Chapter 4

Much of the dialogue of this chapter is drawn from the opening scene of Season 3, Episode 3 of Hogan's Heroes, "D-Day at Stalag 13," written by Richard M. Powell. I rely heavily on Mr. Powell's dialogue but have embellished it with Hogan's reflections and responses, based in part on Bob Crane and J. Pat O'Malley's creations of their characters in that episode, and I have made a few very minor changes. The British General is nameless in the credits for the episode: I have given him the actor's last name as a tribute to his realization of the character. J. Pat O'Malley played another general on another episode (General Tillman Walters, on Season 1, Episode 24, "How to Cook a German Goose by Radar,") but the general in that episode was American so I have kept the names and characters separate. I am grateful to Mr. Powell and Mr. O'Malley for their work on this episode—along with all the regular cast and crew of the show, of course—and acknowledge that all the rights to their work belong to them and the show's creators.

ooOoo

Shortly after midnight, June 3, 1944

Hogan stiffly climbed down from the plane on the tarmac, nodding his thanks to the pilot. His feet touched the ground—free British soil.

Did that make him a free man, albeit temporarily? One thought of his men at Stalag 13, waiting through the night for his return, ended that line of thought. No—he was as tied to the camp right now as much as if he were still in Germany.

"I'll have the plane ready to go when you're done, sir—get you back before daylight," the young lieutenant—impossibly young in Hogan's eyes—who had piloted the plane told him seriously.

"Thanks," he answered. They had kept to protocol: no discussion of the mission, or anything else beyond trading official recognition codes when the plane had landed in the field that served as the makeshift landing strip, lit by the flashlights Hogan, LeBeau, Kinch, and Carter had set up as markers. Hogan hadn't needed conversation: he had enough to worry and wonder about, given this required personal call to England, to keep him occupied for the flight—and he had wanted to avoid the temptation of back-seat flying, given the pilot's obvious competence. The flight had revived his itch to fly, but he knew he would have no chance to scratch it for a long time to come.

It was dark but clear, with just enough ambient light from the stars and waxing moon for Hogan to see his welcoming committee: two men. He heard, "This way, sir," from the one on the right and recognized the voice as Posh. He followed them wordlessly to a jeep. He could see the outline of a big building in the distance, which proved to be a grand country house when they pulled up in front of it a few minutes later. Hogan wondered if the landing strip predated the war or if it had been put in for secret meetings of this kind.

Not that he would ever know. He had only the vaguest idea of where he was, some ways north of London to shorten his trip, and in the middle of the countryside—as close to the middle of nowhere as possible in England for secrecy's sake, he was sure.

The vehicle halted and Hogan jumped out, looking up at the huge building. He hadn't expected "the castle" of the orders from last night to be quite so literal. He was willing to be that actual balls had been held here.

A door opened slightly: only dim light came out through the crack. Clearly, blackout rules were in place. Hogan entered and found himself in a large kitchen. Tradesmen's entrance apparently.

"In here, sir," said Posh's voice, now revealed in the light as belonging to a major in the British army. Hogan didn't ask his name, fairly sure he wasn't supposed to know it. Posh was gesturing to a hallway, and following him Hogan found himself in a small room with a desk and two chairs—and an American Class A uniform hanging on a clothes hanger from a peg. No hat, but he wouldn't need cover inside. He sighed with relief. They probably shouldn't take the time, but he could be quick. He started to shuck his leather jacket off as Posh closed the door. When the next tap came on the door, Hogan was redressed and knotting his tie. He slid into his tunic, swiftly buttoned its three buttons, and started buckling his belt.

"Ready, sir?" asked Posh.

"Yes, Major," Hogan answered, following him out as he finished buckling the belt and tugging at his tunic, hoping he looked straight. There hadn't been a mirror in the small room.

Posh led him up a set of stairs which opened into a hallway, then through a series of large, ornate rooms. This place belonged to someone really rich. Hogan wondered where the earls or dukes or barons or whoever all this belonged to was while the military occupied their house. Fortunately, they passed two large, ornate mirrors on the walls, and he was able to check that he looked correct and then breathe a little easier. Posh stopped outside a wood door with a guard posted in front of it, knocking firmly—probably just to be heard inside, Hogan guessed, given the door's obvious sturdiness.

The door opened, and Hogan entered a wood-paneled room that looked like it was once a private study in pre-war days, and now served as an office. Churchill's portrait glowered at him from the wall, accompanied by a similar sized painting of King George VI just behind a massive wooden desk. General O'Malley had opened the door himself, and Hogan instantly offered a salute, which O'Malley returned.

"Hogan," O'Malley warmly greeted him, closing the door behind them. "Bit of a dirty trick, flying you to London for an hour of being a free man, and then dropping you back at Stalag 13."

Hogan had been studying the general, whom he remembered well from his time attached to the RAF and for whom he had felt respect and admiration and even a measure of affection during the hard-fought days of the Battle of Britain and then the Blitz, when O'Malley had gone well beyond merely keeping a stiff upper lip to sustain flagging men's spirits. Hogan had never served with an officer so able to find hope in the midst of despair. O'Malley had also been the major support for the operation at Stalag 13 in its founding and had overseen it since. He might have an Irish surname, but Hogan had always found him upper-crust English through and through. O'Malley looked a bit older now, more worn—but also buoyant, despite the late hour.

Hogan answered in kind, "Breaks up the day, sir."

O'Malley chuckled, "You're a good man," and clapped him on the back affectionately. He took two steps to a map of Europe on the wall, but drew down a second map of France over it. "This is it, Hogan: the day we've been waiting for. And here is how it will roll out." He guided his hand over the beaches of Normandy—not heavily fortified Calais, that tempting spot so close to England that it was visible from Dover on a clear day. Not Le Havre, with its useful port. Not Cherbourg, whose position at the tip of its peninsula would mean less water to cross but also an area easy for the Germans to bottleneck once forces were ashore. Instead, a broad swathe of beaches—Hogan remembered flying over them—that would provide a way for armies to fan out into France once they gained a foothold. That would be a brutal fight, Hogan was sure. A lot of Allied soldiers were going to die. But he was also sure they and their surviving comrades would prevail.

Studying the map, he decided to risk a question, given how much O'Malley was sharing with him. "When is D-Day, sir?"

O'Malley gently touched the Normandy coast again then firmly rolled the map up. "You must forget you saw that." He cocked an eye at Hogan, who nodded. "Now, I can't tell you the exact date—even to tell you this much had to be cleared at the highest level of intelligence, the old man himself—but, the date will be soon."

Hogan blinked. Churchill had been consulted on . . . whatever this was that he had been brought over here for? Had personally cleared him? He began wondering just what kind of rabbit hole he had fallen down. But he kept his composure and managed to refocus on the issue of the date. "It's been a long time coming, sir."

"A long time," O'Malley agreed, "and we don't want any mistakes—not on our part."

"Yes, sir," Hogan agreed.

"Of course, we could use a few mistakes from Jerry, and that's," O'Malley shook his finger right at him, "why you're here, Hogan. Have a drink?" he inquired, clapping Hogan on his right arm.

Strong alcohol in the middle of the night, on an empty stomach, with a flight back to Germany and a parachute jump ahead of him—and the Allied invasion of Europe as the topic of discussion? Hogan figured he could do without. "No, thank you, sir," he answered politely.

"Ah, don't mind if I do," O'Malley said, crossing the room to the sideboard that held two cut lead crystal decanters and a matching set of glasses. "Now, the German General Staff knows something is up," he said as he poured himself a generous helping. "They are meeting tomorrow to plan their strategy. That, we know for a fact." He raised the glass and took a good swallow.

Which day did "tomorrow" mean now that it was after midnight? "Very good intelligence, sir," Hogan answered with cautious respect. "Ah—tomorrow meaning the 4th?"

O'Malley drained his glass and smiled. "Yes, Colonel." He shook his glass at Hogan. "And we know more. Our bombers have pounded just about every spot in Germany they've used for a meeting place, so they're going where we don't think we'll follow: Stalag 13."

A knot formed in Hogan's stomach as he foresaw one possible logical conclusion to O'Malley's point. Would they actually— Surely not. But had the bastards in the brass pulled him out, leaving the others so that— "You're gonna bomb us?" he asked, voice low, needing this answer to be the right answer more than for any other question he could ever remember asking a superior officer.

O'Malley studied him. "It's been brought up," he admitted as he turned and put his glass down.

Hogan found himself holding his breath and began running through plans in his head—how could he get to a radio and warn Kinch—but how many of his men could he save even if he could find one? The tunnels would be death traps in a bombing raid: they couldn't stand up to that kind of pounding right in camp. But the wood barracks huts on the surface would be just as bad. . . .

"—and rejected," O'Malley finished, looking back up at him.

Hogan relaxed and smiled slightly. He should have known to trust O'Malley on an issue like this, although he was quite certain O'Malley had told him the truth about the debate over this question to let him know how seriously command had taken this issue. Nonetheless, he was quite sure which side of the tactical argument O'Malley had taken. All right, whatever they wanted, he'd do it for them. Anything to prevent that other ruthless alternative. He was more than ready to listen.

"Which is where you come in, Hogan." O'Malley must have seen some of the inner turmoil Hogan had experienced. The general patted him lightly twice on right upper arm, pushing him toward the desk. "Sit down." O'Malley gestured at the chair in front of the desk for Hogan as he himself went behind the desk. But the general didn't sit; instead, he stood, leaning forward by resting his hands on the desk. "Hogan, you have quite a reputation for the offbeat, the bizarre, and for bringing it off."

Hogan gave credit where credit was due: "I have a good crew, sir," he answered with a smile. It wouldn't hurt to remind General O'Malley, however sympathetic to his unit the man had been, of the reality and importance of his men's lives and their contributions to the unit's effectiveness.

O'Malley nodded. "And you're going to need them." He sat down behind his desk. "Now, sometime in the next very few days, the greatest amphibious force in history is going to hit the coast of France. And when it does, we need desperately some indecision from the Germans, before they react. Now Hogan, we want nothing less from you than to tie up the German General Staff."

Hogan tilted his head slightly as he stared at the general, wondering if he'd heard correctly.

O'Malley returned his stare with a penetrating gaze. "Can you do it?"

So yes, he was serious. Hogan wondered if he looked as shell-shocked as he felt at the prospect of the order, however much it was phrased as a request for him to volunteer. And yet . . . it could make all the difference to the German response to the invasion if the generals were in disarray in some way. And they were all gathering right at Stalag 13, of all places. So very convenient. . . . He compressed his lips. "I must say, sir, it's quite a challenge."

O'Malley smiled, the look on his face both grim and proud. "That's good enough." He gave a small wink of his right eye, as if suggesting that he and Hogan were in on a secret together. Which, Hogan supposed, they were.

"The means . . . we'll leave up to you," O'Malley added.

So they were giving him a free hand, to be as crazy—or bizarre—as he needed, no questions asked. "Thank you, sir," Hogan answered, genuinely appreciating the faith O'Malley was demonstrating in him.

O'Malley got up and came around the desk, and Hogan stood as well. "Oh, and just one more thing. Our informant will also be at Stalag 13. She is the wife of General von Scheider, German Chief of Staff."

Hogan's spirits rose with that information. An ally in the enemy camp. That would be useful! "That's a pretty good informant!"

O'Malley was walking toward door; clearly the interview was essentially over. "Well, yes and no. You see, we planted her years ago before she married von Scheider, and after that we dropped contact with her, deliberately. Too risky. But she has continued to send information, including about this meeting. Now there's no reason to hold back. This is it. Use her if you can, Hogan. But remember, she's been away from us a long time. Don't trust her completely—unless you have to."

"Yes, sir," Hogan answered quietly.

O'Malley clapped him on arm one last time and opened the door. "Good luck, old man," he said genially. "Your driver will get you back to your plane." He gave Hogan's arm an extra squeeze, with an oddly meaningful look Hogan didn't know how to interpret.

"Thank you, sir," Hogan answered, saluting the General O'Malley in the doorway.

Hogan turned as the door close behind him as he turned, looking for the British major who had brought him there. But he wasn't there. Instead, a short, stocky but wiry American officer with gray hair stood on the far side of the room, back turned, examining a painting of a hunting scene, and smoking a cigar.

He turned, and Hogan looked across the room to the grim face of General Aloysius Barton.

ooOoo

Author's Note: Among its many and various impossibilities, the timeline for "D-Day at Stalag 13" is historically impossible. The show has Hogan meet the general overnight in London, get back to camp that morning, the general staff arriving an hour later, and Hogan replacing von Scheider with Klink that evening, just before Operation Neptune begins. This would mean Hogan left for London late on the 4th, got back the morning of the 5th, and the invasion started about 18 hours later, just after midnight on the 6th. But there's this glaringly obvious historical contradiction: Eisenhower delayed the assault by 24 hours because of the weather: D-Day should have been on June 5th. So the timeline on the show absolutely doesn't work. (I know, along with a bunch of other problems. . . .)

So my solution to this problem (there's only so much I can fix) is to back events up a bit—and I realized the dialogue from the show had an ambiguous line I could exploit when the general tells Hogan the German General Staff will meet at Stalag 13 "tomorrow." You've probably experienced that confusion between clock time, calendar date, and lived experience—it doesn't feel like it is "tomorrow" until you've been to bed. The show seems to use the "tomorrow" as meaning the day that Hogan is currently in the wee hours of (the 5th), but I thought I could build in the needed 24 hours by making it more literal. That would give Hogan time to get back to camp on the 3rd, start working on the plan that day, have the generals arrive on the 4th with Hogan ready to move that night if needed, but holding off a day when the invasion doesn't happen till the first hours of the 6th.

Most of you probably already know this, but "D-Day" is military shorthand for the day of any operation begins. In the episode, when Hogan guesses that the map refers to "D-Day," he is applying the post-war nickname for Operation Neptune (the invasion of the Normandy beaches), which was the prelude to Operation Overlord (the battle for Normandy as a whole). Since I (unlike the show) am trying to be a bit more historically accurate, I changed the line slightly to have Hogan ask the general when D-Day will occur, so that he means it in the conventional military usage, not knowing that the term will get tagged to this particular event in the future.

Oh, and I fixed the post-war map of Europe with a divided Germany (a notorious props blooper in this episode) and took out the arrows—that would be a stupid thing to have hanging on the wall, no matter how good your security.