up, or all the rest will suffer for it." Again, Kinchloe, giving good, if unwelcome, advice. My conscience, Hogan thought dryly.
"All right," the colonel sighed, feeling defeated at last, then looking at each of his men in turn. "Anyone not willing to be turned in, tell me now. Otherwise, I'll be admitting to the following…"
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Incredible. Absolutely incredible, Mannheim thought to himself. It was no wonder that idiot Klink had had no idea that all of this was here, under his very nose, and no wonder that even the obnoxiously obsessive Hochstetter had never been able to find proof. Slowly the general prowled through the now-exposed tunnels, nearly in shock at each new revelation:
A full wardrobe and tailoring department, with uniforms for every branch of German service, all ranks. The SS and Gestapo uniforms bore a heavy coat of dust, not having been needed in a good long time.
A fully equipped darkroom, with pictures still hanging where they'd been left to dry.
A complete armory, American (!), British, French, and German weapons included.
A printing press and plates, very good ones, for German currency.
A fully, if primitively, equipped laboratory, and explosives ready to be used.
Maps of Germany, with tactical targets clearly marked.
A radio transmitter and receiver.
Travel rations, and stocks of other foodstuffs.
Temporary barracks facilities for up to 15 men, empty now.
Medical supplies, including British-labeled penicillin.
And at least six miles of tunnels, with entrances concealed all over the camp, into nearly every building and several outside the wire itself, complete with periscopes to check out the areas surrounding the outside before opening the exits.
Incredible. And all discovered quite by accident. Mannheim could only shake his head and wonder at the luck---his luck. Oh, yes, he had Hogan now. The pictures were being developed as he explored down here himself. The Underground informants hadn't even hinted at all of this, no doubt out of a remaining sense of loyalty towards the men who had risked so much to aid their fight against Hitler and his monsters. That, he could even understand. But for all of this to have been created by mere airmen---no, Hogan had to have been more than that, more than just a pilot before the war. This was way too professional a setup for that, no matter how much help he had had. And it would probably never have been found if Mannheim hadn't had Klink replaced by that animal, Major Grüber.
Grüber had not been his choice, but had been recommended by Berlin as a tough Kommandant, just what was needed to regain and keep control of the prisoners until most could be repatriated. He had been, until then, the Kommandant of Stalag 8, a nearby camp for Army personnel, mostly British and Americans, and was said to tolerate no infractions of discipline. Escapees were dealt with very harshly, as were other malefactors. That was what had been known, and told to Mannheim.
What the general only recently had learned, however, was that the major was a sadistic brute who would have happily just shot all of his prisoners at the slightest excuse. Rejected by the SS in its early days, when it was still an elite unit and not yet the pack of bullies it had later become, he had tried to emulate them in the hopes of still being selected, until they had been discredited and disbanded. Now Grüber ran his stalag like a concentration camp, keeping the prisoners on starvation rations, giving excessive cooler time as punishment, along with floggings and no medical attention at all. None of this had been discovered until he'd been at Stalag 13 for four full weeks.
In that short time, the camp had become unlivable. Lice, always a problem under such conditions of dirt, cold, and overcrowding, had nearly overrun the camp. Even the guards were infested with them.
General Mannheim had been warned about Grüber by the commander of a nearby Heer base, who had transferred a workforce of 50 of the sickest men from Stalag 8, working with that camp's adjutant behind Grüber's back. Mannheim had thus made a surprise inspection first of Stalag 8; then, concerned, of Stalag 13. The change had been unbelievable. He had had Grüber arrested at once; then had looked to see what could be done for the men.
Delousing, certainly, followed by hot showers, clean clothes, and food, but the barracks themselves had been so infested by that time that the only thing left had been to burn them. All the men had been transported to the now-nearly-empty Stalag 16, then the first barracks building at Stalag 13 had been put to the torch.
And the first tunnel entrance had been exposed.
They had found the other entrances by following the tunnel branches to their ends. Pictures had been taken of each exit, both open and closed, and carefully labeled as to which building each had been found in. The only one missing was the one from Barracks 5, the building that had been burned. Somehow, the general doubted that that would make any difference, since he had a photo of the dark hole going down from the charred remains. The ladder, miraculously, had not burned with the rest.
--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--
Hours had passed, and Hogan and his men were tired now, and thirsty. They had been forced to stand, for the chains that secured them to the wall were too short to allow them to sit. They were too far from the cells' bars for the men confined therein to give them any water, which was probably just as well, Hogan thought wryly: There was no one to take them on a latrine break. He fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot. At last, a party could be heard approaching.
One look at the thickness of the folder that the German general carried, and Hogan knew it was all over. He and his men were dead; all that remained was to see how many of the others he could save.
The general stopped in front of the American colonel, who really was the most dangerous man in all Germany. "You are a remarkable man, Colonel Hogan," he said in a quiet tone. "I had not expected such an extensive operation. Absolutely incredible. It is a pity that you were not on our side; the war could have been ended much sooner, with far less suffering for all concerned.
"But you will not believe what I know without proof; you will not be fooled easily. So, here is the proof." He slipped the first set of photos out of the folder, holding up those showing the camouflaging bunk, and the opened tunnel entrance from Barracks 2.
"Now, would you care to tell me about it?"
Hogan looked down and sighed. "What do you want to know, General?" he asked, his voice soft in defeat.
"This was a well-run organization, and quite complex. You would have had to delegate a good bit. Which of your men were responsible for what duties?"
Hogan looked up at that, seeing a picture of some of his men being held up next. His men, in "basic black." That picture had been down in the radio room, hung there as a joke one night and apparently forgotten afterward.
"Ooops," Newkirk muttered beside him. "Forgot about that one, I did."
The general chuckled, amused by their byplay. He could identify most of the men in that picture; only two were not already chained to this wall, and those were in the cells across the way. "Who took this picture, just to satisfy my curiosity, Colonel?"
Hogan looked at the photo again, and thought back, then sighed again and shifted his gaze to his adversary. "If I tell you, will you swear on your honor as a German officer that you'll leave the rest alone?"
"You have my word, as an officer and a gentleman, Colonel," the reply came back in a solemn tone. "And I would so swear on a Bible, as well, did I have one to hand. I will not prosecute the men still remaining in camp---they have been moved to Stalag 16, by the way---if they were not actively involved in sabotage or espionage. I do not count the digging of your tunnels against them; everyone knows that prisoners dig tunnels, after all. I will, however, expect a full list of names, whether I have them here already or not. Should I later discover that you have omitted a name…Well, I expect that you will not.
"I am waiting, Colonel."
He looked over at his men. "Sorry, guys, but…"
"Yeah, Colonel. You gotta do it. We understand," Kinch reassured his commanding officer one last time.
"Sergeant Kinchloe was my second in command and primary radio operator," Hogan began, clearly unhappy. "He didn't come out with us often, but sometimes…Sergeant Baker was our relief radio operator. He came out with us more than Kinch did, but still not very often. Mostly it was Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau."
Hogan paused and looked up to see the general's young aide rapidly taking notes. He shook his head, but continued, a bit slower now. "LeBeau did some work on the uniforms, but mostly he cooked for us. He's a really good chef---French, you know," Hogan added with a grin, but the levity faded from his eyes as quickly as it had come. "Corporal Newkirk…Peter picks pockets, cracks safes, forges papers, sews a fine seam, and does great commando work. He's a crack shot. Doesn't take orders all that well, but he's as loyal a man as an officer can ask for.
"Sergeant Carter is our demolitions expert cum chemist. Develops our photos…mostly, he likes big explosions. You know, just a good-hearted, all-American boy."
Mannheim couldn't keep back a chuckle at that. He shook his head then, still fighting back a smile. "Colonel, I am not conducting job interviews, although you do paint some quite convincing pictures of your men. What about this one?" he asked, pointing to a tall young man off to one side in the picture.
"That's Olsen," Hogan answered. He hadn't meant to give him up if it could have been avoided, but… "He did a little sabotage work with us, mostly if it was too big a job for the five of us to handle, or if one of us was indisposed. When we first started operations, he was primarily our "outside man"---he went out and stayed with a local family when we had an escapee from some other camp to hide. We stopped doing that after about eight months, though; it turned out to complicate things too much. After that, he was mostly used for diversions.
"That one's Sgt. Matthews," he continued as the general's fingertip indicated another man in blackface. "One of my barracks chiefs, though those didn't usually get involved in much besides creating diversions. Matthews was another one of my 'sometimes' men, like Olsen."
"And who took this photograph?"
"I did, sir." The voice came out of one of the cells at General Mannheim's back. He turned and looked over the men there, meeting the eyes of a stocky young sergeant who'd stepped to the front. "Sergeant Joe Wilson, sir. I'm a medic."
"Ah," Mannheim acknowledged this volunteered identification. "And did you, too, take part in these activities, Sergeant?"
"Not really, sir. I mean, I didn't go out and blow up anything; I stayed in camp to pick up the pieces and patch up the bullet-holes."
"General," Hogan interjected quickly, "as a medic Sgt. Wilson was technically a noncombatant. He wasn't really involved. Neither were my barracks chiefs, except for Matthews. They just watched out for their men and maintained their tunnel entrances.
"And, General? There's a corporal in here that knows absolutely nothing about all of this. He'd only been in camp maybe three weeks before you took us. He's completely innocent. That's Corporal Baker, there."
"What about your kommandant, Oberst Klink? And that fat sergeant, Schultz?" Mannheim demanded, curious to see how, or even if, Hogan would defend those men.
"Klink?! Come on, General! You met the old 'Iron Eagle,'" Hogan scoffed. "He couldn't have found anything if it was right in front of his face! He would've been sent to the eastern front dozens of times, if it hadn't been for us; we kept him out of trouble, and in charge of the camp, simply because he was so easy to fool. We could've had real problems if we'd had a competent officer in charge."
"And Schultz?"
"Schultz?" Hogan's eyes softened at the thought of the corpulent noncom. "Schultz was a good guy---you know; too gentle. He'd've died anywhere else. We tried not to let him see anything, but I don't honestly know what he really was aware of. He didn't want to know, because he didn't want to get himself or anyone else in trouble. We took advantage of him shamelessly. He never did anything against his own side knowingly, though."
"Anyone else?" Mannheim inquired when Hogan no longer volunteered information.
"Some of the guys worked down in the tunnels, making stuff or digging when we had a rush job," the American colonel admitted unwillingly. "A couple may have come out with us for one or two jobs, but those would have been rare occasions. Mostly the men just stayed in camp, so Klink would have his 'no successful escapes' record intact. They'd help pull botched escapes sometimes, just to keep up appearances. They all considered themselves to be stationed there, General. All volunteers, to support our organization. We tried to keep them out of it as much as possible, just in case something like this should happen. I just hoped I could protect them, if we got caught."
General Mannheim nodded thoughtfully. All the men he'd known about had been identified by Hogan; that had sounded like a very thorough primary confession. Now he could afford to be a little generous. "Very well, Hogan," he began slowly, thoughtfully. "I have no desire, as I have said, to punish men whose only fault was doing their duty. With the exceptions you've mentioned, your Barracks chiefs will be returned to camp and turned out among the general population there. They will be going home soon, as all men holding British and French citizenship are to be processed for repatriation starting next week. Your American comrades are more of a problem, since you've been denied return by your former government. We will work something out for those men, I am certain.
"You and your men will be provided paper and left in your cells to write out full confessions. Understand me well, gentlemen. When I say full confessions, I do not mean a simple statement such as, 'I was one of Hogan's men.'" I want specifics, as much as you can remember, of each of your missions. You will not get your friends from the Underground in trouble, I can assure you. They have all been given blanket amnesties and have written out similar confessions. In any case, this is required of you men, to protect the rest of your comrades.
"Once that is done, you, Corporal LeBeau, and you, Corporal Newkirk, will be eligible for repatriation. You will be returned to the general population until you leave for your respective countries. You will be watched in the future, but you will be freed."
Hogan gaped at the general. If he could only believe it---his men, spared! He snapped his attention back to the general's words.
"…others of your men will also be returned to the general populations. Do you have any questions?"
"I'm sorry, General…"
"I said, your men will all be returned to camp once I have the signed full confessions from all of you," Mannheim repeated carefully.
"And me?"
"You, Colonel Hogan, will unfortunately stand trial for war crimes."
A/N: Prison camps were actually numbered according to the military district that they were located in, followed by a letter which indicated which camp it actually was, e.g., XIIIC. There was no actual district XIV, XV, XVI, or XIX. (That last would have been Russia.) This lets me put Stalag XVI wherever I want. (*wicked grin* Aren't AUs wonderful?)