It was January 31, 1944, and everything Colonel Robert E. Hogan knew was wrong.
It started moments after he made his first appearance in the barracks that morning at 6:30. He was, as always, conscious of the need to set a standard for his men. So his hair was shiny and neatly coiffed and he was freshly shaven. His clothes, though getting threadbare in places he'd rather not ponder, were tidy. Everything was in its place.
Or so it seemed. Nobody paid the slightest attention to him when he strolled into the barracks. Nobody cracked wise or pressed a warm mug of coffee into his hands.
Odd, he thought. But everyone had their off days. Sometimes all at once, apparently, he thought as he eyed his core team. Carter, Kinch, LeBeau and Newkirk were all there. Sort of.
Something was definitely a little bit off when Hogan took his place in line at roll call. Sergeant Schultz was presiding as usual, but he was snarling.
"Straighten up!" he commanded as he inspected the formation. He was prodding men with his rifle butt as he strode purposefully along. "Fix your collar! Tie your bootlaces!"
Hogan glanced to his left. Newkirk was there, as usual, and to the English corporal's left, as always, stood LeBeau. Newkirk's eyes flicked past Hogan. He looked timid and seemed to quake as Schultz drew nearer.
Suddenly a jeer rang out from the back row.
"Come on, Schultzie. Don't get your Schlüpfer in a twist," Carter razzed the portly sergeant of the guard. He snickered at Schultz's furious face. "Jeez, Schultz, it's just a joke. Get over it."
"That's not very nice, Carter," Newkirk murmured cautiously. Schultz stopped in front of him, glared at Carter, then poked the Englishman.
"Your friend is very brazen," Schultz said. He gave Newkirk a shove and laughed as he landed on his backside.
"Oh, I say!" Newkirk exclaimed as he landed. "That was jolly well unexpected!"
LeBeau spoke languidly to Schultz as he watched Newkirk scramble to his feet. "Oh, you know Carter. He's like, kind of a bully, and he hates Germans," he drawled. He looked over his shoulder at Carter. "You could be more considerate," he placidly advised the surly American. "They didn't start this war."
"Of course they did!" Carter snapped. "What kind of an idiot are you, LeBeau? Don't you read newspapers?"
"Dude, there are good people on both sides," LeBeau replied, sounding utterly noncommittal.
"Yeah, like the people who cook dinner for the enemy," Carter snapped back. "Also known as collaborators! People who have no loyalties," he added in a menacing tone.
LeBeau rolled his eyes. "You call it collaboration. I call it self-preservation. I mean, seriously, what did France ever do for me? And you," he said, diverting attention from himself by lazily wagging a finger at Newkirk, who was brushing off his clothes, "Bruh, you need to toughen up."
Another snort came from the back row. "Oh, please, LeBeau. You can't change a mouse into a lion. You know Newkirk – he's just another rich Eton kid who's had a soft life." Wait, Hogan wondered. How could that be Kinch?
"Harrow, actually," Newkirk interjected politely. "I know it's dreadfully easy to confuse the two, but we wear straw hats, you see. Well, some of the time we do. We both have top hats and waistcoats and striped trousers, of course, but Harrow's really quite a bit better known for the boaters. You know, named after the boat races. At least, I suspect that's how they started. I don't row, myself, although my brother, Newkirk Minor, is quite athletic. Rather more of a cricketer, though. Not fond of swimming ever since that time..." He ran out of steam and looked around, then cast his eyes down. "Sorry. Sorry to interrupt."
Kinch and Carter rolled their eyes, and Carter leaned forward to cuff Newkirk on the back of his head.
"Do us all a favor and shut up, Peter," he said.
"Shutting up, yes," Newkirk replied.
Why are they calling him by his first name? Hogan wondered. But he couldn't waste too much energy on that thought, because Colonel Klink had arrived. His firm Prussian demeanor was accentuated by his athletic build, movie-star good looks, and flawless eyesight. As he delivered a forceful and well-reasoned lecture on German military superiority, Fraulein Helga stood behind him, swooning. He was so charismatic.
Klink noticed Helga's gaping adoration and smirked. "Oh, Helga," he said. "Please contact Katja, Konstantina and Krimhilde. Book me for today's lunch, dinner and, um, evening entertainment."
"What about Magda and Veronika, Sir?" Helga inquired. "They've been calling five times a day!"
"Oh for heaven's sake, Helga. Magda can wait two days. The L's are tomorrow—you know, Lilly, Liesel, Lotte. The M's are the day after that," Klink replied imperiously. "Veronika… hmmm. She's the redhead, right? We might be able to squeeze her in for breakfast tomorrow. But it's not that complicated, Helga. You remember that you and Hilda and Heidi just had your turn two days ago, don't you?"
Helga thought she remembered, but the sheer joy of being in Colonel Klink's employ occupied so much of her mind that she tended to forget things.
Klink strutted his manliness for a few more minutes, then finally roll call broke up. Hogan took charge, or tried to.
"All right, everyone, inside," Hogan said in his usual commanding way. But no one listened. They all turned to Carter, awaiting further instructions.
"Come on, guys, gather in my office," Carter said. "We've got to make plans for harassing the Germans."
That sounded promising, Hogan thought. And Carter was senior to most of the men. It was only a matter of time before he started exhibiting leadership qualities. Although Hogan couldn't quite recall when he had started to do so. Hmm. That was odd.
Hogan shrugged and followed his men into the barracks.