"Happiness is a Thing Called Joe"
Music by Harold Arlen, lyrics by Yip Harburg. The song was written for the 1943 musical "Cabin in the Sky", recorded by the MGM Studio Orchestra and sung by Ethel Waters.
Not quite a song that got us through World War Two, but it is on my "Big Band Magic: The Sounds of the 40's" album. (See author's notes at the end for more info)
Based on the episode "Operation Briefcase."
The lyrics have nothing to do with the chapter or the characters, but the title does. This is in honor of everyone's favorite canon extra…who only appeared in one episode, for just a few minutes. And it seems that many of us give him the first name, Joe! Which fits, I think.
Wilson slowly trudged back to the empty infirmary, trying not to think about his first case as Stalag 13's new medic. The injured agent had no chance, and there was nothing Wilson could have done, but it hurt terribly just the same. Wilson was so new-he had only been at the Stalag two weeks-that he was convinced that Colonel Hogan didn't recall the medic's name. In fact, Wilson couldn't recall Colonel Hogan's first name. "Guess we're even," he mumbled as he walked up the three steps leading to the infirmary and his quarters.
He closed the door and walked over to the corner where he slept, throwing his bag down on the cot in disgust. "Whatever this mission is, I hope it's worth it." Wilson opened the door to a small locker that held some of his equipment and extra clothing. He reached around a jacket and pried open a secret compartment that one of Hogan's men had installed. In here, he kept some extra medicine, supplies and a flask of good Schnapps…provided by the friendly Frenchman in Barracks two. He grabbed the flask and took a few swigs.
The alcohol didn't help ease the pain. Wilson put away the flask and looked around for something to do. Unfortunately, the infirmary was in tip-top shape. His assistants had been in earlier that day, and the building was as clean and organized as an infirmary could be, considering its location. Until today, Wilson had been pleased with his new posting. Not that he had a choice in the matter. At his former residence, a prison camp several hours south of Hammelburg, Wilson was informed he was being transferred and that he had one hour to pack up his things. Upon his arrival at Stalag 13, he discovered that he was the only medic; previously, the prisoners had to rely on volunteers with first aid training, and the humane treatment provided by a Kommandant willing to transport prisoners to town for medical treatment. The extra added bonus of helping with an underground operation didn't concern the sergeant. He was quite a bit older than most of the prisoners, and the thought of losing his life in front of a firing squad didn't scare him as much as losing a patient in a non-combat situation.
He sighed, walked back to the cot and flopped down. Maybe I'm not cut out for this, he thought. Every time they're outside the wire, I'll worry. How do those guys left behind ever sleep? After he had been cleared, Colonel Hogan had a short conversation with the medic. He gave Wilson the opportunity to back out; telling him that he would be smuggled out of Germany through the Underground. Of course, Wilson had immediately turned down that option; figuring that living in this POW camp was still safer than being a combat medic. And making it out of Germany safely was not guaranteed. Besides, he was needed.
Although still upset by the loss of his first patient in Stalag 13, Wilson moved forward. The medic quickly got back into his routine and began the physicals of every POW in camp; something that was sorely needed. The most practical way of completing this task was to call in each barracks separately, and so he began with Barracks one, skipped two for the time being, as it appeared they were still occupied with the crucial mission that cost one life, and moved onto Barracks three. By the time Wilson made it to Barracks six, he had a rhythm going. His assistants were eager to learn and were helpful, the prisoners were cordial and cooperative, and fortunately, there were fewer problems than he expected; obviously, the camp population received extra supplies from other sources. He discovered the morale was quite good-as one French sergeant explained-they all had a purpose. The medic was occupied with a foot check when the door to the building opened. An enlisted man calling "ten-hut," caused Wilson to pause and look up; the shoeless man jumped to his feet.
"At ease." Hogan moved further into the building and walked over to the medic.
"Something I can do for you, sir?" Wilson asked, noticing to his relief that the colonel neither looked sick, or upset.
"I need the room cleared," Hogan replied. "Except for you, Wilson." The waiting men retrieved their shoes and clothing and without questioning the order, quickly left the building. Wilson's two assistants followed.
"Sit down, Wilson." Hogan grabbed two chairs, straddling one and waited for Wilson to take a seat. "I should have come over sooner, but we were in the middle of something."
"Pardon?" Wilson asked. "Is there something wrong with your health? If there is, you needed to come right away, mission or no mission, sir."
"No." Hogan said. "I'm perfectly fine. I'm here to check on you. Should have done it a lot sooner, but it couldn't be helped. Not the best way to get your feet wet here. Your first case, I mean."
"No, sir. It honestly wasn't. And I heard through the grapevine that the assassination attempt wasn't successful," Wilson whispered, even though he knew there was no one listening.
'Yeah, well…" Hogan ran his fingers through his hair. "The maniac has nine lives, unfortunately. Listen, you said yourself there was nothing that could have been done for Hercules. I know it hurts. I see you're getting things organized?"
Wilson brightened a bit. "Started the physicals and they're going well. I skipped your barracks, but now that the mission is over, I should put you all down for a time. I won't have any issues, will I?" he asked with a bit of hesitation.
Hogan laughed. "Not if I read them the riot act, you won't. And since I'm here, if you want to take care of mine, you have my cooperation."
Wilson was shocked. "Thanks. For some reason, I expected…never mind." (1)
The conversation paused, and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Wilson stood up, cracking his back. "Getting too old for this," he mumbled. "Well, Colonel. Let's get started then. Why don't you come over to the table?"
"What did you say?" Hogan asked as he began to take off his shirt. It was warm, so Hogan had left his flight jacket back at the barracks.
Wilson turned. "Come over to the table?"
"No. Before then. You mumbled something," Hogan said.
"Oh. I'm getting too old for this." Wilson walked over to a file cabinet, opened a drawer and removed a file. Damn, he thought as he looked at the paperwork. I should have remembered Robert.
"I've said the same thing myself; more than once." Hogan neatly folded his shirt and placed it next to him on the examining table. "You're too old to be drafted. Yet, here you are." (2)
The medic took a deep breath. "I was saved by a medic in the trenches. Figured I'd pay it forward. So I signed back up before they could turn me down."
Hogan nodded. He then folded his arms across his chest and looked at the medic, as if he was trying to delve further into the sergeant's soul. It was that look and that moment that Wilson saw and understood what drove the rest of the men at camp to follow the colonel to the ends of the earth, despite the odds that this ludicrous operation would get them all killed.
The two men were all business during Wilson's examination. After he finished, Wilson offered Hogan a cup of coffee and the two men sat and got to know one another.
When the men brought Hercules into the hut, Hogan orders someone to get the medic. Not Sergeant Wilson, or just Wilson. Just the medic; indicating that he may not have known the medic that well. After Wilson hands Hogan the dog tags, Hogan addresses him as sergeant.
(1) It's a common theme in some of the stories on this board that Hogan is an uncooperative patient.
(2) On December 5, 1942, a presidential executive order changed the age range for the draft from 21–45 to 18–38, and ended voluntary enlistment. (Wikipedia) At the time of the episode, Eddie Firestone was 45 or 46. So I assumed Wilson was old enough to be in the First World War
"Cabin in the Sky, with a score by Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg, was the first all-black musical to be adapted to a film that headlined black talent such as Duke Ellington and Lena Horne, and that was intended for a wider general audience in 1943. Harburg saw Arlen as the perfect composer for this musical because of his ability to synthesize African-American rhythms with Jewish liturgical melodies…
Even though Harburg was not a Communist, he did have many friends whose ideologies were to the left. Not surprisingly, he was targeted by the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) and blacklisted from pictures, television and radio in 1950 for more than a decade, largely because he refused to name names of alleged Communist sympathizers for Senator Joe McCarthy's committee. Broadway was his salvation because they were less restrictive"
Source: "Father of the socially conscious lyric" Written by Leigh Donaldson April 17th, 2011 Americansongwriterdotcom
Also by Harburg, "Finian's Rainbow." (another examination of the USA's sordid history of relations between the races)