[Sunday
01 NOV 1942//0730hrs local]
Schleswig-Holstein
Forest, North of Hamburg
****
Within a few hours, Hogan found
Kinchloe. The next day they rendezvoused with Olsen.
When they found Olsen, desperate,
hungry, at the point of the collapse, the news he gave them was grim: Sgt.
Riley, the ball turret gunner, had been killed. Hogan felt the bottom fall from
his stomach. And still another.
"I'm sorry, Colonel," Pvt.
Olsen spoke with his mouth full. He hadn't eaten in almost forty-eight hours
and was practically inhaling the chocolate bar Hogan gave him. "I couldn't
help Riley." Olsen's voice broke. "W-we came down several meters
apart. It was dark, but the area was swarming with patrols. I could see
searchlights everywhere. When I hit the trees, I took out my knife and cut
myself down."
He swallowed, taking a moment to steady
himself. "It's a good thing I did, 'cause as soon as I hit the ground, I
heard shouts and gunfire. I started to run in the opposite direction, but I
tripped and fell into a ravine." Olsen gently touched the crown of his
head and shrugged.
"I must've hit my head or
something, 'cause the thing next I know, it's daylight and the whole place is
as still as a church. I stayed hidden for the better part of the day. Finally,
I took a chance and started north--like you briefed us. 'Head north to the
submarine rendezvous.'"
Olsen looked up at Hogan for
confirmation of his orders. Hogan nodded and patted him gently on the shoulder.
"You did the right thing,
Olsen," Hogan reassured him. "So, what happened then? How did Riley
get killed? Did you see anything?"
Olsen nodded mutely, overcome with
emotion. "Th-they shot him, sir--just like that. I found him just before
dusk. He was still hanging from his chute. They just left him up there--in the
trees. Didn't even bother to cut him down." Olsen dropped his head into
his knees, his shoulders shaking with grief.
"I cut him down and hid his body
in the bushes." He reached into his pocket. "I took his tags and
marked the spot where I left him." He held the dog tags out to Hogan, who
took them and studied them. A bullet had clipped a corner of one of the tags,
rendering it sharp and jagged.
"Did you see anything else?"
Kinchloe prodded. Hogan stepped up.
"I think that can wait,
Sergeant," he said quietly. "Let him eat and get some rest. He can
tell us later."
Kinchloe nodded, glaring at Olsen.
"Riley was a good man, sir. One of the best. I only wish that I'd been
there when--"
"Well, you weren't!"
Olsen shouted, defensively. "And neither was I. If either of us had
been there, we might've been caught. Or killed. Just like Riley! Don't
you think I wish I coulda done something to help him? He was my best
friend! I woulda died for him!"
By way of answer, Kinchloe turned his
back on the soldier, disdain apparent on the normally even-tempered radioman.
As the ranking noncommissioned officer, Kinchloe was responsible for the
enlisted men. He had no use for Olsen, considering him little more than a
slacker.
"What would you have done,
Sarge?" Olsen asked. "You being so brave and all--!
"Why, I outta--!" Kinchloe
growled. He whirled around and made a sudden move towards the clearly alarmed
airman.
"Kinch!" Hogan
hissed, intervening between the irate sergeant and frightened private. "Stand
down! That's an order, Sergeant Kinchloe."
Hogan held onto his senior noncom a moment longer, each glaring at the other.
Kinchloe finally nodded and Hogan released him.
"If we're going to make it,"
Hogan said softly, "then we have to work together. And that goes for all of us." He glared
at his two remaining crewmen. Slowly, they each nodded their acknowledgement.
****
****
Hogan stood over the newly dug grave, a
small Bible his mother had given him in his right hand, a set of dog tags in
the other. He gripped the tags tightly, until they were digging into his palm.
He could feel the small jagged edge cutting into him, but he didn't care.
The Germans had just left Sgt. Riley's
body dangling in the trees where he'd died. They hadn't even bothered to check
him for any sort of identification or papers. Hogan doubted if they would even
bother to contact the Red Cross.
Just twenty-four hours ago, he'd been
standing in Gen. Duncan's office, feeling sorry for himself because he wasn't
going to be allowed to fly anymore. Well, they let him fly one last mission,
and what did he do with it? He got most of his men killed!
I hate this war! he
fumed silently. It's taking our best and
brightest boys, and leaving us with animals that call themselves 'men.' A
throat being cleared behind him reminded him that he still had another duty to
perform. Straightening his shoulders, Hogan stood to his full height.
There in the woods, dirty, unshaven,
raven hair disheveled, Hogan had never looked more heroic. Kinchloe and Olsen
gathered round, their eyes downcast.
"We gather here today," Hogan
said softly, "to remember our fallen comrades--Lt. Schmidt...Lt.
Stevens...Lt. Harris...Sgt. Dixon...Sgt. Riley...Pvt. Harper." As Olsen's
muffled sniffles echoed in the silent forest, Hogan began to recite from
Ecclesiastes:
"There is an appointed time for everything,
And a
time for every affair under the heavens,
A time
to be born and a time to die,
A time
to kill, and a time to heal..."
Olsen stifled a sob and wiped his eyes,
blinking rapidly.
"A
time to weep, and a time to laugh,
A time
to mourn, and a time to dance,
A time
to seek, and a time to lose..."
"He was the best," Olsen
whispered raggedly. "They all were..."
"A
time to be silent, and a time to speak,
A time
to love, and a time to hate;
A time
of war, and time of peace..."
"...He and his wife were expecting
their first baby. Why couldn't it have been me, instead?"
"What
now is has already been,
What
is to be, already is,
And God restores what would otherwise be displaced. Amen."
Kinchloe and Olsen murmured their
'Amens.'
"Company--! Attention!"
Hogan commanded. All three men snapped to attention. "Present--!
Arms!"
Instantly, three sets of salutes were sharply executed. "Order--! Arms!"
The salutes were crisply dropped. "This completes the service," Hogan
said quietly. "Take a few moments to say your individual farewells."
With that, Hogan spun on his heel and
left the others. He needed to be alone for a few minutes. To think. To grieve.
To rage.
Leaning against a tree, away from the
others' eyes, Hogan allowed the tears to come. Six men dead! Who's next? Kinch?
Olsen? Me? He sighed deeply, and then impatiently wiped his eyes. Can it, Colonel! he chastised. You haven't the luxury. Or the right.
It was his job to get them all
back home. He couldn't afford to show any sign of weakness. What did Eisenhower
say back in Gibraltar? That a leader's job is to appear confident in front of
his men even when he isn't; therefore, when he makes a decision that others
might disagree with, they'll have faith in his orders. If soldiers lose faith
with their leaders, then even the best plans will fail.
Hogan opened his hand. In the back of
his head, he noted that Riley's tags had cut into his palm. He realized that he
was bleeding and that he should do something about it. The tags were now
covered in blood--his blood. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care.
"On my honor," he whispered,
fiercely addressing his dead crew. "I swear that your deaths will not have
been in vain."
At that moment, the morning's quiet was
shattered by angry shouts and automatic weapons fire. Hogan found himself face
to face with the business end of a German rifle.
****
[Sunday
01 NOV 1942//2306hrs local]
Gestapo
Headquarters, Hamburg, Germany
****
"Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, U.S.
Army. Serial number zero-eight-seven...six-seven...zero-seven." Hogan kept
his eyes carefully straight ahead, refusing to look at the Gestapo captain interrogating
him.
Hogan sat stiffly, his arms tied behind
him to the chair. Two guards, also in the distinctive black uniform of the
Gestapo, stood at port arms, one beside the door, the other slightly behind
Hogan and to his right. The American bomber pilot was quite aware of the
guards' menacing presence.
"Col. Hogan," the captain
began. "You have already told us all that. Please, in order for me to be
able to properly inform the Red Cross of your capture, I must also know your
unit designation and the purpose of your mission when you were shot down."
Outwardly, Hogan remained unperturbed.
Inwardly, his heart was racing. He was beginning to worry about Kinchloe and
Olsen. They'd all been briefed about what to do in case of capture and knew
what to do, but there was no telling what they might accidentally let slip,
especially Olsen. This was only his third combat mission.
"Hogan, Robert E.," Hogan
intoned. "Colonel, U.S. Army--!"
~crack!~
Cobra-swift, the Gestapo Captain struck
Hogan across the cheek--once, twice, three times--drawing blood. His ears
ringing, Hogan stoically withstood the sudden abuse. Looking up at his
interrogator, Hogan locked eyes with him. Dark brown eyes bored into cold gray
ones.
A cruel smile playing on his lips, the
Captain shoved a paper under Hogan's nose.
"In order to properly inform the
Red Cross of their capture," he repeated, "all prisoners of war must
sign this document, confessing their crimes against the Third Reich!"
"Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, U.S.
Army. Serial Number zero-eight-seven--"
~crack!~
"Your companions have already
signed! See?" The Captain held out a document with Olsen's
signature. Hogan read the statement, a cold hand squeezing the air out of his
lungs. He could feel a single drop of perspiration wend its way down his
temple.
Olsen,
what have you done? he despaired. What did these monsters make
you do? Slowly, he looked up into the Captain's ugly eyes. "Hogan,
Robert E--"
The Captain snapped his fingers and
instantly the guard to Hogan's right, stepped up and struck him in the lower
abdomen with his rifle butt.
"~Oomph!~ Hogan grunted,
doubling over at the explosive pain, his vision shrouded in a cloud of hazy
red. Before he could draw breath, his head was suddenly jerked back by the
hair, and the Captain again struck him powerfully across the cheek. The force
of the blow sent him sprawling over to the floor, chair and all.
The guard unceremoniously kicked him in
the ribs, eliciting a sharp gasp of pain. The downed American pilot struggled
to maintain his grasp on reality as the world receded into a dark tunnel. He
felt his chair being righted, and his head again being forced up.
"Are you ready to sign, Col.
Hogan?" The voice seemed to come from some far distant place, taunting,
evil, threatening. Eyes closed against the throbbing behind his eyes, Hogan
blinked rapidly to clear his vision. Slowly looking up, he caught the murderous
glint in the Gestapo captain's eyes.
"Hogan, Robert E.," he
mumbled. "Colonel, U.S. Army. Serial number zero-eight-seven--!"
Wild-eyed with fury, the Captain had
his hand raised for another strike when the door slammed open.
"~Captain Gruber! What is
the meaning
of this!~" The newcomer had the rank and insignia of a Luftwaffe Colonel.
"~This prisoner is obviously an Allied flyer, and therefore, a prisoner of
the Luftwaffe!~"
Great,
Hogan thought sourly. Now the Krauts are
fighting over who gets first dibs. Shaking his head slightly to clear it,
he pretended to be more hurt than he actually was. Feeling the deep ache in the
rib area where he'd been kicked, he observed that maybe he didn't need to
pretend too much.
And
there's no need to let 'em know I understand German.
He sat still, looking neither left nor
right, allowing the two German officers to argue over him.
"~Colonel Altbusser! This man was
captured by the Gestapo and is therefore our prisoner--!"
"~Standard Operating Procedures,
Captain! All Allied flyers shall be turned over to the authority of the
Luftwaffe!~"
"~After the Gestapo is done
interrogating them!~"
"~And what have you learned from
the American Colonel?~" Altbusser asked skeptically.
"~Nothing yet.~" Gruber
admitted. "~But the Gestapo has ways of finding out what we want to
know.~"
"~Well, I'm afraid that time is
the one thing you don't have,~" Altbusser replied. "~There is a POW
train leaving Hamburg for Hammelburg in the next hour. The American flyers will
be onboard, by order of Field Marshal Biedenbender, whom I need not remind you
is on Reich Marshal Goering's personal staff!~"
"~We shall see about that, Col.
Altbusser. My superior, Col. Feldcamp--!~"
"~--has no authority over
Luftwaffe prisoners of war!~" Altbusser interrupted. "~Now, unless
you wish to take the matter up with Herr Goering, himself--?~"
At the mention of the Luftwaffe's
Commanding General, who also happened to be Hitler's second-in-command, Gruber
looked visibly shaken and finally nodded.
Keeping his head down, Hogan could not
believe his luck. He knew that Gruber had only been warming up. If Col.
Altbusser hadn't interrupted the Gestapo's interrogation, Hogan was certain
that he would've needed to be carried out of the room.
"Col. Hogan?"
Hogan looked up.
"You shall be transferred to a
prisoner of war camp within the hour. Do you have any questions?"
"Yeah...what about my men? Staff
Sergeant Kinchloe and Private Olsen?"
Gruber clicked his heels and snapped to
attention. "Private Olsen has confessed to serious crimes against the
Third Reich. He will be held and tried for his acts of sabotage!"
"Sabotage!?" Hogan
protested. "He was arrested in uniform! According to the Geneva
Convention--!"
Gruber slapped him across the face
again.
"Silence--!"
"~Captain Gruber! I protest
this treatment of Luftwaffe POW's. If Private Olsen was captured in uniform,
then he will be transported to LuftStalag 13, along with Col. Hogan and the
other prisoner!~"
Gruber gave Altbusser an evil grin and
showed him the document with Olsen's signature. Altbusser grabbed the paper and
studied it closely. Hogan waited. After a few moments, Altbusser turned grimly
to Hogan.
"Colonel, can you identify this
signature?" he asked. Hogan again read the signature: Martin J. Olsen,
Private, USA.
"If that is his signature,"
Hogan said grudgingly, "I don't believe that he signed it of his own free
will."
Altbusser glared at Gruber momentarily.
The Gestapo captain returned his stare with a smug look. "You wouldn't
suggest that the Gestapo release an enemy of the Third Reich who has already
confessed, would you, Herr Oberst?"
Hogan noted that Gruber spoke English. Probably for my benefit, he growled.
"Colonel, I demand that both of my men be released to the custody of the
Luftwaffe. According to the Geneva Convention on the treatment of prisoners of
war--!"
"Enough!" Gruber
shouted. "Col. Hogan, you and Sgt. Kinchloe shall be remanded to the
custody of the Luftwaffe. But Pvt. Olsen shall not. He is to be transported to
Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin at the earliest possible date."
"No!" Hogan yelled,
struggling with his bonds. "You can't do that! He's a prisoner of war--not
a saboteur! Colonel Altbusser--!"
Altbusser stood quietly, a tired look
washing over his arrogant features. He gave Hogan a grave, apologetic shake of
the head.
"I am sorry, Col. Hogan," he
said. "But the matter is unfortunately out of my hands." He shrugged
helplessly. "Your Pvt. Olsen has signed his own death warrant."
Without thinking, Hogan awkwardly
jumped to his feet, his hands still tied behind the chair, and crashed
headfirst into Captain Gruber.
"Guards!" Gruber
shouted. Instantly, the guards were on top of Hogan. The next moment, his head
exploded and the world went black.
****
[Monday
02 NOV 1942//0530hrs local]
Enroute
to Dusseldorf, Germany
****
When awareness returned, it did so in
fits and starts. He felt his body being sporadically rocked, or perhaps jostled
was closer to it. His hearing returned next, a soft, chugging sound creeping
into his consciousness, followed by a piercing whistle.
A
train? he thought. Another blast of the whistle. He shakily brought
his hand up to his head, groaning softly.
His sense of smell returned with a
vengeance. The stench was almost unbearable enough to send him scurrying back
to unconsciousness. Like Mom's garden
after she'd fertilized it.
"Colonel?"
Eyes closed, Hogan turned to the sound.
Who? he wondered.
"Is he all right, guv'nor?"
Hogan felt a gentle hand on his
shoulder.
"Colonel Hogan?"
Kinch. He
felt oddly proud that he'd identified his senior noncom. Struggling against the
darkness that threatened to reclaim him, Hogan concentrated on Kinchloe's
voice, trying to focus on his face. He could see someone dimly, barely able to
discern his features. Finally, the figure before him coalesced into the worried
countenance of SSgt. Kinchloe.
Realizing his C.O. was finally
conscious, Kinchloe's eyes softened into a relieved smile. Hogan's own relief
was quickly damped.
"Olsen?" he asked hoarsely.
"Here, sir."
Hogan sat up quickly, too quickly, a
wave of dizziness washing over him. A strong arm was instantly there, supporting
him--Kinchloe. Hogan leaned on him gratefully. Olsen scooted up close to Hogan,
and they solemnly shook hands.
Hogan stared at him, feeling his eyes
fill up. "Good to see you, airman," he said simply.
"You're not kidding, sir,"
Olsen said. "Some Gestapo captain kept telling me I had to sign something
that was all in German!--but I wouldn't. I kept giving him my name, rank and
serial number."
He glanced down in embarrassment.
"He showed me a piece of paper with your signature on it, Colonel, but I
didn't believe him. Not Colonel Hogan, I told myself. So, I just kept repeating
my name and serial number, over and over."
Hogan smiled, his pride swelling inside
him. "Good job, Olsen."
Olsen fairly beamed at the compliment.
Col. Hogan was not the type of commanding officer who often threw out praise.
"They tried the same thing with
me, sir," Kinchloe said quietly. "Your signature, bold as brass. I knew
it was a crock. The document was in German, but I was able to read most of it.
It stated that you admitted to acts of sabotage and a whole lotta other
bull!"
Hogan grinned. "Nice to know that
my men have faith in me." He leaned against the train's wooden side.
Between the slats, he could catch glimpses of the German countryside. The late
fall was turning bitterly cold. He felt a bite of winter seeping inside.
He looked around the boxcar, curling
his nose at the overpowering smell. The place was filthy, the floor covered
with foul-smelling straw that hadn't been changed in a while. Since latrine
facilities were not available, it was apparent that some of the POWs weren't
fastidious about where they relieved themselves.
Hogan took in the bored and frightened
faces of the other prisoners. Their uniforms represented the Air Forces of
several Allied nations.
"Hail, hail, the gang's all
here," he muttered. "Anybody know where we are?"
"We're on a bloody POW train in
the middle of frigging Germany, mate," an irreverent voice answered. A
soldier in a British RAF uniform looked back at him with a sarcastic grin.
"That's 'Colonel' to you,
Corporal!" Kinchloe growled.
"Take it easy, Kinch," Hogan
murmured. Kinchloe glared at the English soldier, who returned his look with a
smirk. The next moment, he startled both Hogan and Kinchloe by demonstrating a
deft sleight of hand.
"That's right, mate, take it
easy," he said. "No disrespect intended. Here, let me make it up to
you--Colonel."
The last was added with a slight sneer.
Hogan quickly laid his hand on
Kinchloe's arm to keep him from going after the corporal. Ignoring the black
sergeant's anger, the Englishman waved his hands faster than the eye could
follow, and then as if by magic, a pack of cigarettes appeared.
"The 'and is quicker than the
eye!"
He offered Hogan a smoke. Smiling, the
American officer declined. Shrugging, the RAF corporal took one out, and to the
surprise of an American airman, a tech sergeant sitting next to him, he fished
a match from behind the young man's ear.
"Hey!" the airman jerked,
startled. "Boy, how'd you do that?"
"A magician never reveals his tricks,
mate!"
"Boy! You're a magician?" the
young sergeant asked eagerly. The corporal nodded smugly. To the t/sergeant's
surprise, the corporal next held out his watch and wallet.
"You should be more careful where
you leave your belongings, mate," the corporal said with mock warning.
"Hey!? Boy! How'd that
happen?" the t/sergeant asked startled. "I could've sworn--?" He
took back his personal items, profusely thanking the Englishman for 'finding'
them. Soon, the two were talking animatedly, and although the American
outranked the Englishman, it was obvious which one held the upper hand in the
conversation.
Hogan and Kinchloe exchanged rueful
glances. Finally, the black sergeant answered Hogan's original question.
"We've been traveling for the
better part of the night. We should be pulling into Dusseldorf soon. I heard
the guards talking." He added this last part in a low voice. Hogan nodded.
There was no need to let the others know that both he and his noncom spoke
German.
"That's more than a hundred
kilometers from Hammelburg," Hogan estimated. "We're still a ways
from 'home.'" At the others' look, he added, "According to the German
colonel, we're being transported to LuftStaglag 13, located outside of Hammelburg."
"Home," Olsen sighed.
"Think we'll ever see our families again, sir?"
"You can bet on it, Olsen,"
Hogan promised quietly.
A few minutes later, they heard two
long blasts from the train, and felt the train begin to slow perceptibly.
"Looks like we're pulling into a
train station," the t/sergeant stated unnecessarily.
"Thanks for the news, Yank,"
the Englishman replied. "We never would've figured it out by
ourselves."
"Oui, mon ami. You are most astute," a small French corporal
added ironically.
"You're welcome." The young
airman's response was completely naive. The two Allied corporals rolled their
eyes.
"Heads up!" Hogan said
sharply. "Everyone on your feet!"
The other POWs exchanged sullen looks,
and then glanced at the battered American officer. As Kinchloe helped his C.O.
to his feet, Hogan returned their stares evenly. He had to fight to keep from
wincing at the gnawing ache radiating from his rib area. My brains don't feel all that great either, he noted, trying to
ignore the throbbing in his head.
"Stay on your toes," Hogan
rasped. "Be ready for anything--"
At that moment the train came to a
screeching, jarring halt. The sound of air brakes hissing settled around them,
followed by a church stillness. Abruptly, angry shouts from beyond the boxcar
walls shattered the silence. These were punctuated by the staccato burst of
gunfire and a bloodcurdling scream.
Everyone automatically dropped to the
floor. The sounds of heavy boots running outside, dogs barking, and more angry
shouting reverberated in the breaking dawn. Hogan heard someone sobbing in the
far corner.
Kids! he
fumed. They're little more than kids!
They should be in school, sweating
out their finals, not facing certain death.
Slowly, the POWs raised their heads,
their expressions terrified. Almost as one, they all turned and faced Hogan. He
suddenly felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Par
for the course, Colonel! he told himself. You're the ranking POW. Start setting the example.
"On your feet!" he snapped.
"The last thing I want the Krauts to see is a bunch of scared mama's boys
feeling sorry for themselves!"
Several of the prisoners flushed with
anger. The little Frenchman muttered something in his own language that Hogan
didn't quite catch. The young American airman gave him a hurt look.
Almost
like a puppy that's just been kicked, he thought guiltily.
Grumbling, the Allied prisoners did as
ordered. When the boxcar doors suddenly slammed open, the prisoners stood
huddled in a small group eyeing their captors with expressions close to
defiance. A squad of German soldiers climbed in, brandishing weapons, screaming
at the top of their lungs.
"Raus! Raus!"
they yelled, which needed no translation.
The POWs nervously hurried to do as
told. Quickly, in ones and twos, they jumped out onto the waiting platform.
Despite his high rank, Hogan was brusquely hustled out, along with the rest of
the prisoners. As he was shoved along at the point of a rifle, he surveyed
their new location.
He quickly noted guards on the roof of
the train, covering them with 30mm machine guns. Kinchloe surreptitiously
nodded towards the gingerbread roof of the depot. More armed guards. Casually
glancing around the depot's perimeter, Hogan spotted yet more sentries at all
checkpoints.
He quickly squelched any thought of
attempting to escape.
Very
thorough, these Germans, he thought
sarcastically. Soon, Hogan and Kinchloe found themselves in a holding area,
with the rest of the prisoners. They were soon joined by another group of POWs.
This was probably the reason they were being taken through Dusseldorf, which
was at least a hundred kilometers out of their way.
A low murmur rose among the assembled
airmen. The RAF corporal was pointing at something over Hogan's shoulder.
Curious, he turned to what had their attention. Not unexpectedly, the German
soldiers began pushing and shoving, barely holding back their snarling attack
dogs, which snapped and growled menacingly at the prisoners, effectively
opening a narrow pathway.
A German patrol led a group of five
civilians--a tired, dirty, unkempt-looking bunch. Two of the men were carrying
a stretcher. Hogan felt his stomach drop. It held a woman, young, beautiful--
--And
dead, he saw. He caught the eye of one of the men and held it
for a split second. In that brief instant, the civilian passed a silent message
to him. Imperceptibly, the civilian's eyes looked down at his coat pocket.
"Underground," Kinchloe
murmured. Hogan nodded, his pulse racing. He had to act! Now! But how? The
sound of a Cockney voice next to him sent a thrill of relief through him.
Leaning over he whispered in the Englishman's ear.
"The older guy," he hissed.
"The one in the brown jacket. I need you to pick his pocket. Can
you?"
"Are you kiddin', Colonel?"
"Now!" Hogan growled, pushing
the startled Englishman onto the passing prisoners. Instantly, the train
station erupted in pandemonium. The Allied prisoners began pushing and shoving
each other, confusing the guards, startling the civilian prisoners.
Almost as soon as it began, it was
over. The guards fired a warning burst over the their heads, and the POWs hit
the deck, including Hogan. Cautiously, he raised his head, swallowing the
sudden bile. Every weapon in the depot was trained on them. The silence was
almost absolute. In the distance, he could hear a police siren wailing in the
early morning.
"Stand down!" Hogan
shouted. "And that's an order!" Slowly, the Allied prisoners regained
their feet, their attitudes sullen.
As the Germans re-established order
among the prisoners, Hogan looked over once again towards the civilian
prisoner. The man gave him a surreptitious nod. The next moment, the light
seemed to go out of his eyes. A sick feeling washed over Hogan. He knew then
that he'd glimpsed into the depths of hell. The civilians were all dead men. He
knew it. They knew it. And from the angry rumbles coming from the Allied
prisoners, they knew it, too.
He watched sadly as the five men were
led away to their fate. Hogan wanted to look away, but forced himself to watch
as long as possible. He wanted to stamp their image indelibly into memory, to
remind himself why they were fighting this war. He remembered the Gestapo
captain, and tried not to think about what these men were facing.
The
woman was the lucky one, he thought bleakly.
He wasn't given time to see more. The
guards again started shouting orders, barely holding back their attack dogs
from the Allied prisoners who didn't instantly jump. Hogan realized that they
were being pushed and shoved into the barest semblance of a ragged formation.
He shook his head and shared a rueful
look with Kinchloe.
"'Fall in' always worked for
me," the sergeant muttered. Hogan grinned. He sidled over to the RAF
corporal, who raised a single eyebrow in acknowledgement.
Mission accomplished. Hogan nodded and
then settled down to wait.
Two Luftwaffe non-commissioned officers
walked up and down the line of prisoners, counting heads.
"Hey, mate!" the RAF corporal
called out. "Why don't you use your toes? You're almost out of
fingers!"
Hogan cringed. The last thing he wanted
was for the British airman to call attention to himself and jabbed him in the
ribs to quiet him. The corporal grunted in surprise.
Meanwhile, the other prisoners broke
out in taunting laughter. The guards ignored the prisoners' jeers, and finally,
conferred with an officer. The officer nodded, and pointed in Hogan's direction
with his chin. The noncoms saluted smartly and headed towards the American
flyer.
They stopped in front of him, one on
either side. With a jerk of the head, they indicated that they wanted him to
follow them. Hogan glanced at Kinchloe and shrugged. He took a moment to
straighten his uniform and went with them. They escorted him to the German
officer, a major.
"Prisoners of war are required to
salute officers of the detaining nation." The major said without preamble,
his voice dripping arrogance. Hogan studied the youthful officer--a major, he
noted.
"Prisoners of war are only
required to salute officers of grades equal to or higher than themselves,"
Hogan returned. "If you will notice, Major--I'm a Colonel, two full grades
above your rank."
The major stared at Hogan through flat
eyes devoid of expression. "You are the ranking officer, Colonel
Hogan," he said. He waved at the assembled group of prisoners. "As such,
these men now fall under your command, until a more senior officer replaces you
or you recant your command."
Hogan watched him through narrowed
eyes, not really seeing where he was going with it.
"Your men have not eaten for the
better part of two days, Colonel. Some have not eaten for almost four. It is
not the intention of the German Luftwaffe to purposely starve its prisoners of
war. However, under the Geneva Convention we are authorized to take appropriate
measures for violations of even minor infractions of discipline."
Hogan shook his head, still not
understanding.
"Unless you greet me with the
proper military courtesy, Col. Hogan, your men will have to withstand at least
another twenty-four hours without food. It is your choice."
By this time, the tantalizing aroma of
cooking had wended its way to Hogan's nostrils, making his mouth water. Like
the major said, Hogan hadn't eaten since his capture almost two days ago.
"Major, I protest! This is in
clear violation of the Geneva Convention--!" Hogan began, but was cut off.
"It is your choice, Colonel.
Render the proper military courtesy and your men eat. Don't salute, and your
men don't eat." The major shouted the threat, ensuring that all of the
POWs heard it. Hogan realized that that's exactly what the major had wanted--to
cause dissension in the ranks. The prisoners were strangers to each other. Most
weren't even from the same army.
By causing friction among the
prisoners' chain of command, the major would be effectively destroying any
chance of their establishing a semblance of unit cohesion.
Hogan was about to protest again, when
he was interrupted by a familiar voice.
"Hey, what is this, guv'nor?"
the RAF corporal called. "You can't speak to the colonel like that! He
might be a Yank and a bleedin' colonel to boot, but he's our bleedin'
colonel!"
"Oui! My English friend here is correct! We demand that you apologize
to mon Colonel immediately!"
"Yeah, what's the idea, Mac?"
Hogan recognized the young American sergeant's boyish voice.
"I wouldn't eat your maggoty ol'
chow, anyway!" Hogan grinned. He'd know Olsen's Midwest drawl anywhere.
"What would the Bosche know of proper cuisine, anyway?
Smells like boiled cabbage. ~Phui!~"
Remaining straight-faced, Hogan raised
a single eyebrow at the major, and shrugged his shoulders, his expression
ingenuous. The major's dark features became thunderous.
"Kids--!" Hogan sighed,
shaking his head. "You raise them, draft them, teach them how to kill--and
what do they do the first time they get captured in enemy territory? Embarrass
you."
"Silence!" the major yelled,
but was overridden by the prisoners' good-natured boos and cat calls.
"Silence! I demand--!"
"Herr Major!"
Everyone turned to the new voice. The
major whirled towards the sound, snapping to attention.
"Jahwohl, Herr Oberst!"
he cried. "Heil Hitler!" Heels clicked smartly, the major's right arm
shot straight out in a salute.
The newcomer, a Luftwaffe colonel,
casually returned the salute. "Heil Hitler," he intoned. Hogan's ears
pricked up. This could be fun, he
thought.
"~Major Steiner,~" the
colonel began. "~What is the meaning of this? Why have these prisoners not
been fed? They are due to depart in another forty-five minutes.~"
"~Colonel Weiss!~" Steiner
stammered. "~I was just explaining to the American officer that the men
would be fed as soon as he rendered the appropriate military courtesy to
me--~"
"~Major Steiner. I wish to make
one thing perfectly clear. The American officer is a colonel, fully two grades
above yours. He is a prisoner of war and will be afforded the proper courtesies
as outlined by the Geneva Convention. Furthermore, as long as you are an
officer under my command, you will never abuse prisoners of war who come under
our temporary authority. Do I make myself clear?~"
"Jahwohl, Herr Oberst!"
Steiner shouted.
"~Now, before I decide that you
would be much better off in a combat unit on the Eastern front, might I suggest
that you ensure these prisoners are properly fed before they board the train
again.~"
"~Jahwohl, Herr Oberst!~"
Steiner saluted, and turning to his guards immediately began shouting orders in
German. Soon, it was apparent to the prisoners what had transpired--that
Steiner had been reprimanded and that their colonel would not be forced to
humiliate himself in order for them to receive their rations.
"Colonel Hogan?"
Hogan faced the Luftwaffe colonel.
Following proper military protocol, he snapped to attention and saluted his
senior captor out of courtesy.
"I wish to apologize for the
actions of my officer," Weiss murmured. Shrugging, he added, "He is
young. And the nephew of a well-placed Luftwaffe general."
Hogan grinned, nodding. Changing the
topic, he asked casually, "What unit is this, sir?"
"We are the 436th Air
Group--" Weiss began, then stopped. He gave Hogan a measured stare, his
expression unreadable. Finally, a small grin began to play at the corner of his
mouth.
"Excellently done, Colonel.
Excellent."
"I try, sir," Hogan said,
charming smile firmly in place.
"Enjoy your stay at LuftStalag
13," Weiss returned. "It is the toughest POW camp in all of Germany.
There has never been a successful escape from there."
"Really?" Hogan murmured,
crossing his arms across his chest. "Thank you, sir. You've given me a
goal in life. Mom always told us Hogan boys that we needed to set high
goals."
"Indeed? Meine Mutter was the same. 'Georg,' she would say, 'you will never
amount to anything with your nose in a book." Weiss grinned wistfully.
"Perhaps under different circumstances, Col. Hogan, you and I might have
met as comrades rather than as enemies."
"Perhaps," Hogan agreed. They
stood without speaking for a moment longer, watching as the Allied prisoners
lined up and resentfully made their way through the chow line. When the last
remaining POWs were waiting to be served, Weiss turned and extended his hand.
They shook.
"Enjoy your meal, Col.
Hogan," Weiss said. "Your train will be departing for Hammelburg
soon." As he spoke, he was interrupted by another train, which was pulling
into the station. It chugged noisily as it came to a grinding halt on a track
parallel to Hogan's troop transport. "I shall leave you here. Auf Weidersehen!"
The two officers saluted, and Weiss
departed. As soon as the Luftwaffe colonel disappeared into the train depot,
Hogan walked to the tail end of the chow line and waited his turn. Spotting
Kinchloe and Olsen, he headed in their direction.
The brash RAF corporal, the diminutive
member of the Free French Forces, and the young American sergeant were seated
with them. Kinchloe introduced the Allied airmen as Corporals Newkirk and
LeBeau. The American sergeant jumped to his feet and saluted nervously.
"Sir! Technical Sergeant Andrew
Carter reporting!"
Hogan stood to full attention and
solemnly returned the young sergeant's salute. "At ease, Carter,"
Hogan said quietly. Carter smiled brightly and ducked his head shyly. "Sit
down, airman, and eat your chow before it gets cold."
Carter immediately dropped to the
floor, eagerly obeying his new Commanding Officer. The others all rolled their
eyes but made no comment.
A few moments later, Hogan was leaning
against a post, trying not to gag on his 'meal.' Boiled cabbage! Hogan hated boiled cabbage. You sure picked the wrong country to get
captured in, Colonel! Why couldn't I have gotten myself shot down over Italy,
instead?
He noticed Kinchloe's amused sideways
glances and returned them with a dark glare. Kinchloe cleared his throat and
continued eating. After a few moments of withstanding Hogan's disgusted grunts
and grimaces, Kinchloe spoke, his voice tentative.
"At least they're not planning on
starving us," he offered.
"That's a matter of opinion,
mate," Newkirk complained. "How can you eat this ruddy
garbage?"
Kinchloe shrugged. "I'm
hungry."
"Starvation might not be such a
bad idea, after all," Newkirk groused.
"Hold your nose and choke it down,
soldier!" Hogan snapped. At Newkirk's look of protest, Hogan explained
quietly. "You need to keep up your strength. This might be the last meal
we see in days. We have no way of knowing."
Newkirk glared at Hogan, and then at
his metal plate filled with soggy cabbage. Nodding and shrugging, he
surrendered to the inevitable and began eating the mess. Taking Hogan's
suggestions as direct orders, he did as told--he held his nose and choked it
down.
Trying not to make a face, Hogan took a
small bite of his boiled cabbage. He immediately fought a strong urge to spit
it out. "And I thought the Gestapo were cold-blooded bastards," he
muttered. "This food should fall under the war crimes act!"
"Oui!" LeBeau muttered. "The Germans know nothing about
the art of preparing cuisine. Comme
dessert, que me suggereriez-vous pour effacer le goût du plat de resistance de
ma bouche?"
"Huh?" Carter said, confused.
"I said, what's for dessert to get
the taste out of our mouths?"
"Oh, are we having dessert?"
LeBeau rolled his eyes.
Grinning, Kinchloe finished his chow
and even began to lick his plate. "Here!" Hogan said sharply, shoving
his plate at his noncom. "Bon
appetit!"
"But you just said--!"
Newkirk began. Hogan made a single, sharp movement with his hand, cutting him
off.
"R.H.I.P., Corporal," Hogan
said smugly, a twinkle in his eye. "Rank has its privileges."
Kinchloe looked doubtfully at Hogan.
"Are you sure, Colonel?" he asked. "Like you said...we don't
know when we'll see our next meal."
"Take it, Kinch," Hogan said
reassuringly. "Believe me, I'd only throw it up later. No sense wasting
food." Reluctantly, Kinchloe took the proffered meal, but still hungry,
wolfed it down.
Ensuring that none of the guards were
looking in his direction, Hogan slid down until he was sitting next to Newkirk.
Not looking directly at the Englishman, he jabbed him lightly with his elbow,
holding his hand out behind him. He felt something being placed in it, a small
notebook.
His movements casual, he jammed his
hands into his Bomber jacket, the notebook seemingly burning his sweating palm.
****
End of Part 2