It wasn't too difficult for an experienced hand like Peter Newkirk to gain entry to the Hammelburg hospital and help himself to a lab coat and clipboard. They'd separated him from the Colonel upon arrival here. Newkirk had been sent to some rest camp to do menial chores, isolated from others. It didn't take long to discover the camp was for those too badly wounded to recover completely. Evidently it didn't matter to Der Fuehrer if those men got influenza or not. Newkirk truly didn't feel very good for the first couple of days. But under the weight of exhaustion, he finally got some good nights' sleep and he began to feel better. Good enough to slip out one night and head for Hammelburg.
The huge hospital was in chaos; a flood of victims from nearby cities being deluged with Allied bombs bore stark witness to the collapse of the Luftwaffe. This combined with the torrent of wounded back from the front made the hospital a mass of humanity and chaos. All of this made if fairly easy to walk around freely but it also complicated the mission of finding Hogan. After nearly an hour of wandering around, Newkirk stumbled across a small area at the very end of the hall. The armed guard standing in the corridor was a sign this wasn't where they took the brave, wonderful, wounded Kraut soldiers, Newkirk thought bitterly. He nodded briefly at the guard and asked for a fictitious doctor. The guard, a hardened man whose left arm did not work properly, merely grunted nein and turned away. Newkirk responded with a gesture at the man's back.
As luck would have it, he found a small storage closet, filled with glasses, trays and blankets. Newkirk was able to get inside without attracting the guards' notice. He settled in to await developments.
About half an hour later, Newkirk was delighted with another stroke of luck. A new Wehrmacht soldier came on, talking to the original guard. Newkirk peeped out, cracking the door a sliver. The two talked for a bit, then with a final admonition, the guard relinquished his gun and stomped down the hallway. Newkirk indulged in a silent chortle when he observed the new guard make the same gesture at the man's back. The new guard was a kid, a boy really, and the Englishman wasted no time in talking his way in.
Newkirk crept into the darkened room. There were two beds, both under small semi circles of yellow light. Robert Hogan lay in the far bed, eyes closed. His face was as pale as the pillowcase under him. There was an IV in his arm. Newkirk moved quietly closer when a gruff voice called out.
"What the hell are you doing here? Haven't your lot questioned that poor chap enough?"
Newkirk turned to an angry young man in the first bed. "Mate, you're English!"
The man's eyes narrowed. "I say, it sounds like you are too. Or you're the Gestapo trying a new tactic on us."
"I'm not, old boy," Newkirk replied, copying the man's upper crust tone. "I'm taking a chance that you aren't either. I'm here to check up on your roommate. How's he doing?"
"Who the devil are you anyway?"
"Peter Newkirk, corporal, RAF."
"Oh. Well, here's hoping you aren't Jerry in disguise. I'm Major Peter Stanley, RAF."
The two exchanged handshakes. "Beg pardon, Major, but I am rather anxious about Colonel Hogan," Newkirk said quickly.
"Anxious not to get caught here either, right?" Stanley observed.
"Right, sir."
"As far as I can tell, I think he's getting a bit better, although the times he's been awake he's been very guarded around me. Quite understandable. Sometimes they keep him drugged through the day; that's why he's not responding right now. But the Gestapo usually show up at night and have a go at questioning him. They seem to think he knows a lot about what's going on in the sabotage department."
Newkirk wandered over next to Hogan and touched his shoulder lightly. "Don't worry, governor, I won't be far off. I promise." He turned back to Stanley. "But he is getting proper medical care?" Lord, the guv'nor looks awful. Gaunt and unshaven, he looked anything but a cocky Yank colonel now.
"Yes, Jerry seems very keen on that. For now at least. It's getting harder for them; they have so many casualties coming in. Resources are strained."
Newkirk paused to study Major Stanley. Younger than he'd first thought and obviously upper crust. The kind Newkirk despised any other time in his life. "When do you expect the Gestapo back?"
"Well, I'd guess in about an hour or so. They like to wake up him and then see if they can shake him into some careless remark." Stanley paused a moment then added admiringly, "So far they've had no luck with him at all."
"And they won't," Newkirk added spiritedly. "What about you, mate?"
For the first time, Stanley was uncomfortable. "Nothing about me, mate."
"What?" Uneasily, Newkirk finally let himself see the desolate look on the young major's face.
"See here, chap, I'm dying. Bad crash you know; insides are scrambled, among other things. They don't care if I get the damned influenza or not. They've pumped me so full of drugs, I should be comatose. But I'm not. My body's dying but I feel so…. alive."
For the first time, Newkirk noticed all the equipment around Stanley and the tent where the right leg should have been. Suddenly it all fell into place. "What I can do for you, Major?"
"I know it's a bit dangerous… for you to stay, I mean. And I won't ask about your relationship with the Yank there. Better that I not know, in case something slips. But if you could, stay a bit. Talk to me of England."
Newkirk nodded and drew up a chair. "England, then."
Stanley smiled, although it was a bit strained. "Yes, England." He thought a moment. Perhaps a quick note to my wife?"
"Of course, mate." Newkirk scrounged up some paper and a newly stolen pen.
HH HH HH
The atmosphere in Stalag 13 should have gotten better since Colonel Hogan had been taken to the hospital, Wilhelm Klink observed. Instead, it was worse than ever. The three remaining members of Hogan's inner circle were the culprits and should probably be separated. Klink expected problems from LeBeau; the little cockroach was French and therefore hysterical most of the time anyway. Young Carter moped around and talked incessantly of his pet mouse. Not for the first time, Klink wondered if Carter was all there, mentally speaking. But it was Sergeant Kinchloe who surprised and worried Klink the most. Normally the most even tempered and rational of men, Kinchloe had instead turned into a sullen, driven man who haunted the exercise yard still looking for the man who'd turned Colonel Hogan in. No matter how many times Klink warned him, Kinchloe was still at it.
Klink reluctantly lay down his latest copy of Wild Willful Frauleins and went to look out his window. His monocle fell out at what he saw.
HH HH HH
"Powers!"
Corporal Samuel Powers nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned and saw that big Yank sergeant, Kinchloe, bearing down on him in the exercise yard. The black man looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His two little shadows, LeBeau and Carter, trailed behind.
Powers attempted to keep his voice even and relaxed even though his heart was racing. "What is it, Sergeant?"
Kinchloe stood in front of him, towering over him. "Peterson told me."
Despite the fact his heart was pounding in fear, Powers acted nonchalant. "Told you what, Sergeant?"
"Told us you were the big mouth who told the Bosche about Colonel Hogan," LeBeau hissed angrily.
"Yeah, Peterson thought he could trust you. Thought we were all on the same side," Carter added.
"I just wanted to know what your excuse was before I take you apart," Kinchloe said angrily.
Powers, though frightened, was also angry. "Look, just because you chaps want to die for Colonel Hogan doesn't mean the rest of us do. I haven't found anyone worth dying over in this bloody war!"
Smug righteousness coming from what he saw as a coward was too much for Kinchloe. He lashed out with his fist, catching Powers right in the nose. Powers was not match for Kinchloe but another RAF man took offense to a Yank hitting a fellow Englishman. Suddenly things escalated out of control as the brawl spread. Guards blew their whistles, sirens went off, men fought in the middle of the yard and Schultz ran around shouting ineffectually for everyone to stop. Klink rushed out into the yard but was knocked down by one of his own men rushing to stop the fight.
It was during this chaos that the Gestapo car came through the front gates.
HH HH HH
The Gestapo ruled with an iron hand and not even General Burkhalter, had he been so inclined, could stop the changes. Colonel Wilhelm Klink was relieved of command. He and Sergeant of the Guard, Hans Schultz, also relieved, were to await new orders sending them to an active front in the war. Sergeant James Kinchloe, identified as the attacker in the brawl, was transferred out to another Stalag. The new Kommandant, Major Von Reuter, took over and immediately transferred Corporal Louis LeBeau out after charging him with insolence. Sergeant Andrew Carter followed later, the charge being failure to obey a guard. Suddenly Stalag 13 was a different place entirely.
HH HH HH
James Kinchloe threw his gear down on the narrow wooden bunk in some disgust. Compared to this Stalag 13 was the Hotel Roosevelt. Wind whistled through the cracks and the air was damp and oppressive. "This is going to be jolly." He muttered to himself, borrowing one of Newkirk's posh accents.
He almost started berating himself, again, for letting his temper get away from him. Colonel Hogan would not have lost his head like that. The Colonel would have thought up some diabolical scheme to nail that little rat Powers.
But Kinch's bad judgment had been compounded by bad luck when the Gestapo showed up at the same time the brawl had gotten completely out of control. Still, Kinch thought the timing a bit suspicious; one lapse, a big one to be sure, and suddenly Klink was out and some new guy in. Kinch knew the Krauts had been looking for something on Klink for years but this seemed awfully fast.
The door opened, letting in a little light and a lot of cold air. Three black American prisoners spotted Kinchloe and approached. "So, you're Sergeant Kinchloe?" The first one spoke, wearing a corporal's stripe.
As the tone was anything but friendly and not accompanied by a salute, Kinch was guarded in his reply. "That's right."
"We've heard about you," the smallest man said snidely. "Heard you were busy playin'Uncle Tom to some big shot white officer over at Stalag 13. We just wanted to let you know there ain't no officer here, white or otherwise, for you to hide behind. You're just one of us here. Ain't got nothin' and won't ever have nothin'."
"You're right. But I'd still be a sergeant and you three will be a corporal and two airmen, right?"
The three exchanged an uneasy look. "OK, wise guy. Now we know." The corporal decided to tough it out. "You have been hanging around white officer trash too long. You got uppity ways."
Kinch stood up straighter and moved closer to the three, who immediately moved back. "Aren't you boys doing what we always complain about the whites doing? Lumping us all in one group, good or bad?"
Getting three blank looks in return, Kinchloe sighed. "As none of you outrank me and we're still in this army, I'll thank you to mind your own business."
The three stumbled away sullenly, the corporal looking mutinous but not enough to openly challenge Kinch.
The Sergeant shook his head and put away his meager belongings. His bunk was naturally in the coldest, darkest part of the building.
By the time he'd finished, two white men approached him, both wearing US army sergeant's stripes. "We heard about you over at Stalag 13," the oldest one said. "We just want you to know your place; we don't want no uppity black men around here."
Kinch's already frayed patience was beginning to wane. "What's your date of rank, sergeants?"
Both were taken aback at the question but force of habit compelled them to answer.
"June, 1942."
"March 1943."
"Mine is February of 1942. So I'll thank both of you to know your place. Now get out of here; from what I've seen so far, your military discipline stinks."
The two left, muttering amongst themselves, thoroughly routed.
Bitterly, Kinch sat down on the bunk. Stalag 4 was a dump populated by losers of all colors.
Suddenly the war seemed endlessly long.
HH HH HH
"Filthy Bosche! I should have poisoned you all when I had the chance!"
Louis LeBeau shouted angrily from his cell as his two self-satisfied guards strolled away, grinning and uncaring. They did not understand LeBeau's French and they did not consider the small French prisoner much of a threat.
LeBeau collapsed on the rock hard bunk, unshed tears burning his eyes. It was all so frustrating! After the fight, he had been taken soon after to Stalag 10. Not even a chance to say au revoir to Kinchloe and Carter. Everything had fallen apart so fast. The Colonel and Newkirk taken away, Kinchloe learning the identity of the informer and then the fight in the yard. LeBeau's last glimpse of Stalag 13 was of a despondent Klink and Schultz hauling their gear to the car. By their expressions, LeBeau knew they were bound for the front, somewhere. Probably in Russia he supposed.
The Frenchman immediately quashed any thought of pity however. It was all that idiot Klink's fault. If he had left mon Colonel and Newkirk with their friends, none of this would have happened. But no. The old Bald Eagle had to become a public spirited health monitor and now all was ruined.
He wondered if Kinch had finished with that traitorous RAF corporal by the time the Krauts had pulled him off. LeBeau could admit now that even he had been secretly a bit frightened of their radio operator's rage when he learned the identity of the informer. Kinchloe was always cool and in control. He had even calmed Colonel Hogan down on occasion.
LeBeau knew that Kinch took Powers' informing as a personal insult. They had all felt an obligation to watch Colonel Hogan's back but Kinch took it as a sacred duty. The Sergeant was a quiet man. He had quickly become the Colonel's right hand man. Hogan once joked that Kinch was probably the most military of them all. LeBeau realized now just how much of a strain Kinch had been under, to blow up like that at Powers.
LeBeau shrugged into his coat and pulled the thin coarse blanket around him. "Lousy Krauts" he muttered.
Since arriving at Stalag 10, LeBeau had spent more time in the cooler than his assigned barracks. The guards here, while not malicious, were not the tolerant types of Stalag 13. LeBeau hadn't particularly liked any of his new barracks mates and the trouble had started from there.
But sitting the cooler gave him plenty of time to think and worry. He wondered about Newkirk. Please God Pierre was not sick too.
What had happened to Kinchloe and Carter? LeBeau hoped at least his two American colleagues had been allowed to stay together.
And what of mon Colonel ? LeBeau prayed nightly that he would recover. Hogan should be sent home after this; London owed it to him. He had done more than enough in this war.
Also, LeBeau just prayed that they would all survive this war to see each other again one day.
HH HH HH
"What'cha doin', Andrew?"
Airman Pete Bell sat down next to Sergeant Carter on a bench outside the barracks. The sunshine was weak and watery and the day chill but it was still better than being inside.
Carter was holding his customary two tin plates up next to his face. "I'm trying to get a tan, like those Hollywood guys. That way I'll look good when I get home to Mary Jane." Carter paused, "Oh, I forgot. Mary Jane got herself a new guy."
"Oh, that's tough. My Betty promised to wait for me and that's what she'd better do. Or else….," Pete floundered for a bit as he pondered the 'or else.'
Andrew considered his new best friend. Compared to Petey, Carter felt worldly wise. "Sometimes girls don't mean what they say," he said sadly. "I know."
"Not my Betty," Pete maintained stoutly.
Carter looked at him almost pityingly. "You'll find out, one way or the other, I guess."
"Hey, look. Here are our KP specialists. And expert latrine diggers." Sergeant Seldon of the American Army Air Corp, strolled by, accompanied by his two toadies, Corporal Jonas of the Free French and Corporal Patterson of the RAF. "We need you both; the Krauts want volunteers for KP duty. Find Sergeant Mahler and get shakin'."
With a resigned sigh, Bell started to stand but Carter caught his arm. "This is five days in a row we've been on KP duty. Why is it always us?"
Seldon looked ominous. "Why what, Carter?"
Carter swallowed. "Why us, sir?"
"Well, because you asked so nicely, it's because I'm the senior sergeant here and I'm in charge. You should be used to taking orders since you had a full colonel in your last camp. I'm sure he didn't dirty his lily white hands digging latrines!"
"No, because he got the Krauts to do it," Carter retorted.
Seldon was nonplussed. "He what?"
Carter was about to launch into a detailed explanation of life in Stalag 13 when Seldon waved him off. "Never mind. Just go report to Mahler, on the double."
Carter reluctantly put down his plates and he, with Bell, moved to where Mahler was assembling his work detail. Seldon said something as they walked away and his two compatriots laughed.
"This isn't right," Carter seethed. "We had kitchen duty all last week and three days the week before that. The only time I haven't done KP is the first week I was here."
"The Army sure isn't what I thought it would be," Pete mourned. "I wanted to shoot some Krauts out of the sky; instead I end up washing their dishes."
"Well, I've had enough," Carter said, almost without realizing he'd spoken aloud.
"What'cha goin' do? There would just be a Sergeant Seldon wherever you go," Pete pointed out.
"No, there isn't. Colonel Hogan rarely had us doing this. And Sergeant Kinchloe was nothing like Seldon. He never pushed anyone around."
"Well, it doesn't matter anyway. You're stuck here with the rest of us."
"No. I'm leavin'. Tonight. Come with me, Pete."
Carter had stopped and Pete did too. "Andrew, I don't want the Krauts to shoot you."
"They won't; a nice exploding building is a great distraction. Come on, Petey, come with me."
"No, no, I can't," Pete insisted, his face a mixture of fear and uncertainty.
"Well, you can still change your mind." Carter was saddened but resolute, his mind mentally listing the items he'd need for the explosion.
That night a storage shed exploded at Stalag 11. Nobody was hurt but in the melee one prisoner escaped. Another prisoner kicked himself for not taking a chance.