[Tuesday 24 Dec
1940//1200hrs local]
Bridgeport,
Connecticut
****
Hogan
threw a fastball and ducked behind the giant oak. He was rewarded by a
surprised yelp. He was home on leave after a harrowing year flying as a neutral
observer with the RAF.
The
frightening sounds and smells of the London Blitz--sirens wailing, bombs
exploding all around him, burning cordite--seemed a lifetime away.
"Why
you--!" Ryan shouted, his angry voice bubbling with laughter. "You're
dead meat, Junior!"
Hogan
answered with another volley of snowballs. Before long, the Hogan family
backyard rang with the familiar laughter of its two grown boys at play. But the
boys were men now. Men in uniform. Men with heavy responsibilities in a world
at war.
Moreover,
today was Christmas Eve, and the two Hogan brothers were again boys only
playing at war.
Hogan
felt a cold explosion on the back of his head. "Gotcha, Squirt!"
"Squirt--?!"
Hogan protested, throwing another snowball. He was rewarded by another angry
roar from his older brother. "I'm thirty-four years old!"
"Yeah,
well, I'm still four years older!" Ryan yelled back, shaking off the cold
wetness from his dark hair.
Laughing,
Hogan went for the frontal assault. He launched himself at his older brother
and they both went down, rolling together in the cold, wet snow. Hogan suddenly
found himself on the bottom--just like when they were kids--his arm twisted
behind him, his face being rubbed in the cold.
"Navy
flyers are the best! Say it, Junior!"
"Like
heck!" Hogan grunted, tossing his brother head over heels. He scrambled to
dive on Ryan's back, and soon had the tables turned. "Okay, Grandpa...You
know the drill. Army Air Corps leads the way! Say it!"
"Sorry,
Junior!" Ryan gasped. "You're coming in garbled!"
"Oh,
yeah?" Hogan grabbed a handful of snow and began stuffing it down his
brother's Navy jacket. Their yells were interrupted by the back-porch screen
door being slammed open.
"Ryan!
Bobby!" Mom called out, just as she had every day of their lives.
"Soup's on!" She stopped, placing her hands on her hips, and glared
at her two boys. "Oh, honestly. Look at you two. You're disgraceful. And
Lucy will be here any minute."
"Lucy?"
Hogan and Ryan asked together. Calling a temporary ceasefire, the brothers jumped
to their feet. Ryan threw his arm around his younger brother's shoulders,
hugging him towards him.
"I
don't know what you're so all-fired excited about, Squirt. Lucy's my
girl!"
"Your
girl? In your dreams!"
"I
have some very realistic dreams," Ryan said suggestively.
"Yeah,
and that's as far as you'll ever get with her," Hogan teased.
"You
know, for an Army flyboy you sure talk too much," Ryan said, annoyed.
Grinning,
Hogan straightened Ryan's collar and fingered the silver wings pinned on his brother's
chest. Under the pretext of dusting Ryan's Navy jacket from any remaining snow,
he answered.
"And
you Navy flyboys are all officers and gentlemen, right? Don't worry, Big
Brother," Hogan said, an impish smile playing across his lips. "I
know you like Lucy...a lot. And I have an idea that she feels the same about
you."
"Oh,
yeah? And what makes you such an expert, Junior?" Ryan asked
skeptically.
Hogan
looked innocent. "Who me? What do I know about women?"
Ryan
glared at him. "I'm not sure...And I'm not sure I want to
know."
"Come
on, Grandpa!" Hogan grinned. "Race you to the porch!"
****
Hogan
closed his eyes in pained recollection. He had to shake these memories...He had
work to do...
But
the memories kept coming back...
****
The
rest of his Christmas leave was a blur of images...
Mom
smiling proudly over her freshly baked pumpkin pie...
Hogan
and Ryan sitting around the fireplace while their father read 'Twas the Night
Before Christmas' aloud, just as he'd always done since they were children...
Ryan
and Lucy announcing their engagement...
Mom
and Dad smiling bravely as they waved good-bye at the train station...
Their
smiles morphed into inconsolable grief as they read the official cablegram
reporting Ryan's death at Pearl Harbor a year later...
****
[Friday 06 NOV
1942//0645hrs local]
LuftStalag 13,
Barracks #2
****
The
knock at the door brought him back to the present. Taking a deep, gulping
breath, Hogan impatiently wiped at his eyes. He hastily spread the papers out
on the table that he'd been holding and crossed over to the window overlooking
the compound.
His
back to the door, he called out. "Come in."
LeBeau
and Carter stuck their heads in. "Mon Colonel," LeBeau spoke
quietly. "You wished to see us?"
"Yeah,"
he muttered, distractedly. He uselessly patted his pockets for a cigarette.
Carter instantly held out an unopened pack of Chesterfields.
"Here,
sir," he offered. Hogan reached for it uncertainly.
"Are
you sure, soldier?" he asked. "These are worth their weight in
gold."
Carter
shrugged. "I have a couple more packs, sir."
"Thanks,"
Hogan said gratefully, taking the proffered pack. Flicking out a single cigarette,
he quickly lit it and inhaled deeply. You're smoking too much, Colonel,
he told himself. Gotta cut back.
Carter
watched his C.O. unsure on how to continue. LeBeau elbowed him and nodded
furtively. Carter shook his head vehemently. LeBeau eye's fairly screamed 'Go
on!' at him. Carter swallowed nervously.
"Uh...um,
sir?" he said hesitantly. Hogan gave him a questioning look.
"Sir...me and the other guys--! Well, we just want to say that--! That is,
we want you to know that--"
Hogan
felt touched by the young man's struggle for words. After a moment, he took
pity on him. "Thanks, Carter...I appreciate it. That goes for all the
guys." He stepped away for a few minutes, smoking quietly, hands trembling
slightly, until he was sure he had his emotions under tight rein.
Finally,
Hogan turned to them and got down to business. "Anything unusual to
report? Checkpoints, special units, patrols? Anything?"
"The
bridge is lightly guarded, mon Colonel," LeBeau answered. "But
we did run into several patrols there and back."
"Yeah,
boy--um, I mean, sir," Carter broke in. "That's why we were so late
getting back. A coupla Jerry patrols suddenly showed up just as we were about
to start back."
"Oui,
Colonel," LeBeau agreed. "I do not speak German, but I thought I
heard the Bosche say the words for freight train and heavy water as they
passed by--gueterzug and schweres wasser."
"Yeah,
and I definitely heard someone say Sonntag," Carter added
helpfully.
Hogan
nodded. "'Sunday...freight train...heavy water,'" Hogan mused.
"Sounds like we're on target. Good work, fellas."
LeBeau
and Carter beamed proudly. "Get some sack time," Hogan ordered.
"Just in case." The men nodded and headed out...
Long
after they were gone, Hogan stood by the window, smoking quietly. It's our
turn to hit 'em by surprise, Big Brother. This one's for you...
****
[Friday 06 NOV
1942//0800hrs local]
LuftStalag 13,
Outside Barracks #2
****
The
prisoners looked up as a truck pulled in through the
front gates. Kinchloe leaned towards Olsen. "Tell the Colonel that
Schnitzer just drove in."
Nodding,
Olsen took one final drag from his cigarette, and dropped it into the dirt. As
he stood, he casually ground out the butt and walked indoors.
Seconds
later, Hogan stepped outside, straightening his jacket and hat. Kinchloe tossed
him a mitt and a baseball. Rubbing the ball into the mitt, Hogan threw it in
the air, catching it easily.
Kinchloe,
meanwhile, warmed up by taking a few practice swings with the bat. Olsen
crouched behind him and started a fast-paced
"Batterbatterbatterbatter--!"
Nodding
that he was ready, Kinchloe took an expert batter's stance. Hogan looked over
his shoulder and checked to see if Schnitzer was in position. Schnitzer removed
his jacket--the signal!
Hogan
went into his windup and pitched a perfect fastball, right down the middle.
Kinchloe's swing was followed by a resounding ~crack!~ of the
bat. The ball went sailing up, up, up and over the guard tower into the woods
beyond.
Hogan
glared at Kinchloe from underneath his campaign hat. Taking out a second
baseball from inside his bomber jacket, he nodded secretively. Kinchloe took
his batter's stance again.
"Lucky
hit! Lucky hit!" Olsen chanted. "Come on, sir! You got 'im where you
want 'im! Batterbatterbatterbatter...! Aaannd...swing!"
This
time, Kinchloe held back on his swing, purposely aiming a line drive in the
direction of the dog kennel. The ball rolled underneath Schnitzer's truck. As
it did so, Hogan and Kinchloe ran after it.
Schultz
and two other guards arrived there at the same time, weapons ready.
"Halt!"
Schultz shouted.
"Hey!
Come on, Schultz! That's our last ball!" Hogan protested, sliding to a
stop, his hands held out.
"Yeah,
Schultz!" Kinchloe chimed in. "Come on...it's just a baseball."
Schultz
looked uncertain, then reluctantly nodded. Schnitzer spoke up, his tone
friendly.
"Please,
allow me to help," he said, crouching and looking under the truck.
"Oh, there it is! Behind the rear wheel." He reached in and grabbed
the ball. Standing, he was about to return it to Hogan when it slipped out of
his hand and dropped to the ground.
Simultaneously,
he and Hogan crouched down, both reaching for the ball together. Hogan quickly
slipped a note into Schnitzer's pocket. To Hogan's surprise, Schnitzer returned
the favor, slipping a note into his bomber jacket. Locking gazes momentarily,
both men stood up.
"Thanks,
Herr Schnitzer," Hogan said politely, casually tossing the ball up in the
air and catching it in his mitt. "You, too, Schultz. I don't know what
we'd do if we lost our last baseball. It's bad enough we had to miss the '42
World's Series because of this lousy war...And considering that the Cardinals
beat those Damned Yankees four games-to-one--"
Catching
the Germans' shocked looks, he stopped mid-sentence. "What?"
"Col.
Hogan," Schultz tsked disapprovingly. "Such language!
What would your mutter say?"
Hogan
cocked his head to one side in disbelief. Turning on his heel, he started
heading back to the barracks. A diehard Red Socks fan, he shook his head and
muttered, "Might've figured the Krauts for a buncha Yankees fans."
****
[Friday 06 NOV
1942//09300hrs local]
LuftStalag 13,
Barracks #2
****
"London
wants to talk to me," Hogan said, pacing the cramped confines of his
quarters. "It's marked 'Urgent.'" He crumpled the message in his
fist. "Swell! Just swell!"
"Sir!
You have to stand still!" Newkirk protested, helplessly. His
mouth worked awkwardly around several pins as he futilely followed after Hogan
on his knees with a tape measure in one hand and a German uniform in another.
"I mean, I can't be expected to've gone to all that trouble pinching
the ruddy thing, and not make sure it fits you, can I?"
"Do
you know what they want, sir?" Kinchloe asked, ignoring Newkirk. Hogan
shook his head and resumed pacing. Newkirk threw up his hands in defeat.
Oh,
what's the bloody use? the
Englishman groaned.
He
looks like a caged tiger,
Kinchloe thought.
"I'll
have to go out tonight," Hogan said. "The Underground contact I told
you about--"
"--Greta?"
Newkirk interrupted, his face brightening.
"--Fraulein
Reisert," Hogan corrected. "She has a portable short wave. We'll have
to use it."
"We?" Kinchloe asked.
Hogan smiled. "Kinch, I worry about you.
You don't get out enough."
"That's true, Kinch," Newkirk
agreed. "A man should have a hobby, I always say."
"Newkirk?" Hogan said. The RAF
corporal looked at him, question marks in his eyes. "Shut up."
Newkirk grimaced and mumbled something
unflattering about 'Officers.'
Kinchloe crossed his arms while giving his
C.O. a skeptical look. Hogan stopped his incessant pacing, thus giving Newkirk
the opening he needed to fit the Luftwaffe uniform jacket on him.
"You're my radioman," Hogan said
with a slight shrug, wincing suddenly as Newkirk pricked him accidentally.
"Hey! Watch it!" he yelped.
"Sorry."
Hogan glared at him, and then turned back to
Kinchloe. "I need you," he said. Kinchloe nodded slowly.
"Besides. Didn't your draft board tell you? Join the army and see the
world--?"
"Yeah..." Kinchloe nodded. "I
seem to recall something along those lines...Join the army and see the world.
Meet interesting people--"
"--kill them!" He and
Hogan finished together, laughing at their gallows humor.
"Oh, bloody charming,"
Newkirk muttered. "You two are a regular Jack the Ripper and Vlad the
Impaler."
Hogan grinned. "Glad you approve,
Newkirk, 'cause you'll be coming with us."
"Thank you, sir," Newkirk said with
the utmost insincerity. "It does a bloke's heart good to feel
wanted."
"We'll outfit you in one of the uniforms
that Barracks Three got for us." Hogan paused, embarrassed.
"Kinch...I'm afraid you don't look much like a
German--"
"Yeah, and that gives me a warm feeling
all over, Colonel," Kinchloe retorted.
"So, we'll have to take you
prisoner--" Hogan began.
"--Prisoner?" Newkirk asked.
"In case we run into patrols,"
Hogan explained. "We'll say we captured you and are taking you to Stalag
13!"
"The toughest prisoner of war camp in
all of Germany!" Newkirk added in a thick German accent.
Hunched over, Kinchloe stuck a quarter
against his right eye in a dead-on imitation of Klink. "There has never
been a successful escape from Stalag 13!"
"Y'know, Kinch, I hate to admit it, but
Newkirk's right," Hogan said straight-faced. "You do
need a hobby!"
****
[Friday 06 NOV
1942//1700hrs local]
LuftStalag
13, Outside Barracks #2
****
The shadows were lengthening in the late
Autumn evening. The weak afternoon sun was slipping below the western horizon.
From where they stood, huddling against the outer wall of Barracks Two, the
prisoners could see and hear the changing of the guard by the front gates.
Kinchloe sighed. "The place feels almost
peaceful," he grumbled, giving the breath-taking western sky a critical
look.
"Yeah," Olsen agreed. "A guy
could grow used to the sun setting over the de-lousing shack." Kinchloe
snorted in amusement.
"That's right, mate!" Newkirk
added. "Why, under the right conditions, you could almost describe the ol'
place as poetic!"
"Surreal is more like it.
Especially with the sun gleaming off the 30 millimeter machine guns on the
guard towers," Kinchloe said sardonically.
"And the concertina rolls on the top of
the fence," Olsen added.
"It's a regular Buckingham Palace,
mates!"
The men laughed softly. Abruptly, the
coughing and spluttering of an out-of-tune truck motor broke the quiet.
"Heads up, people," Kinchloe
muttered. "Looks like our friendly neighborhood tierarzt is back.
Olsen, get the colonel."
"Sure thing, Sarge."
****
[Friday 06 NOV
1942//1732hrs local]
LuftStalag
13, Barracks #2
****
Hogan read from the note Schnitzer had passed
him. He and his men were crammed into his small quarters, which meant that he
couldn't pace. He glanced at Carter.
"Schnitzer's left the supplies we
requested in the truck by the ravine. He was able to get us almost everything
we asked for except the hydrometer and the wire."
"Sir, the Stalag communications shack
should have enough wire for our needs," Kinchloe offered. "You know,
your standard telephone wire."
"Good idea," Hogan said.
"Carter, LeBeau see what you can do after lights out." Both men
nodded. "Carter, you said that you can still manufacture the explosives
without the hydrometer. Just how unstable will the stuff be? Will we be able to
handle it safely?"
Carter looked suddenly uncertain. He glanced
at the others, and then back at Hogan. "Sir, I can try...but I can't
guarantee that it won't go off at the slightest thing."
The other men went still.
"Buggeration!" Newkirk muttered.
"I'm sorry, sir," Carter
apologized. Hogan automatically reached into his breast pocket and pulled out
the pack of Chesterfields.
"It's not your problem, sergeant,"
Hogan
"Oui, mon ami," LeBeau
agreed. "It is our problem. Perhaps we still can raid the Bosche
ammunition dump?"
"Too risky," Hogan say blowing out
a stream of smoke. "We're too close to the mission. If anything should go
wrong--" He shrugged. "Carter, can you explain the basic principle
behind this--hydrometer? D'you think we could make one?"
Carter shrugged. "I don't see why not.
All it does is measure specific gravity of the liquid."
"Hey, if I remember my high school
science," Kinchloe broke in. "All you need for that is a heavy
object, like a rock, tied to something that floats--like a stick or a piece of
cork."
"Yeah, boy," Carter agreed. "A
homemade hydrometer won't be calibrated exactly, so the reading won't be
perfect. But it could work."
"And the boys in Barracks Three have an
abundant supply of corks left over from their little wine-tasting party,"
Newkirk added.
"Oui! That and a big
hangover!"
Hogan nodded, a new look of determination
lighting his warm brown eyes. "Good! As soon as bed check's over, we'll
move out. Mac reported that the tunnel's ready for business. Carter,
LeBeau--you'll get the wire from the communications shack. Then Carter, you'll
work on the explosives. LeBeau, you'll get him whatever assistance he
needs."
Both men nodded.
"Olsen, Foster--you'll accompany us as
far as the truck. You'll offload the stuff and bring it back to the compound.
Got it?"
"Yes, sir!" they said together.
"Newkirk, Kinchloe, you'll be with
me." He looked around. "Any questions?" He was met with several
"No, sir's!"
"Good," he said smiling. "In
that case, gentlemen, let's get ready."
****
[Friday 06 NOV
1942//2330hrs local]
Reisert
Buchladen, Hammelburg
****
Hogan
stood in the shadows near the bookstore. Signaling Kinchloe and Newkirk, they
turned the corner down a back alley to the rear of the building. Taking point,
Hogan led his men down the narrow staircase to Greta's residence, located below
street level. Furtively, he knocked twice, paused, and then knocked twice
again. Newkirk stood watch a few feet away. Kinchloe waited tensely crouched
next to the door.
There
was a short wait. The door opened a crack, accompanied by a sharp gasp.
"Herr
Oberst! Was ist los?" Greta asked, startled.
"It's
me, Fraulein Reisert," Hogan whispered. "Col. Hogan."
"Col.
Hogan?" She stared at his uniform. "Please...come in!" Hogan
hurried his men inside after her. He quickly closed the door behind him, and
stood with Newkirk listening against it. He heard a match strike, saw a brief
flash, which settled into an uneven, golden flicker as Greta lit the oil lamp.
As
the light fell on her, playing with the golden highlights of her hair, Hogan
caught his breath. The moment was suddenly shattered by Newkirk who let out a
low, appreciative whistle.
"Stow
it, Corporal!" Hogan said sharply.
"Sorry,
sir...Fraulein," Newkirk apologized. "I guess I'm a little out of
practice."
Greta
smiled knowingly. "That is quite all right, Corporal. I understand."
Newkirk was immediately next to her, her hand held tightly in his. Greta looked
taken aback.
"I
think I'm in love," he said dreamily. "Will you marry me? Tonight?
Right now?"
Greta's
smile broadened, her eyes crinkling in silent laughter. "I'm afraid I
cannot marry you tonight, Corporal." She leaned in closer. "There's a
war on, you know."
"Yes,
so I've been told," Newkirk said, looking crestfallen.
"Newkirk...outside!"
Hogan growled, jerking his head in the direction of the door. "Keep watch.
If you see or hear anything, give the signal."
Newkirk
gave Hogan a sour look, and then glanced regretfully at Greta. He shook his
head. "Officers...they just don't understand love at first sight,
y'see."
Hogan
grabbed Newkirk by the collar and started pushing him towards the door.
"Outside, Romeo!" he ordered. "Or all the king's horses and all
the king's men, won't be able to put Peter Newkirk back together again."
"That's
blatant abuse of power, it is!" Newkirk protested, struggling
half-heartedly at the door. Hogan opened the door and shoved him outside,
slamming it in his face. Newkirk glared at the closed door for a moment.
Sighing, he took his lookout position.
"Officers--they
take all the fun out of war."
Meanwhile,
Hogan had slowly turned back to face Greta. "I'm sorry about that."
He determinedly ignored the way her hair fell down in cascades over her
shoulders, and how her blue eyes sparkled in the dim light cast by the oil
lamp.
"There
is no need to apologize, Col. Hogan. I quite understand," she said coolly.
"Now, shall you tell me why you are here and dressed like that?"
"Your
short wave radio," he said curtly. "We need to use it." Greta
nodded, her blue eyes steady.
"Very
well, but I shall require your help." She pointed at a small, well-worn
sofa and made to move it. Hogan and Kinchloe quickly grabbed it and pushed it
out of the way. As they did, she rolled back a large area rug, revealing a
trapdoor. She then picked up the oil lamp. "This way."
They
hurried down a steep staircase into the dankness below, a root cellar, Hogan
saw. There was barely room enough for two, much less three.
"I'll
wait upstairs," Greta said. Hogan nodded.
"How
long d'you think before you can raise them, Kinch?" he asked. Kinchloe
shrugged, shaking his head.
"I'm
not sure, sir. A few minutes, I guess."
"Okay,
I'll be topside. Call me when you make contact."
"Roger."
Kinchloe was already hunched over the radio, powering it up. Hogan watched for
a few moments, and then climbed the stairs. Because the oil lamp was in use in
the root cellar, the living area was now lit by a single candle.
He
looked around the room and spotted her by the kitchen sink, filling a
teakettle. He studied her as she went about her normal routine, his throat
constricting as she moved in and out of the uneven shadows thrown by the lone
taper.
"Fraulein?"
he called softly.
"Would
you care for some tea?" she asked.
"Tea?"
Hogan shuddered involuntarily. "Um...no, thank you."
She
gave him a quizzical look and abruptly laughed softly. "I beg your pardon,
Colonel. I forget...you Americans do not care much for tea, do you?"
"Well...I
wouldn't say that," Hogan answered. "My grandmother...now, she
held tea in real high esteem--"
"I
see..." Greta said with a smile. "So, what you are saying is that I
remind you of your grandmother?"
It
was Hogan's turn to laugh. He took a step towards her until he was less than an
arms length away.
"Oh,
no, ma'am," he said softly, shaking his head. "I assure you--you
definitely do not remind me of my grandmother."
"Well,
that's a relief," she said. "I--"
"Colonel!"
Kinchloe called. "I've got London on the line." Hogan held her gaze a
moment longer, feeling his throat tighten once again.
"Sir?"
"Coming."
Hogan's dark eyes bored into hers. The next instant he was heading downstairs.
****
End of Part 10