Not every barracks had a radio of its own, and even the notoriously less-than-observant guards of Stalag 13 would probably have noticed if, for no apparent reason, the entire camp tried to crowd into the ones that did.
They weren't supposed to know what was going on. They weren't supposed to be able to hear what was going on. The events of that muggy June day were supposed to pass them by completely. The rest of the world could play at least a vicarious part— could, at the very least, sit, and listen, and pray for the men on the beaches, but not the POWs. For them, after all, the war was allegedly over. They were not to be permitted even that much involvement. The Germans intended to steal this day, this day of days, from them, as callously as they had stolen the weeks or months or years since their capture.
No.
Just… no.
There were limits to what a human should be asked to endure. There are limits to what it's fair to take from him. And there are times when thumbing one's nose at the powers that be is worth whatever price is extracted afterwards.
It took the Germans nearly three hours to break down the barricaded door to the Kommandantur, where a small, crude, obviously hand-built transistor radio tuned to the BBC had been patched into the overhead speaker system. The locked door to Klink's office had been expertly opened to allow whoever was to blame into the room, and even more expertly tampered with so as to be impervious to any future attempt to unlock it after they had left. As additional security, the knob, hinges, and the windows had been booby-trapped to deliver nonfatal but decidedly unpleasant electrical shocks to anyone who touched them, and what eventually turned out to be a large bucket full of vinegar and bleach had been left where the resulting chlorine gas could waft through the crack where the door met the frame, further discouraging any attempt at forcing entrance to the room.
In addition, every single POW not currently in the cooler or otherwise incapacitated was standing in a ring around the building, staring fixedly at it, or at the loudspeaker, as if they could physically see the scene the radio announcer was describing. Many of them had tears in their eyes. Some had tears, unnoticed and unashamed, openly running down their faces.
There was something in their expressions—variously hungry, or prayerful, or vengeful, or carefully blank—that discouraged the guards from simply shoving their way through them, or otherwise trying to disperse the mob. Despite what Klink had so often claimed, these men did not look cowed. These were not the same men who had stood sullenly in their accustomed places at morning roll call, confining whatever defiance they had left to grumbles or catcalls.
And maybe—just maybe—the guards didn't try all that hard to shut off the broadcast because they wanted to hear what was going on, just as much as the POWs did. After all, they had brothers and friends out there on the front lines, too. German blood, as well as Allied, was staining the ground that day. There was no appreciable difference, not once it soaked into the hungry sands—whichever color uniform the men had worn, they all bled the same.
None of them could be there to help or hinder the invasion. None of them knew how the day would end. And even though all of them were half-afraid to find out who would win and who would lose, none of them wanted to be left in suspense, or, worse, be fed lies to keep them malleable and ignorant.
Hogan and several of his most troublesome bunkmates were on the porch of the Kommandantur, apparently as one final line of defense. Newkirk, white as a sheet and inexorable as death, actually had his back pressed against the outer door; clearly, he was not to be moved by anything much short of rifle fire. Which would serve little purpose, because LeBeau was at his side, and, just as clearly, was more than ready to step over his body to take up his position by the door. And Carter at his. And so on.
Klink eventually approached the outer ring. Hogan saw him, nodded slightly, then lifted his hand and made a beckoning gesture to the assembled POWs. It's all right, let him through, make a space. And like Moses parting the Sea of Reeds, they let him through, closing ranks again as soon as he had passed, until he had made it to the porch.
His hands hung helplessly at his side; he'd lost or forgotten his riding crop somewhere in the chaos since the broadcast had begun.
"Colonel Hogan," he began, then stopped. Now that he was here, now that he was confronting Hogan directly, he found that he had no idea what he wanted to say. He finally compromised with a simple, "What have you done?"
Hogan shrugged. "Just listening to the radio, Kommandant."
"How did… what did you… who did this?"
"You Boche did. Or, rather, you started it," said LeBeau, in a measured, flat voice that held a country's worth of rage. "We are simply finishing it."
"I… this is an outrage! I urge whoever is responsible for the illegal radio, and for broadcasting these blatant lies over my sound system, to turn themselves in at once. If you do not, you will be found anyway, and the punishment will be severe," Klink tried to bluster. It sounded unconvincing even to him.
"Severe punishment? Now there's a novelty," said Newkirk, and turned his attention back to the newscast.
"Colonel Hogan…" Klink said, and trailed off as the broadcaster described a particularly harrowing attack. He swallowed a few times, and gestured lamely towards the speaker. "Colonel Hogan… you must put a stop to this."
Hogan's eyes went arctic. "Kommandant… what in hell do you think I've been trying to do for the last two years?"
*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*
Author's note: D-Day, June 6, 1944, has been called the beginning of the end of WWII. But God… at what a cost!
We will accept nothing less than full Victory! Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.
General Dwight D. Eisenhower