The morning dawned crisp and bright, clouds parting to reveal sunshine that had been long-missed. Colonel Hogan leaned against the wall of the Commandant's office and watched the orderly roll call with a satisfied smile on his face and his cap pulled low over his eyes.
"Everyone's here, sir," Carter reported to him. "Even General Burkhalter, although he's complaining about getting up early after his late night."
"Doesn't surprise me." Hogan frowned as he saw something on the other side of the yard. "What's Klink up to? He always gets that look when he causes trouble for someone."
"Well, as soon as roll call was finished he told Burkhalter that they needed to talk. Burkhalter asked if it could wait until after he brushed his teeth, and Klink told him it was urgent. You don't suppose they're cooking up another escape?" Carter asked.
"I don't know. Go tell Klink I want to see him inside."
"Yes sir." Carter headed across the yard toward the two Germans.
"General Burkhalter, you don't seem to understand," Klink was saying in a pleading tone, ignoring the presence of the American soldier. "I have worked tirelessly—given the best years of my life—to maintain the perfect record of Stalag 13! Should my contribution to the war effort be overlooked merely because we happen to lose?"
"Sir—" Carter tried to get his attention.
"Because we happen to lose?" General Burkhalter echoed indignantly. "You are one of the biggest reasons we lost this war!"
"Colonel Klink—"
"What do you want?" Klink demanded, spinning around to face Carter.
"Colonel Hogan would like to see you in his office, sir," Carter told him politely.
"Good. Maybe I can get my teeth brushed and my hair combed." The general turned on his heel and marched toward the barracks where he had taken up solitary residence.
"Did he say what he wants?" Klink asked.
The sergeant shook his head. "He just said to tell you that he wants to see you inside."
Carter left Klink on the porch outside the office and headed back across the camp, leaving the colonel to enter alone. With a deep breath and a squaring of his shoulders, he pushed open the door and assumed a confident expression.
Hilda didn't look up from her writing. "Colonel Hogan is waiting."
Klink paused beside the desk. "Hilda, why did you stay on here after Hogan and his men took over?"
"You asked me to, Herr Kommandant," she replied. She finished the sentence she was writing and pulled another sheet of paper toward herself.
"Do you know what Hogan wants?" he tried.
"I'm sorry, I don't." Her head lifted and she smiled at something past his shoulder, and Klink turned to see Hogan standing in the office doorway.
"I wanted to talk to you about your escape attempt last night."
Klink pushed past him into the office and stood staring at the map hanging behind the desk, a picture of defiance that would crumble at a touch. "I only did my duty as a German soldier."
"After surrendering?" Hogan moved behind the desk and dropped his cap on top of the empty cigar box. "Come off it, Klink, we both know that wasn't the reason."
"Colonel Hogan!" Klink drew himself up. "Are you suggesting that I made my escape for reasons other than the honor—" his chest puffed out "—and the military decorum expected of a soldier on the battlefield—"
"We're not on the battlefield, Klink, we're in a P.O.W. camp." Tired of his opponent's posturing, Hogan dropped down into the chair. "You hoped to show me up and give me the escape you never had under your command. I could order you to spend time in the cooler for that."
Klink deflated like the tires on his staff car after the men finished 'repairing' them.
"But I won't. I think you've learned your lesson."
"Thank you." Klink said the unaccustomed words like a child resisting his vegetables.
"Why aren't you digging?" Major Hochstetter tried to maintain his usual shriek, but his voice was hoarse after a night spent scolding his driver.
The uniformed driver lifted his head from its drooping position. "Herr Major, we have been digging for two hours and the car is still stuck. I think we should walk back to the road and try to get a ride."
"You are not here to think!" Hochstetter snapped. "I never should have sent Corporal Rahm to the Russian front. He would never have driven off the road and into a mud hole."
"He is getting closer to being back every day," the driver mumbled under his breath, then set to work on the rear tire again.
The sound of a vehicle crashing through undergrowth further up the road made them both spin around. "Wait here. I will investigate," Major Hochstetter ordered curtly, trying to brush the worst of the mud from his coat.
He tramped up the slope, pausing behind a tree when laughter and voices drifted down to him. Someone was singing 'Deep In The Heart of Texas' in a warbling tenor.
Hochstetter peered around the tree trunk. A jeep full of American soldiers had come to grief on the slick road, and the men were alternating between trying to push it out and abusing the driver who was singing. "You ain't Bing Crosby, Mercer, so shut your mouth and drive that sucker!" a mud-splashed soldier shouted.
"You may be witnessing the early career of the next big hit in show business!" the singer called back. "As soon as this war is over—what was that?"
The Gestapo major ducked away from the tree and headed back down the hill, but behind him he heard the singer shout, "I'm sure I saw someone over there. Hey!"
Hochstetter slid, regained his footing, and kept moving.
"You there! Halt or I shoot!"
"Colonel! Colonel!" LeBeau was shouting at the top of his lungs as he barged into the office, an apron still tied around his waist from his supper preparations. "Kinch says the tanks are coming! They are flying the American flag!"
Hogan grabbed the Frenchman by both shoulders to steady him. "Easy, LeBeau! Is he sure?"
Boots clattered outside, and Newkirk's face appeared in the open door. "American tanks, Colonel." He tried to speak nonchalantly, but he couldn't completely conceal his excitement.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" Hogan flipped his cap onto his head and followed them out onto the porch to join Carter and Kinch.
Prisoners and guards were gathering in the evening sunshine, watching the road that led to the camp. Hogan walked out into the yard with his men beside him.
His left arm draped affectionately over LeBeau's shoulders, a man who had witnessed his beloved country overrun and decimated, but determined to fight no matter what it cost him.
Beside the Frenchman stood Carter, erratic and sometimes painfully naïve, gifted with extraordinary talents that had saved them from disaster on more than one occasion.
Hogan's right hand gripped Kinch's sturdy shoulder, strong and dependable like the man who did his duty without fanfare or complaint.
On Kinch's right was Newkirk, his abilities put to use to aid king and country instead of violating their laws, hotheadedly loyal and patriotic.
And in the center of the group was the man whose schemes had seemed unusual, bizarre, offbeat, and sometimes downright impossible, but he always managed to pull them off.
The man who was responsible for holding together a team of men who were as different from one another as could possibly be, but had become closer than blood brothers.
Colonel Hogan.
Hogan's Heroes.
The front gates swung open.
I'd like to dedicate this story to 'Saturday' and the other men of Room 900, MI9, who conceived and carried out the idea of a camp for Allied soldiers behind enemy lines, supplied by the Resistance and in contact with London, one of which housed over 150 men and remained undetected by Axis forces.