Chapter Five
LeBeau turned on his bunk, grumbling as the thin blanket slid off him once more. He'd been tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, sleep frustratingly evading him. He gathered from the snores and gradual cessation of stirring in the other bunks that the rest had finally dropped off, but LeBeau found himself unable to relax, his mind going over and over again what had happened.
He still found it hard to believe what Kinch had told them. He knew Hogan had seemed different the past couple of weeks, but everyone thought it was just an accumulation of stress.
They were aware, as well, of the serious impact Leitmann's death had had on him. After the resistance leader was killed, Hogan spent hours at a time alone in his room, presumably wrestling with his conscience and trying to determine what had gone wrong. He'd become more sullen and moody, purposely secluding himself from his men.
With an increasing ill temper, compounded by his inability to sleep, Hogan began drinking late into the night, trying to induce a slumber that no longer came easily. LeBeau and the others had noticed the bloodshot eyes and whisky hoarseness to his voice at morning formations. After a week or so he barely made any attempt to conceal the empty bottles that littered the bottom of his locker. None of them had known what to say, but simply tried to stay out of his way and hoped that his normal self would soon return.
Punching the lumpy, makeshift pillow wadded beneath his head, LeBeau turned over again, heaving a weary sigh. How he would have given anything to be back in southern France with his family, comfortable in his own bed in their modest country home. He felt the pangs of homesickness wash over him and tried to shake them off, as he turned once more in the hard, narrow bunk. There was no sense wallowing in the memories of his family and former life; it made remaining there in Stalag 13 as a "voluntary" prisoner too difficult.
He thought for a moment and suddenly realized that they didn't know much about Colonel Hogan's background. Although the rest of them occasionally griped about being apart from their loved ones, in return Hogan said little about his own family or concerns. His men utterly and implicitly trusted him with their lives and would, without question, follow his orders, but their leader had somehow remained an enigma to them all.
LeBeau grunted once more, pulling on the blanket, and then suddenly froze, as a loud thump sounded from the tunnel beneath him. He held his breath, trying to remain as still as possible to listen intently in the darkness. Another distinct thump. Something, or someone, had discovered the secret tunnel beneath their barracks. LeBeau cautiously slipped out from under the covers and reached for a flashlight resting atop his footlocker.
His hand just closed around the lamp, when he heard the lower wooden bunk to the tunnel's trap door sliding upwards. In the shadows, a vague image could be seen climbing slowly up the ladder. LeBeau snapped on the torch and froze when he saw the figure illuminated before him. The man blinked in the unexpected glare and then staggered toward him, stumbling over the lower rails of the bunk frame. There was a loud crash followed by a groan and several muttered oaths that raised the others from their slumber.
"What the hell's the row all about?" grumbled Newkirk. His hand groped from an upper bunk to turn on the wall switch, illuminating the room by a bare bulb suspended from the ceiling. Blinking groggily, he stared down uncomprehendingly at a form crumpled on the floor in the middle of their barracks.
The black-clad figure, still cursing, drew himself up on his hands and knees and tried clumsily to rise, only to lose his balance and topple forward once more. He sprawled on the floor in front of LeBeau who, astonished to the point of speechlessness, proceeded to follow the man's jerky movements with the beam of his light.
The intruder gradually rolled over onto his back and looked up at the Frenchman clad in long johns and stocking feet standing watch over him.
"Whassamatter?" he mumbled, his speech noticeably slurred. "S'only me."
With some effort he managed to sit up and then grasped the edge of the table to haul himself to an upright position, tottering as LeBeau's flashlight continued to pursue him. Frowning, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from its beam. The torn sleeve of his black sweater disclosed a dark red-encrusted crease that ran the length of one forearm.
"For cryin' out loud, LeBeau, shut off th' damn spotlight, will ya?"
LeBeau looked stunned, as he wordlessly switched off the lamp.
Newkirk peered down from an upper bunk, a stupefied expression on his face.
"Colonel," he asked hesitantly, "have you, uh, maybe had a bit too much of a nip this evening, sir?"
Hogan wheeled precariously to glare at the upper bunk. He'd had one too many people question him in the past twenty-four hours, and the sleepy Englishman had the unfortunate luck of being the proverbial last straw.
"Who th' hell d'you think y'are, Newkirk, th' damn housemother?" he snarled.
The sudden and uncharacteristic display of anger so startled him that Newkirk could only snap his gaping jaw shut in response.
Hogan's head circled about to querulously confront the faces gawking at him from around the room. Characteristic of the very intoxicated, his head swept too far in its arc. Trying to steer back, he over-corrected in the process, the swimming objects ghosted before him in faint multiple images only exacerbating the effects. His jerky movements further interfered with an uncertain grip on balance, and he felt everything around him begin to rotate.
"Whoa. Who put th' room on spin cycle?"
Hogan grabbed the table once more to steady himself before aiming for his room. Several hours of hard walking through the woods and a day full of misadventure were taking their toll. His limp had become more pronounced, and he winced, when he put his weight on the injured leg.
He suddenly misjudged a step and lurched gracelessly to one side. It was only by seizing the frame of a nearby bunk that he kept from crashing to the floor. The occupant in the upper bed rolled over irritably, as the wooden structure shook.
"For cryin' out loud, if you're gonna go on a bender do the rest of us a favor and stay away `til you sober up, huh?"
Hogan tried to focus his bleary eyes on the source of the belligerent remark. It was Braden, of course. The enlisted man had been a continual thorn in his side ever since he'd been assigned to Stalag 13. He'd been a guest there once before; only that time he'd been hiding out in the tunnels after escaping from Stalag 9. Braden would have been back in the States now, if he'd only listened to Hogan's instructions the first time. But no, the thickheaded sergeant insisted on doing things his way and was recaptured in less than a day before being officially transferred to Stalag 13. Braden seemed to have a knack for knowing how to get under Hogan's skin, continually challenging his every order and making things generally miserable for everyone in the barracks.
Still grasping the bunk post for support, Hogan gradually listed forward so his face was only inches away from Braden's.
"Why doncha come down here `n say that?"
The darkly menacing tone in Hogan's voice abruptly chilled the entire room.
Hogan's hands were now free of the bed frame and had formed into fists at his sides. The other men looked around uneasily, as Hogan and Braden continued to measure each other for several long seconds.
Braden considered his chances, scowling at Hogan with genuine dislike. Hogan was only an inch or two taller than Braden, but he was also clearly drunk, which certainly improved the odds. With a shrug, he decided not to risk it and rolled back over, preferring instead to return to his slumber.
"Aw, go t'hell," he muttered under his breath, turning away.
Kinch had slowly made his way across the barracks. He later admitted that if he hadn't stepped between them there was a good chance Hogan would have reached up and literally dragged Braden out of the top bunk, right then and there.
The tall communicator stretched in front of Hogan and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder just as he reached for Braden.
"Say, Colonel, what happened to your leg? Why don't we go to your room so I can take a look at it for you, huh?"
Kinch's tone was pleading. The last thing he wanted to do was to take a swing at the Colonel. He wasn't worried about being able to defend himself, he'd been a Golden Gloves champion before the war, but he didn't want to have to square off against his commanding officer. Might make things pretty awkward come morning.
Hogan scowled intently at Kinch for several tense moments, before his features relaxed slightly, and he unclenched his fists.
"Nah, s'okay. S'jus' a sprained ankle."
He waved one hand dismissively, the motion almost setting him reeling again, but the soft-spoken radioman caught him by the arm.
"What happened, Colonel?"
Kinch's dark brown eyes were troubled. He'd never seen the Colonel like this before and it shook him up. Hogan was usually the rock-steady foundation for the rest of them. He didn't mind his CO showing a few flaws, but it embarrassed him to see Hogan like this.
The still-swaying officer looked pointedly at the hand on his arm, and Kinch apologetically released him. Hogan grimaced once more, shifting his weight to try and keep his balance.
"Had t' come in by 'chute." He turned to limp to his room. "Jus' hit some trees, thas' all."
"Geez, Colonel, you're damned lucky if you landed in the trees and walked away with only a sprain."
Kinch shook his head in wonder. Every parachutist dreaded a tree landing--too many resulted in serious injury or even death.
"You sure it's not broken, Colonel?"
"I said s'fine, Kinch, now leave me alone, huh?"
He turned and surveyed once more the stunned faces that peered at him from various bunks around the room.
"See ever'body in the mornin.' Ever'body," he repeated menacingly, as he shot a final glance Braden's way.
He stumbled to the private room at the end of the barracks. The door slamming shut behind him broke the incredulous silence that filled the room.
Kinch stood there for a few moments, a look of astonishment flooding his face, as he slowly crossed the room to return to his bunk.
"I...I don't believe it," he said, dumbfounded. He turned toward Newkirk with a worried expression.
"Peter, you'd better check the tunnel to make sure he didn't leave the outside entrance exposed. In his condition, I don't know how he even found the opening, but we don't want someone else coming across it."
Newkirk nodded and began to climb wearily out of his bunk.
"Uh, fellas, I hate to bring this up, but what are we going to do about that order from London to take the Colonel into custody?" Carter asked hesitantly.
Kinch sat down heavily on the edge of his bunk with a sigh and looked over at the enlisted man. "You want to read him his rights and the list of charges against him, Carter, go right ahead. There's no way I'm going to approach him now. For the time being, I say we just let him sleep it off."
Carter nodded reluctantly in agreement, as Newkirk reappeared from below and signaled all was secure.
"You were right, Kinch," Newkirk whispered, as he climbed back into his upper berth. "He was so bleedin' drunk he forgot to close the cover on the emergency tunnel." He shook his head in disbelief. "That's just not like the Colonel."
Kinch looked somberly at the other men. "People seem to be saying that a lot lately," he said quietly, glancing at the closed door on the other side of the room.
Chapter Six
The prisoners stood in formation, shuffling their feet and stealing sidelong looks at each other, as they nervously observed Hans Schultz, rotund sergeant of the guard, count down the rows for the third time.
"Vierzehn, fünfzehn, sech--" Schultz halted; beginning to look more and more worried. He sidled over to Newkirk, standing in the front row with his hands jammed in his pockets against the morning chill.
"Newkirk, someone seems to be missing, and I think that someone is Colonel Hogan. Please be a good boy and tell me he is here in camp?"
Schultz's tone was imploring, as he anxiously looked behind him, his attention drawn by the approaching footsteps of the camp kommandant.
"Didn't anybody try to wake the Colonel?" Carter hissed.
"I knocked on his door to tell him we'd been called to formation," Newkirk answered under his breath.
"Well, what did he say?"
"I don't think it's somethin' I should repeat in mixed company," Newkirk responded sourly, glancing in Schultz's direction.
Schultz hastily made an about-face to salute Colonel Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of LuftStalag 13. The enlisted man's arm was shaking, as he plastered his spatulaed fingers against the front of his helmet.
"Report!" bellowed the tall, lean, balding man who came to attention in front of the formation, giving his portly sergeant a perfunctory glance. A Luftwaffe general flanked his side. Oversight for all LuftStalags happened to fall within General Burkhalter's domain. The corpulent general had unfortunately chosen that morning to make one of his surprise inspections of the camp. It would have been bad enough to have a prisoner missing without a general officer's visit, but its coincidence with his inspection portended disaster.
Schultz stammered for several moments, earning an exasperated look from Klink, as he placed a monocle on his left eye. He peered over Schultz's ample shoulders to look up and down the row of men before him, returning to stare a second time at the vacant left front corner of the formation.
"And just where is Colonel Hogan this morning?" he demanded impatiently.
"Herr Kommandant..." Schultz began, as the door to the barracks swung open.
Schultz looked behind him, sighing with audible relief at the sight of Hogan emerging through the doorway. One hand held his cap and the other was trying to tuck in his shirttails, while he slowly limped behind the formation. He was unshaven and there were several long, red scratches down both sides of his face, a vestige of his earlier encounter with the trees. It was apparent to all from his disheveled appearance that he'd had a rough night.
Hogan had almost reached the end of the back row, when Braden, standing idly in front, felt compelled to utter what turned out to be an unfortunate choice of a characteristically sarcastic remark.
"For Pete's sake, somebody put in a requisition for a CO who can handle his booze."
Braden turned to smirk at the man standing to his left and subsequently missed any warning as to what would happen next.
The only possible indicator was when Hogan's cap seemed to slip casually through his fingers and fall to the ground. Probably to make it easier to throttle Braden with both hands, they'd all later agreed.
As Hogan began to make the turn from the rear of the formation, he suddenly veered left, roughly shouldering Kinch and Carter aside. Pushing off with his good leg, he lunged in Braden's direction with an animal-like fury they had never seen before. Both were hurled to the ground, Braden struggling to remove Hogan's clenched hands from around his throat.
Klink watched dumbfounded, while the two men grappled together in the middle of the compound. Braden tried desperately to gasp out a curse, as Hogan tightened his grip. The ragged lines of what remained of a formation shifted out of range of their flailing legs and stood encircling them.
"Schultz, don't just stand there, do something!" Klink ordered shrilly. He looked worriedly over at Burkhalter, his mouth opening and closing like a beached carp gasping to breathe.
Before the leaden guard could come to his senses, Kinch and Newkirk ran over, each grabbing Hogan by an arm. He strained wildly against them, while they hauled him to his feet, his face contorted with rage. Braden squirmed on the ground, choking for breath and rubbing his throat. His eyes became huge with terror, as he viewed the furious expression on Hogan's darkened face.
"Did...did you see what he did to me?" Braden squawked defensively to the men around him, appealing for allies. None came to his side.
They were all shocked at Hogan's behavior, but Braden hadn't exactly endeared himself to anyone during his stay at the camp. Several of them secretly wished Kinch and Newkirk had let the Colonel pummel him a while longer; he certainly deserved it.
Hogan continued to struggle against his restraints, suddenly freeing one arm that swung wildly and connected with Kinch's jaw. The enlisted man lurched rearward, landing squarely on his backside with a startled grunt. The scattered assemblage immediately hushed. Kinch sat up slowly, a dazed look on his face. Ordinarily his reflexes would have conditioned him to duck a punch, but he wasn't expecting that one. As he sat there rubbing his sore jaw, he looked at Hogan with a bewildered, pained expression that came from far more than just physical discomfort.
Breathing heavily, Hogan shifted his weight from his bad leg, the men around him watching in stunned silence. He stood there for several moments and then hung his head, moving toward Kinch, as the radioman raised his hand expectantly. Hogan, his face abruptly resuming its stoniness, sidestepped him and limped over to where his hat lay on the ground. Kinch looked as wounded as a kicked dog. Hogan bent over to pick up the cap and dusted it off, as Newkirk, wearing a disgusted look, reached down and helped Kinch to his feet.
Hogan stepped back into place of what remained of the formation, brushing the dirt from his uniform. "That'll teach you to keep your mouth shut next time, Braden," he growled.
Burkhalter pursed his bulbous lips and looked hard at the senior POW officer. "I don't think there will be a next time, Colonel Hogan," he said evenly. "I believe I have seen quite enough."
"Sergeant Schultz, dismiss the prisoners," the general barked, as he continued to stare stonily in Hogan's direction.
Like an automaton, Schultz turned and announced their dismissal in a cracked voice. The men broke from the remnants of their formation and began to slowly troop back inside the barracks.
"Not you, Colonel Hogan," Burkhalter ordered, his words tightly enunciated with anger. "You and Sergeant Braden are to report to Colonel Klink's office. Now."
Hogan shrugged and then glared at Braden, bowing slightly, as one arm swept forward in mocking invitation. "After you, Sergeant."
***
Burkhalter preceded Klink into the office to hang his hat and coat on a rack in the corner and then eased his enormous girth into a sturdy chair against the wall. He sat there, pudgy fingers steepled against his chins, and broodingly watched the proceedings.
Klink's stern gaze pivoted from one figure to the other before his desk. They certainly presented a sharp contrast in appearance, he thought. Braden stood stiffly at attention, his chest thrust forward and eyes focused directly ahead. Hogan, on the other hand, slouched in a stance more closely resembling a sloppy parade rest, his thumbs hooked in his jacket pockets in an air of seeming disregard. The kommandant passed a nervous glance at his superior officer. Couldn't Hogan at least attempt to put on some appearance of military bearing when the General was there?
Klink cleared his throat. "Would, er, either of you gentlemen care to explain yourselves this morning?" He couldn't help but notice Burkhalter's frown in the background.
Braden allowed himself a quick glimpse at Hogan and then quickly resumed his rigid posture, remaining silent. Hogan merely affected a bored look and pretended to stare out the window, refusing to answer.
"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. Regardless of any reasons you may have had, your actions this morning are unacceptable. I will not tolerate fighting among the prisoners." Klink felt as though he was speaking to an empty room and found himself more irritable by the minute as a result. He turned to address the enlisted man first.
"Sergeant Braden, you are to receive a week in the cooler." Klink nodded to Schultz, standing by the door. "Sergeant Schultz, you will--"
"A week in the cooler?! What the hell for?" interrupted Braden in an angry outburst. He jerked his thumb at Hogan. "He's the one who started it!"
Klink fixed Braden with an icy stare. "That will earn you two weeks in the cooler, Sergeant. I suggest you not try my patience further, or I will find more interesting ways to enforce the regulations of this camp."
Schultz motioned toward the outer office, taking Braden by the upper arm.
"I'll be waiting for you, Braden," Hogan shot, as the pair departed Klink's office.
Schultz tightened his grip to prevent his charge from rekindling the confrontation and quickly drew the door closed.
Hogan turned back to Klink, a smug look on his face. The kommandant purposely avoided meeting his eyes and remained hunched over, aimlessly shuffling the papers on his desk.
"I'm afraid that won't be the case, Colonel Hogan." Burkhalter's tone was casual, almost detached.
"And just what's that supposed to mean?" Hogan stood there, arms folded across his chest and head tilted slightly in a look of petulant impatience.
"Colonel Hogan, on occasion up until now, I've found your antics here at LuftStalag 13 almost amusing."
Burkhalter leaned forward with a grunt and extracted a cigar from the lidded wooden box atop Klink's desk. He paused a moment to clip one end before securing it in a corner of his mouth. Klink scurried from behind the desk, hurrying to raise a lighter, while the general puffed vigorously. Waving Klink away with annoyance, Burkhalter continued speaking, the cigar bobbing in place.
"However, Hogan, lately I find them more troublesome than entertaining."
He paused briefly to contemplate the glowing end of his cigar.
"There is also the annoying matter of Major Hochstetter's continual reports to my headquarters on his suspicions regarding your activities. He seems to think the unusually high level of sabotage activity in proximity to this camp points to one man and that is you, Colonel Hogan."
Hogan straightened slightly, continuing to gaze expressionless at the general. He could feel a pulse begin to throb more insistently at his temples and wondered where the lecture was heading.
"Granted, there is some notion of doubt, or at the very least, the absence of hard evidence for proof, not that German military courts require it anyway..." He waved the cigar vaguely in the air. "But, I have many more important matters to deal with in Berlin, and I cannot afford to have my attention continually diverted in order to straighten things out here."
He looked pointedly over at Klink and sighed with exasperation, as the kommandant's head fervently bobbed up and down to predicate his agreement with the general's remarks.
"There is conceivably an alternative option and that is to replace Colonel Klink here with a tougher, more capable kommandant."
Burkhalter held up one fleshy hand to order Klink, rising in protest, to sit back down. The kommandant meekly obeyed, while his superior turned back to the sullen American.
"But, unfortunately, any officers even slightly more competent than Klink are needed on the front in combat units. So, instead of changing kommandants, I've decided to change prisoners."
Hogan looked over at Klink with a puzzled expression. The kommandant's head was bowed once more, his hands clasped tightly together and resting on the blotter in front of him. He declined to look up, as Burkhalter continued.
"Colonel Hogan, you're being transferred from this LuftStalag, effective today. You will be driven to the train station in town where you are to be put into the protective custody of armed escorts." He glanced over at Klink, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You are then to be transported to a camp at Dachau."
Hogan felt the blood drain from his face, and his jaw went slack for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
"But...but, you can't do that!" Why was that statement beginning to sound so familiar?
"Oh, yes, we most certainly can and have. Dachau provides quite a nice facility to house those we consider to be exceptionally troublesome enemies of the state. Had you been more willing to follow the rules here, Hogan, you might have avoided its confines, but I'm afraid that is not to be. They should have no difficulty breaking your rebellious spirit there."
Hogan looked searchingly at the kommandant.
Klink glanced up briefly and then guiltily dropped his eyes back to the desktop, announcing in a hushed voice, "That's all, Hogan. You're dismissed."
Hogan began to stammer an objection, but one look at Burkhalter's impassive face made him realize it was useless. Refusing to salute, he turned angrily on his heels and stormed out, the slamming of the door reverberating throughout the office.
With a sigh, Klink picked up one of the papers before him and stared at it incomprehensibly for several moments before remembering he still had an important guest in his office. He looked up suddenly to an amused, condescending expression on Burkhalter's face.
"What is it, Klink?"
"Oh, nothing really, General Burkhalter. I just, well, I'm so surprised at Colonel Hogan this morning. Something has changed. Lately he hasn't been himself. Don't you think he seemed different, Herr General?"
"Perhaps." Burkhalter puffed thoughtfully on the cigar. "Tell me, Klink, in your schooling at Gymnasium, you studied the ancient Greek tragedies, no?"
"Oh, certainly, Herr General. Although, of course, my Gymnasium was an all boys' school. For some reason I was always selected to read the female parts in the plays..." Klink reflected back, a perplexed look on his face.
"Why am I not surprised to hear that, Klink?" Burkhalter scowled at him. "At any rate, you might recall what they referred to as 'hubris?'"
"Uh, let's see, 'hubris,'" Klink stammered. "Yes, I think I remember, er, 'hubris,' um, wasn't that, uh..."
Burkhalter rolled his eyes. "'Hubris,' Klink, refers to an excess of pride. It was often the downfall of many a Greek hero and perhaps it is that same arrogance that felled our Colonel Hogan. Believe me, if he had not tripped himself up this morning, I suspect he would have eventually been caught in Major Hochstetter's net. He is far too impertinent for his own good. It became his Achilles heel, if you will."
"But, Dachau, Herr General?" Klink looked at him pleadingly. "Don't you think that was a bit, er, harsh?"
Burkhalter paused before answering, weighing Klink and his response carefully for several seconds.
"Don't tell me you're finding it difficult to do your job as kommandant here, Klink, because despite what I said earlier, I can readily find a replacement for you."
Klink responded, his tone blustery. "Of course not, General Burkhalter. I'm actually quite pleased to finally be rid of that troublemaker. I can assure you things will go much more smoothly here without him."
"I thought you'd say that, Klink." Burkhalter grimaced, as he lifted his bulk with effort from the chair and retrieved his hat and topcoat. "I don't care if you are pleased or not, I want no further problems from this camp, or you will find yourself sharpening your skates for the Siberian Ice Festival."
The flustered kommandant rose from behind his desk, quickly hurrying to help bundle the senior officer into his coat. A lackluster, "Heil Hitler," trailed the general from the office, before Klink leaned back heavily against the edge of his desk, head sagging.
He gradually turned to the window that overlooked the compound. What alternative did he have? He was baffled as to the reason for Hogan's change in personality over the past few weeks, but it didn't matter, he thought, as he looked out at a solitary figure walking painfully toward Barracks Two. There was still a prison camp to be run. He was only doing his job.
Chapter Seven
Turning his collar up against the cold, Hogan slowly made his way across the compound. "You are then to be transported to a camp at Dachau." A feeling of pure dread surged through him. His stay at Stalag 13 had been no picnic, but he knew Dachau would be a genuine hell on earth by comparison. During one of his visits to Headquarters, he'd read some of the debriefing reports of the few escapees from that horrific facility. News of the atrocities being perpetrated there was tightly held, but given the nature of Hogan's mission, he'd been allowed access to the sobering files.
The men seated around the long table in the middle of their barracks looked up as Hogan came through the door. The atmosphere in the room perceptibly gloomed. He didn't have to avoid making eye contact with anyone. No one dared meet his gaze, for fear they might make themselves the target of his evident foul mood. Hogan limped toward his room at the end of the barracks and slammed the door behind him without even a glance at the others.
Pulling the stool out from behind his desk, Hogan sat down heavily and dropped his head across his folded arms onto the table. Oh God, he felt so very tired all of a sudden.
He heard a faint tap at the door, but didn't want to acknowledge it. He half hoped whoever was there would go away, although he knew it wasn't likely. The door cracked opened, and a small face looked in, before a figure hesitantly entered the room. LeBeau quietly approached, sliding a mug on the desk toward him.
"Mon Colonel, I thought you might like some coffee," he said softly.
Still resting against his arms, Hogan turned his head to the side and opened one bloodshot eye to look at LeBeau. The Frenchman's face gazed down worriedly at him.
"After last night, did you think I might like some coffee, or was it more you thought I might need some coffee?" Hogan grumbled roughly. LeBeau's face reddened, recalling the intemperate display he'd witnessed the night before.
"Well, perhaps I thought you might need some, too, sir," LeBeau mumbled, shrugging his shoulders in embarrassment.
A grunt was Hogan's only reply, as he turned away and rested once more against his forearms. His head pounded with each movement, and the inside of his mouth felt as though it contained more wool than the meager blankets they'd been issued as POW's.
Hogan heard the door open a second time, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. A line of prisoners stood before him, hesitantly looking at each other. Kinch cleared his throat, grabbing Newkirk by an arm to restrain him from slipping back out the door. None of them wanted to confront Hogan, but they had agreed to do this as a team, and Kinch was determined to get it over with. He cleared his throat again, a bit louder this time, and scuffed his feet, peering down at the slumped figure.
Finally realizing they weren't going to leave him alone, Hogan wearily lifted his head and surveyed the men encircling his desk.
"Sorry. Tryouts for the camp barbershop quartet have been postponed. You'll have to audition another time."
He lowered his aching head once more, groaning slightly when it made contact.
"Uh, Colonel, we're sorry to disturb you, but we need to speak with you, sir." Kinch scowled at the others, his stern look riveting them in place to keep anyone from breaking rank.
A deep sigh issued from the hunched figure. Hogan slowly sat up and assessed their anxious faces.
"All right, I'm listening," he said sourly.
Kinch coughed uncomfortably, glancing quickly at the others before proceeding.
"Uh, well, sir, I think you should know that London radioed us yesterday, and we heard what happened."
Hogan looked at them more intently.
"Oh, I see," he said cautiously.
"Yeah, and can you believe they ordered us to take you into custody? Isn't that a riot, Colonel?" Carter forced a nervous laugh, the others glaring at him.
Hogan's eyes narrowed.
"Is that so?" he said, his tone darkening. "And just what have you decided to do about it?"
Kinch tried not to appear unnerved. "Well, sir, we really hadn't decided."
"I get the idea," Hogan said, nodding his head in disgust. "Well, what's it going to be? You going to draw straws for who gets to put me in handcuffs? Although, maybe with the way things have been going the past few weeks, the person who draws the short straw will be the winner and not the loser, hmm?"
"Look, sir, we're not trying to take sides on this thing, but London has us backed into a corner." Kinch awkwardly jammed his hands into his field jacket pockets in resignation, as Newkirk chimed in.
"Blimey, Colonel, if we don't follow through with their orders, they'll be bringin' us all up on charges next."
Carter spoke up, trying to appear neutrally helpful. "Yeah, in fact, we were supposed to alert them the minute you showed up."
Hogan fixed him with a steely glare. "Well, did you?"
"Uh, well, no, sir, we, uh, we thought we'd give you more time to recover from last night," Carter said haltingly, as he looked down at the floor.
"Oui, Colonel, we thought we'd wait until morning to talk with you to make certain it wasn't a mistake," LeBeau quickly added.
"Mistake, huh?" he said with a cynical chortle. "Yeah, there's been a mistake all right. Only the mistake was in my signing up for this lousy tour in the first place."
Hogan got up from the stool and slowly hobbled over to his bunk. He sat down heavily, reaching over to bring his sore leg up onto the bed. It was an even bet as to which throbbed worse, his ankle or his head. He propped his cap down over his eyes and folded his arms, leaning back against the wall.
"Uh, Colonel," Kinch said with concern, "the message from London said you'd been relieved of command. What on earth happened at Headquarters?"
"Headquarters." Hogan snorted with disgust. "That bunch of overstuffed desk jockeys, constantly second-guessing us. They're trying to pin the blame on me for everything, and I finally got tired of being the one sticking my neck out all the time."
He tilted the cap back on his head.
"Sometimes I don't know why I even bother. After all, what do I have to show for the sacrifices I've made?" His voice dropped. "Now, thanks to a certain technicality known as a court martial, my career is shot. Kaput. Over. I'll be lucky if I can get a job flying a broken-down bi-plane, giving rides at Coney Island to spoiled rich kids who'll get sick in the rear jump seat."
He darkly scanned the line of taut faces.
"And what about the rest of you, huh? What do you honestly think you'll have to show for this thankless assignment? Don't you realize because of that little piece of paper called a secrecy agreement they shoved in front of us, you'll never be able to even hint at what we really did here? As far as anyone back home will be concerned, we were so incompetent we got taken prisoner and then weren't even resourceful or maybe courageous enough to try and escape. They're all going to react the same way General Barton did. They're going to think we're sellouts and a disgrace, and we won't be able to do a damn thing to correct them!"
Carter, the eternal, impractical optimist, paled, but somehow found his voice.
"Look, Colonel," he said faintly, "it can't be as bad as that. We all volunteered for this dangerous assignment. That's got to count for something, right?"
"Count for something? Like what, Carter?" Hogan shook his head. "Has it occurred to you guys we're getting to spend the best years of our lives in a prison camp? Oh sure, we were all willing to go along with it at first, but things aren't the same any more. You know as well as I do we've had more food shortages and poorer treatment to put up with than when this began. Thanks to an increase in scrutiny from Hochstetter and his boys in black, our mission is becoming more difficult to accomplish, and Headquarters doesn't understand why. Hell, the brass in London is more interested in meaningless spit and polish and trying to follow the local cricket matches than in supporting us."
Kinch spoke softly, his dark eyes intense. "It hasn't been easy for any of us, Colonel. But we all agreed to this mission critical assignment because we thought we stood a better chance of making a real impact in the war."
Hogan glared at the line of men standing uncomfortably before him.
"I don't know why I even bother talking to you guys. You still think all this mission critical nonsense is on the level." Hogan's voice rose to a hoarse yell. "Don't you get it? Absolutely no one gives a damn about us!" He angrily tore off his cap, hurling it into a corner of the room.
LeBeau looked aghast, as the others stared in disbelief.
A sudden knock at the door thankfully drew their attention away from Hogan's livid face.
"What the hell is it now?!" Hogan shouted irritably.
The door cracked open, and Schultz, his eyes wide, looked in anxiously. "I-I-I'm sorry if I am disturbing you, Colonel Hogan," he said. "B-b-but I have been ordered by the Kommandant to, er, to t-t-tell you..." Schultz looked down at the floor, unable to continue.
"For crying out loud, Schultz," Hogan said disgustedly. "Just tell me what our beloved kommandant wants, will you?"
Schultz looked startled at Hogan's uncharacteristically brusque manner. His face flushed, and as he looked around at the other prisoners, he noticed the mixture of emotions on their faces. It would seem he was not the only one who had recently felt the brunt of the senior officer's ire.
"Jawohl, Colonel Hogan." Schultz coughed uneasily before continuing. "Corporal Langenscheidt is, er, out front with the truck whenever you are ready."
LeBeau wandered over to one corner of the room, where he absently picked up Hogan's cap. He stood there, mechanically fingering the emblem on its front, as he looked up in surprise.
"Ready for what, Schultzie?" LeBeau asked.
Schultz glanced at Hogan's averted face before answering. "Er, ready to take Colonel Hogan. He, er, is being transferred."
"To another barracks, you mean?" Kinch asked, puzzled.
"No. He," Schultz cleared his throat before mumbling, "is being transferred from Stalag 13."
The others looked at Hogan with shock.
"Is that true, Colonel?"
Hogan grunted his reply. "Yeah, and what about it? I'd think you'd be overjoyed at the news. After all, it relieves you of a certain problem, wouldn't you say?"
There was evident relief mixed with surprise on their faces, he noted. No one spoke in response.
Hogan glared at Schultz. "Tell him I'll be right there, Schultz. I'll be glad to be rid of this dump. It's clear nobody here is on my side."
Schultz's jaw dropped open. The other men's faces tightened, as Newkirk was the first to turn stiffly on his heels and stalk out of the office. He no longer cared if Hogan was supposed to be the senior officer, he'd heard enough. Kinch and Carter followed quickly after him, equally hurt by their former commander's remarks. LeBeau was the last to leave and dropped Hogan's cap on his desk on his way out, refusing to look at him.
Schultz, his mouth still agape, turned from watching the others parade out of the room.
Hogan's head dropped to his chest.
"Colonel Hogan?" Schultz said softly.
The American seemed lost in contemplation for a few moments, before his head jerked back up, frowning at being disturbed.
"Colonel Hogan, as soon as you are ready..." Schultz shrugged apologetically, his voice fading away. Hogan grimly smiled and waved at him to follow the others.
"It's not your fault, Schultz," he said quietly, as the door closed. "You're only doing your job."
Chapter Eight
Hogan was grateful for the opportunity to pack in private. He was reminded of another occasion, a year or so earlier, when he'd been told he was leaving Stalag 13. He recalled LeBeau standing at his desk, toying with the straps on his packed suitcase, not wanting to relinquish possession of it, as though he could somehow alter things and keep him there by clinging to it. He could hardly look at Hogan then for fear he'd burst into tears. Things certainly were different now.
He shook the memory off and finished latching his case, taking one last look around the room. He was surprised to find himself feeling almost sentimental about the place; it was as though he already felt some pangs of homesickness. The barracks had become as much of a home for him as anywhere else since he'd joined the military, he reflected. Nah. Those feelings were just more symptoms of his hangover, he told himself, as he picked up his cap and proceeded out of the now empty barracks.
Langenscheidt was leaning against the side of the covered truck and came to attention, when Hogan stepped out into the yard. He wordlessly handed the slight, young corporal his valise and climbed into the front passenger seat, taking one last look around the solitary compound. No one had assembled to wish him farewell. It was as though the camp chose to purposely ignore his departure. The scene was in sharp contrast to when he'd been transferred once before, fatefully bound for the Berlin Express. That time, he was ringed by a cadre of well-wishers reluctantly seeing him off.
"You are to be transported to a camp at Dachau." Burkhalter's words echoed in his mind. Hogan had definitely chosen the wrong morning to let his temper erupt. It had been simmering for weeks, a fury lying just below the surface, and all it had taken was Braden's one sarcastic comment for him to lose control. Hogan had clearly pushed Klink and Burkhalter too far this time, but it was too late now to try and make amends.
He glanced over at the Kommandant's office and thought he saw a shadow, partially hidden by the window frame, peering out. The vision was so momentary, it appeared to be an illusion, but pride prevented him from looking back.
As the truck approached the main gate, Hogan noticed LeBeau standing by their barracks. Reflexively, he lifted a hand to signal goodbye and then caught himself, looking abruptly away. LeBeau sighed and dropped his head. He thought for certain Hogan would at least have waved to him as he left, but he had turned too soon and missed the unconsummated gesture. How could a man he had so looked up to change so drastically?
The Frenchman proceeded around the rear of the barracks to where the others stood lounging in the cool late morning sun. Schultz, his shoulders slumped and wooden rifle stock dragging in the dirt beside him, shuffled past.
"Eh, Schultzie," LeBeau called out.
The guard glanced up, startled. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed their presence.
"Ja, LeBeau, what is it?" He sighed deeply, approaching them.
"Schultz, what Stalag is Colonel Hogan being transferred to?"
Schultz hesitated before answering, his voice unusually soft. "He's not being transferred to a Stalag, Cockroach."
"What do you mean, Schultz?" The Frenchman looked at him in confusion.
"I, er, I mean he's not being transferred to a LuftStalag, that's all." Schultz mumbled, turning to walk away.
"Wait a minute, Schultz," Kinch broke in. The German halted in his tracks. "Just where is the Colonel being taken?" His tone was filled with the suspicion that Schultz was trying to avoid telling them something.
Schultz dropped his eyes. "He's been transferred by General Burkhalter's orders to a special punishment camp at Dachau," he said uneasily. Although he didn't know the full implications of such a move, he had heard enough to know it was definitely something to be avoided. He'd overheard Burkhalter once say you stood a better chance of coming back alive from the Russian Front than from one of the special camps built for some yet unspoken purpose.
Carter stuttered, "D-D-Dachau? Are you sure, Schultz?"
Schultz, unable to reply, nodded morosely. The prisoners gasped audibly. They all immediately recognized the consequences. Had he been transferred to a regular POW camp there was a good chance he could have outlasted the war. At Dachau, one's chances for survival were slim at best. They were suddenly struck with the realization they might never again see Colonel Hogan alive.
LeBeau spun around and raced to the front of the barracks, the others immediately behind him. The truck was long since out of sight. He felt the bottom of his stomach drop. They'd never even said goodbye.
***
The truck jarred along and with each bump in the road Hogan heard the fateful pronouncement echo in his mind. Dachau. Dachau. Dachau. He knew he'd pushed Burkhalter too far this time, but never expected him to react that way.
Previously, he'd always been able to manipulate Burkhalter and Klink to get what he wanted, but recently he hadn't even cared to try. He'd been too tired, too frustrated and angry, and lately just didn't give a damn any more.
It had all begun with Rudy's death. Hogan had taken it pretty hard, although he wasn't sure if his men appreciated the impact the death had had on him. They'd experienced deaths before, most recently with the loss of a special courier who'd been killed delivering a booby-trapped briefcase for an attempt on the Fuhrer's life. But this time it was different. This time it was someone he'd considered a good friend.
Shuddering as he forced the persistent vision from his memory, he tried to think of the alternatives. Hogan knew his only chance was to make a break before they reached the train station. Once there he was likely to be manacled with handcuffs and leg irons, virtually sealing his fate.
He slouched in the seat, leaning his head back and tilting the cap down over his eyes. Langenscheidt glanced over at him and was just as glad the usually outgoing officer seemed withdrawn this morning. Schultz had told him what was to be the American's fate, and under the circumstances he was uncomfortable with having to engage him in casual conversation.
The day was clear, the air crisp with cold, and the young German took in the scenery, as they drove along the forested road. An arrowhead-patterned flock of geese swept above them, their noisy honking disturbing the silence. They reminded Langenscheidt of the times he had hunted for game in these same woods, his father and older brother by his side. Far too many years had passed since they had felt free to do that. It was odd, but in some respects ordinary German citizens were as much prisoners of the war as the Allied fliers contained within LuftStalag 13. Now, with his brother recently reported missing in action on the Russian Front, he tried not to dwell on the thought that they might never be together again. Langenscheidt longed for the end to this stupid war and dreamed of once again spending a leisurely day in the woods, the leaves crunching under his feet, as he made his way along the shady trails.
A sharp groan from the figure next to him interrupted his reverie. He glanced over and saw the American doubled over, desperately clutching his sides, his breath coming quickly in shallow gasps.
"Colonel Hogan, are you all right?" He suddenly panicked, worrying that the officer could be having a heart attack.
Hogan shook his head, able to only utter a miserable cry.
Langenscheidt quickly pulled the vehicle to the side of the road and jumped out. If he could get Hogan to lie down, he might be able to flag a passing motorist and summon help.
The corporal opened the passenger door and leaned in, trying to examine the slumped figure. The swift movement caught him totally by surprise. Hogan brought his arms up, landing a fierce blow to the plexus of nerves in the crook of Langenscheidt's neck. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was astonishment at how the stricken man had so quickly summoned such strength.
Hogan caught Langenscheidt, folding him into a heap. The move they'd taught him in his special operations training was most effective in stunning an adversary. Langenscheidt would be out for at least twenty minutes. He looked up the road to make certain no vehicles were approaching and then dragged the unconscious guard into the underbrush.
Slipping out of his leather flight jacket, Hogan turned Langenscheidt over to extract his arms from the long woolen overcoat. He knew with his injured ankle he'd have to take the truck if he wanted to get very far. It obviously wouldn't do to have an American alone behind the wheel of the German military vehicle. The enlisted man's overcoat and hat would at least superficially make him look authentic to anyone he passed. Hogan felt a twinge of guilt at having to leave Langenscheidt there in the cold and carefully bundled his leather jacket around the prone body.
Glancing hastily in either direction, he slammed the passenger door shut and hurried around to the driver's side. He hoped the vehicle had enough gasoline to get him to his destination. The gauge read nearly full. More than enough to make it to where he had to go, he thought, as he let out the clutch and started down the solitary road. His life on the run was only just beginning.
***
Kinch looked up from his book, when Newkirk wandered into the radio room, a clipboard in his hand and perplexed expression on his face.
"What's the matter, Newkirk?"
"Kinch, I could've sworn we inventoried everything not more than two weeks ago but already several things are missing." Tugging absently at the neck of his sweater, Newkirk shook his head in confusion.
"Like what?"
"Well, it's an odd assortment, really. Some German currency, a few suits of clothes, even one of the Walthers is gone, and I know we're extra careful about keeping track of the weapons."
Ordinarily, with the exception of the gun, he wouldn't have been so troubled about a few items missing from their vast underground supply. However, after Hogan's unexpected transfer, they had decided they'd better be fully prepared and held an inventory in the event London either sent them a new team leader or shut down the operation.
They were interrupted by the sound of someone pounding twice on the support structure above them. The two men looked up simultaneously to see LeBeau and Carter racing down the wooden ladder into the tunnel. In his haste, LeBeau missed the last two rungs and tumbled to the ground at their feet. The curse that flew from him in his native language was indecipherable to the rest, but they didn't need to understand the words to catch their drift. Carter helped him to his feet and turned excitedly toward Kinch and Newkirk, waiting with dumbfounded looks.
"Langenscheidt just came back into camp!" Carter exclaimed.
Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Oh for heavens sake, Carter, did you come tearing down here just to tell us that?"
"Yeah, the way you two were racing, you'd think you were going to a fire or something." Kinch shook his head and turned his attention back to his book.
"Mon Dieu, will you two écoutez un moment?" LeBeau glared impatiently at them.
"Okay, Louis, spit it out, what's so important about Langenscheidt coming back."
"He returned on foot!"
"What do you mean, on foot?" Kinch looked intently from LeBeau to Carter. "What happened to the truck? Did it break down?"
For an instant, Kinch's spirits soared to think mechanical problems had perhaps deterred Hogan from reaching his tragic destination. Sure, he'd been tough to live with the past few weeks, but they'd all quickly forgotten that when they'd learned of his fate.
Carter answered, still breathless. "No, Langenscheidt came back alone. Colonel Hogan knocked him out and made a break for it."
"He was left by the side of the road. When Langenscheidt came to sometime later there was no colonel, no truck." LeBeau's voice carried the same elation that swept through them all.
Kinch's grin quickly erased from his face. "Hey, Newkirk, those clothes missing from our inventory--what size are they?"
Newkirk examined the clipboard, flipping through its pages, each more rapidly than the one before. He looked up at Kinch with realization dawning on his face. "Why, they were all 40 regular, Kinch."
The two men looked at each other for several seconds before echoing in unison, "Same size as Colonel Hogan's."
Without saying another word, Kinch strode over to the ladder and began climbing upwards. The others paraded close behind, as he proceeded into the private office at the end of the barracks. He stepped inside the now vacant room and walked over to the locker, jerking open the door. Kinch whistled low, the others grouping around him. The locker contained a full complement of uniforms. Uniforms belonging to an Army Air Corps colonel.
"I'd say Colonel Hogan had an idea he wasn't going to need these when he packed up today."
"I wonder what he's got in mind?" Newkirk asked out loud.
"I wish I knew, Newkirk. All I hope, is it somehow keeps him out of harm's way."
LeBeau turned on his bunk, grumbling as the thin blanket slid off him once more. He'd been tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, sleep frustratingly evading him. He gathered from the snores and gradual cessation of stirring in the other bunks that the rest had finally dropped off, but LeBeau found himself unable to relax, his mind going over and over again what had happened.
He still found it hard to believe what Kinch had told them. He knew Hogan had seemed different the past couple of weeks, but everyone thought it was just an accumulation of stress.
They were aware, as well, of the serious impact Leitmann's death had had on him. After the resistance leader was killed, Hogan spent hours at a time alone in his room, presumably wrestling with his conscience and trying to determine what had gone wrong. He'd become more sullen and moody, purposely secluding himself from his men.
With an increasing ill temper, compounded by his inability to sleep, Hogan began drinking late into the night, trying to induce a slumber that no longer came easily. LeBeau and the others had noticed the bloodshot eyes and whisky hoarseness to his voice at morning formations. After a week or so he barely made any attempt to conceal the empty bottles that littered the bottom of his locker. None of them had known what to say, but simply tried to stay out of his way and hoped that his normal self would soon return.
Punching the lumpy, makeshift pillow wadded beneath his head, LeBeau turned over again, heaving a weary sigh. How he would have given anything to be back in southern France with his family, comfortable in his own bed in their modest country home. He felt the pangs of homesickness wash over him and tried to shake them off, as he turned once more in the hard, narrow bunk. There was no sense wallowing in the memories of his family and former life; it made remaining there in Stalag 13 as a "voluntary" prisoner too difficult.
He thought for a moment and suddenly realized that they didn't know much about Colonel Hogan's background. Although the rest of them occasionally griped about being apart from their loved ones, in return Hogan said little about his own family or concerns. His men utterly and implicitly trusted him with their lives and would, without question, follow his orders, but their leader had somehow remained an enigma to them all.
LeBeau grunted once more, pulling on the blanket, and then suddenly froze, as a loud thump sounded from the tunnel beneath him. He held his breath, trying to remain as still as possible to listen intently in the darkness. Another distinct thump. Something, or someone, had discovered the secret tunnel beneath their barracks. LeBeau cautiously slipped out from under the covers and reached for a flashlight resting atop his footlocker.
His hand just closed around the lamp, when he heard the lower wooden bunk to the tunnel's trap door sliding upwards. In the shadows, a vague image could be seen climbing slowly up the ladder. LeBeau snapped on the torch and froze when he saw the figure illuminated before him. The man blinked in the unexpected glare and then staggered toward him, stumbling over the lower rails of the bunk frame. There was a loud crash followed by a groan and several muttered oaths that raised the others from their slumber.
"What the hell's the row all about?" grumbled Newkirk. His hand groped from an upper bunk to turn on the wall switch, illuminating the room by a bare bulb suspended from the ceiling. Blinking groggily, he stared down uncomprehendingly at a form crumpled on the floor in the middle of their barracks.
The black-clad figure, still cursing, drew himself up on his hands and knees and tried clumsily to rise, only to lose his balance and topple forward once more. He sprawled on the floor in front of LeBeau who, astonished to the point of speechlessness, proceeded to follow the man's jerky movements with the beam of his light.
The intruder gradually rolled over onto his back and looked up at the Frenchman clad in long johns and stocking feet standing watch over him.
"Whassamatter?" he mumbled, his speech noticeably slurred. "S'only me."
With some effort he managed to sit up and then grasped the edge of the table to haul himself to an upright position, tottering as LeBeau's flashlight continued to pursue him. Frowning, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from its beam. The torn sleeve of his black sweater disclosed a dark red-encrusted crease that ran the length of one forearm.
"For cryin' out loud, LeBeau, shut off th' damn spotlight, will ya?"
LeBeau looked stunned, as he wordlessly switched off the lamp.
Newkirk peered down from an upper bunk, a stupefied expression on his face.
"Colonel," he asked hesitantly, "have you, uh, maybe had a bit too much of a nip this evening, sir?"
Hogan wheeled precariously to glare at the upper bunk. He'd had one too many people question him in the past twenty-four hours, and the sleepy Englishman had the unfortunate luck of being the proverbial last straw.
"Who th' hell d'you think y'are, Newkirk, th' damn housemother?" he snarled.
The sudden and uncharacteristic display of anger so startled him that Newkirk could only snap his gaping jaw shut in response.
Hogan's head circled about to querulously confront the faces gawking at him from around the room. Characteristic of the very intoxicated, his head swept too far in its arc. Trying to steer back, he over-corrected in the process, the swimming objects ghosted before him in faint multiple images only exacerbating the effects. His jerky movements further interfered with an uncertain grip on balance, and he felt everything around him begin to rotate.
"Whoa. Who put th' room on spin cycle?"
Hogan grabbed the table once more to steady himself before aiming for his room. Several hours of hard walking through the woods and a day full of misadventure were taking their toll. His limp had become more pronounced, and he winced, when he put his weight on the injured leg.
He suddenly misjudged a step and lurched gracelessly to one side. It was only by seizing the frame of a nearby bunk that he kept from crashing to the floor. The occupant in the upper bed rolled over irritably, as the wooden structure shook.
"For cryin' out loud, if you're gonna go on a bender do the rest of us a favor and stay away `til you sober up, huh?"
Hogan tried to focus his bleary eyes on the source of the belligerent remark. It was Braden, of course. The enlisted man had been a continual thorn in his side ever since he'd been assigned to Stalag 13. He'd been a guest there once before; only that time he'd been hiding out in the tunnels after escaping from Stalag 9. Braden would have been back in the States now, if he'd only listened to Hogan's instructions the first time. But no, the thickheaded sergeant insisted on doing things his way and was recaptured in less than a day before being officially transferred to Stalag 13. Braden seemed to have a knack for knowing how to get under Hogan's skin, continually challenging his every order and making things generally miserable for everyone in the barracks.
Still grasping the bunk post for support, Hogan gradually listed forward so his face was only inches away from Braden's.
"Why doncha come down here `n say that?"
The darkly menacing tone in Hogan's voice abruptly chilled the entire room.
Hogan's hands were now free of the bed frame and had formed into fists at his sides. The other men looked around uneasily, as Hogan and Braden continued to measure each other for several long seconds.
Braden considered his chances, scowling at Hogan with genuine dislike. Hogan was only an inch or two taller than Braden, but he was also clearly drunk, which certainly improved the odds. With a shrug, he decided not to risk it and rolled back over, preferring instead to return to his slumber.
"Aw, go t'hell," he muttered under his breath, turning away.
Kinch had slowly made his way across the barracks. He later admitted that if he hadn't stepped between them there was a good chance Hogan would have reached up and literally dragged Braden out of the top bunk, right then and there.
The tall communicator stretched in front of Hogan and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder just as he reached for Braden.
"Say, Colonel, what happened to your leg? Why don't we go to your room so I can take a look at it for you, huh?"
Kinch's tone was pleading. The last thing he wanted to do was to take a swing at the Colonel. He wasn't worried about being able to defend himself, he'd been a Golden Gloves champion before the war, but he didn't want to have to square off against his commanding officer. Might make things pretty awkward come morning.
Hogan scowled intently at Kinch for several tense moments, before his features relaxed slightly, and he unclenched his fists.
"Nah, s'okay. S'jus' a sprained ankle."
He waved one hand dismissively, the motion almost setting him reeling again, but the soft-spoken radioman caught him by the arm.
"What happened, Colonel?"
Kinch's dark brown eyes were troubled. He'd never seen the Colonel like this before and it shook him up. Hogan was usually the rock-steady foundation for the rest of them. He didn't mind his CO showing a few flaws, but it embarrassed him to see Hogan like this.
The still-swaying officer looked pointedly at the hand on his arm, and Kinch apologetically released him. Hogan grimaced once more, shifting his weight to try and keep his balance.
"Had t' come in by 'chute." He turned to limp to his room. "Jus' hit some trees, thas' all."
"Geez, Colonel, you're damned lucky if you landed in the trees and walked away with only a sprain."
Kinch shook his head in wonder. Every parachutist dreaded a tree landing--too many resulted in serious injury or even death.
"You sure it's not broken, Colonel?"
"I said s'fine, Kinch, now leave me alone, huh?"
He turned and surveyed once more the stunned faces that peered at him from various bunks around the room.
"See ever'body in the mornin.' Ever'body," he repeated menacingly, as he shot a final glance Braden's way.
He stumbled to the private room at the end of the barracks. The door slamming shut behind him broke the incredulous silence that filled the room.
Kinch stood there for a few moments, a look of astonishment flooding his face, as he slowly crossed the room to return to his bunk.
"I...I don't believe it," he said, dumbfounded. He turned toward Newkirk with a worried expression.
"Peter, you'd better check the tunnel to make sure he didn't leave the outside entrance exposed. In his condition, I don't know how he even found the opening, but we don't want someone else coming across it."
Newkirk nodded and began to climb wearily out of his bunk.
"Uh, fellas, I hate to bring this up, but what are we going to do about that order from London to take the Colonel into custody?" Carter asked hesitantly.
Kinch sat down heavily on the edge of his bunk with a sigh and looked over at the enlisted man. "You want to read him his rights and the list of charges against him, Carter, go right ahead. There's no way I'm going to approach him now. For the time being, I say we just let him sleep it off."
Carter nodded reluctantly in agreement, as Newkirk reappeared from below and signaled all was secure.
"You were right, Kinch," Newkirk whispered, as he climbed back into his upper berth. "He was so bleedin' drunk he forgot to close the cover on the emergency tunnel." He shook his head in disbelief. "That's just not like the Colonel."
Kinch looked somberly at the other men. "People seem to be saying that a lot lately," he said quietly, glancing at the closed door on the other side of the room.
Chapter Six
The prisoners stood in formation, shuffling their feet and stealing sidelong looks at each other, as they nervously observed Hans Schultz, rotund sergeant of the guard, count down the rows for the third time.
"Vierzehn, fünfzehn, sech--" Schultz halted; beginning to look more and more worried. He sidled over to Newkirk, standing in the front row with his hands jammed in his pockets against the morning chill.
"Newkirk, someone seems to be missing, and I think that someone is Colonel Hogan. Please be a good boy and tell me he is here in camp?"
Schultz's tone was imploring, as he anxiously looked behind him, his attention drawn by the approaching footsteps of the camp kommandant.
"Didn't anybody try to wake the Colonel?" Carter hissed.
"I knocked on his door to tell him we'd been called to formation," Newkirk answered under his breath.
"Well, what did he say?"
"I don't think it's somethin' I should repeat in mixed company," Newkirk responded sourly, glancing in Schultz's direction.
Schultz hastily made an about-face to salute Colonel Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of LuftStalag 13. The enlisted man's arm was shaking, as he plastered his spatulaed fingers against the front of his helmet.
"Report!" bellowed the tall, lean, balding man who came to attention in front of the formation, giving his portly sergeant a perfunctory glance. A Luftwaffe general flanked his side. Oversight for all LuftStalags happened to fall within General Burkhalter's domain. The corpulent general had unfortunately chosen that morning to make one of his surprise inspections of the camp. It would have been bad enough to have a prisoner missing without a general officer's visit, but its coincidence with his inspection portended disaster.
Schultz stammered for several moments, earning an exasperated look from Klink, as he placed a monocle on his left eye. He peered over Schultz's ample shoulders to look up and down the row of men before him, returning to stare a second time at the vacant left front corner of the formation.
"And just where is Colonel Hogan this morning?" he demanded impatiently.
"Herr Kommandant..." Schultz began, as the door to the barracks swung open.
Schultz looked behind him, sighing with audible relief at the sight of Hogan emerging through the doorway. One hand held his cap and the other was trying to tuck in his shirttails, while he slowly limped behind the formation. He was unshaven and there were several long, red scratches down both sides of his face, a vestige of his earlier encounter with the trees. It was apparent to all from his disheveled appearance that he'd had a rough night.
Hogan had almost reached the end of the back row, when Braden, standing idly in front, felt compelled to utter what turned out to be an unfortunate choice of a characteristically sarcastic remark.
"For Pete's sake, somebody put in a requisition for a CO who can handle his booze."
Braden turned to smirk at the man standing to his left and subsequently missed any warning as to what would happen next.
The only possible indicator was when Hogan's cap seemed to slip casually through his fingers and fall to the ground. Probably to make it easier to throttle Braden with both hands, they'd all later agreed.
As Hogan began to make the turn from the rear of the formation, he suddenly veered left, roughly shouldering Kinch and Carter aside. Pushing off with his good leg, he lunged in Braden's direction with an animal-like fury they had never seen before. Both were hurled to the ground, Braden struggling to remove Hogan's clenched hands from around his throat.
Klink watched dumbfounded, while the two men grappled together in the middle of the compound. Braden tried desperately to gasp out a curse, as Hogan tightened his grip. The ragged lines of what remained of a formation shifted out of range of their flailing legs and stood encircling them.
"Schultz, don't just stand there, do something!" Klink ordered shrilly. He looked worriedly over at Burkhalter, his mouth opening and closing like a beached carp gasping to breathe.
Before the leaden guard could come to his senses, Kinch and Newkirk ran over, each grabbing Hogan by an arm. He strained wildly against them, while they hauled him to his feet, his face contorted with rage. Braden squirmed on the ground, choking for breath and rubbing his throat. His eyes became huge with terror, as he viewed the furious expression on Hogan's darkened face.
"Did...did you see what he did to me?" Braden squawked defensively to the men around him, appealing for allies. None came to his side.
They were all shocked at Hogan's behavior, but Braden hadn't exactly endeared himself to anyone during his stay at the camp. Several of them secretly wished Kinch and Newkirk had let the Colonel pummel him a while longer; he certainly deserved it.
Hogan continued to struggle against his restraints, suddenly freeing one arm that swung wildly and connected with Kinch's jaw. The enlisted man lurched rearward, landing squarely on his backside with a startled grunt. The scattered assemblage immediately hushed. Kinch sat up slowly, a dazed look on his face. Ordinarily his reflexes would have conditioned him to duck a punch, but he wasn't expecting that one. As he sat there rubbing his sore jaw, he looked at Hogan with a bewildered, pained expression that came from far more than just physical discomfort.
Breathing heavily, Hogan shifted his weight from his bad leg, the men around him watching in stunned silence. He stood there for several moments and then hung his head, moving toward Kinch, as the radioman raised his hand expectantly. Hogan, his face abruptly resuming its stoniness, sidestepped him and limped over to where his hat lay on the ground. Kinch looked as wounded as a kicked dog. Hogan bent over to pick up the cap and dusted it off, as Newkirk, wearing a disgusted look, reached down and helped Kinch to his feet.
Hogan stepped back into place of what remained of the formation, brushing the dirt from his uniform. "That'll teach you to keep your mouth shut next time, Braden," he growled.
Burkhalter pursed his bulbous lips and looked hard at the senior POW officer. "I don't think there will be a next time, Colonel Hogan," he said evenly. "I believe I have seen quite enough."
"Sergeant Schultz, dismiss the prisoners," the general barked, as he continued to stare stonily in Hogan's direction.
Like an automaton, Schultz turned and announced their dismissal in a cracked voice. The men broke from the remnants of their formation and began to slowly troop back inside the barracks.
"Not you, Colonel Hogan," Burkhalter ordered, his words tightly enunciated with anger. "You and Sergeant Braden are to report to Colonel Klink's office. Now."
Hogan shrugged and then glared at Braden, bowing slightly, as one arm swept forward in mocking invitation. "After you, Sergeant."
***
Burkhalter preceded Klink into the office to hang his hat and coat on a rack in the corner and then eased his enormous girth into a sturdy chair against the wall. He sat there, pudgy fingers steepled against his chins, and broodingly watched the proceedings.
Klink's stern gaze pivoted from one figure to the other before his desk. They certainly presented a sharp contrast in appearance, he thought. Braden stood stiffly at attention, his chest thrust forward and eyes focused directly ahead. Hogan, on the other hand, slouched in a stance more closely resembling a sloppy parade rest, his thumbs hooked in his jacket pockets in an air of seeming disregard. The kommandant passed a nervous glance at his superior officer. Couldn't Hogan at least attempt to put on some appearance of military bearing when the General was there?
Klink cleared his throat. "Would, er, either of you gentlemen care to explain yourselves this morning?" He couldn't help but notice Burkhalter's frown in the background.
Braden allowed himself a quick glimpse at Hogan and then quickly resumed his rigid posture, remaining silent. Hogan merely affected a bored look and pretended to stare out the window, refusing to answer.
"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. Regardless of any reasons you may have had, your actions this morning are unacceptable. I will not tolerate fighting among the prisoners." Klink felt as though he was speaking to an empty room and found himself more irritable by the minute as a result. He turned to address the enlisted man first.
"Sergeant Braden, you are to receive a week in the cooler." Klink nodded to Schultz, standing by the door. "Sergeant Schultz, you will--"
"A week in the cooler?! What the hell for?" interrupted Braden in an angry outburst. He jerked his thumb at Hogan. "He's the one who started it!"
Klink fixed Braden with an icy stare. "That will earn you two weeks in the cooler, Sergeant. I suggest you not try my patience further, or I will find more interesting ways to enforce the regulations of this camp."
Schultz motioned toward the outer office, taking Braden by the upper arm.
"I'll be waiting for you, Braden," Hogan shot, as the pair departed Klink's office.
Schultz tightened his grip to prevent his charge from rekindling the confrontation and quickly drew the door closed.
Hogan turned back to Klink, a smug look on his face. The kommandant purposely avoided meeting his eyes and remained hunched over, aimlessly shuffling the papers on his desk.
"I'm afraid that won't be the case, Colonel Hogan." Burkhalter's tone was casual, almost detached.
"And just what's that supposed to mean?" Hogan stood there, arms folded across his chest and head tilted slightly in a look of petulant impatience.
"Colonel Hogan, on occasion up until now, I've found your antics here at LuftStalag 13 almost amusing."
Burkhalter leaned forward with a grunt and extracted a cigar from the lidded wooden box atop Klink's desk. He paused a moment to clip one end before securing it in a corner of his mouth. Klink scurried from behind the desk, hurrying to raise a lighter, while the general puffed vigorously. Waving Klink away with annoyance, Burkhalter continued speaking, the cigar bobbing in place.
"However, Hogan, lately I find them more troublesome than entertaining."
He paused briefly to contemplate the glowing end of his cigar.
"There is also the annoying matter of Major Hochstetter's continual reports to my headquarters on his suspicions regarding your activities. He seems to think the unusually high level of sabotage activity in proximity to this camp points to one man and that is you, Colonel Hogan."
Hogan straightened slightly, continuing to gaze expressionless at the general. He could feel a pulse begin to throb more insistently at his temples and wondered where the lecture was heading.
"Granted, there is some notion of doubt, or at the very least, the absence of hard evidence for proof, not that German military courts require it anyway..." He waved the cigar vaguely in the air. "But, I have many more important matters to deal with in Berlin, and I cannot afford to have my attention continually diverted in order to straighten things out here."
He looked pointedly over at Klink and sighed with exasperation, as the kommandant's head fervently bobbed up and down to predicate his agreement with the general's remarks.
"There is conceivably an alternative option and that is to replace Colonel Klink here with a tougher, more capable kommandant."
Burkhalter held up one fleshy hand to order Klink, rising in protest, to sit back down. The kommandant meekly obeyed, while his superior turned back to the sullen American.
"But, unfortunately, any officers even slightly more competent than Klink are needed on the front in combat units. So, instead of changing kommandants, I've decided to change prisoners."
Hogan looked over at Klink with a puzzled expression. The kommandant's head was bowed once more, his hands clasped tightly together and resting on the blotter in front of him. He declined to look up, as Burkhalter continued.
"Colonel Hogan, you're being transferred from this LuftStalag, effective today. You will be driven to the train station in town where you are to be put into the protective custody of armed escorts." He glanced over at Klink, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You are then to be transported to a camp at Dachau."
Hogan felt the blood drain from his face, and his jaw went slack for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
"But...but, you can't do that!" Why was that statement beginning to sound so familiar?
"Oh, yes, we most certainly can and have. Dachau provides quite a nice facility to house those we consider to be exceptionally troublesome enemies of the state. Had you been more willing to follow the rules here, Hogan, you might have avoided its confines, but I'm afraid that is not to be. They should have no difficulty breaking your rebellious spirit there."
Hogan looked searchingly at the kommandant.
Klink glanced up briefly and then guiltily dropped his eyes back to the desktop, announcing in a hushed voice, "That's all, Hogan. You're dismissed."
Hogan began to stammer an objection, but one look at Burkhalter's impassive face made him realize it was useless. Refusing to salute, he turned angrily on his heels and stormed out, the slamming of the door reverberating throughout the office.
With a sigh, Klink picked up one of the papers before him and stared at it incomprehensibly for several moments before remembering he still had an important guest in his office. He looked up suddenly to an amused, condescending expression on Burkhalter's face.
"What is it, Klink?"
"Oh, nothing really, General Burkhalter. I just, well, I'm so surprised at Colonel Hogan this morning. Something has changed. Lately he hasn't been himself. Don't you think he seemed different, Herr General?"
"Perhaps." Burkhalter puffed thoughtfully on the cigar. "Tell me, Klink, in your schooling at Gymnasium, you studied the ancient Greek tragedies, no?"
"Oh, certainly, Herr General. Although, of course, my Gymnasium was an all boys' school. For some reason I was always selected to read the female parts in the plays..." Klink reflected back, a perplexed look on his face.
"Why am I not surprised to hear that, Klink?" Burkhalter scowled at him. "At any rate, you might recall what they referred to as 'hubris?'"
"Uh, let's see, 'hubris,'" Klink stammered. "Yes, I think I remember, er, 'hubris,' um, wasn't that, uh..."
Burkhalter rolled his eyes. "'Hubris,' Klink, refers to an excess of pride. It was often the downfall of many a Greek hero and perhaps it is that same arrogance that felled our Colonel Hogan. Believe me, if he had not tripped himself up this morning, I suspect he would have eventually been caught in Major Hochstetter's net. He is far too impertinent for his own good. It became his Achilles heel, if you will."
"But, Dachau, Herr General?" Klink looked at him pleadingly. "Don't you think that was a bit, er, harsh?"
Burkhalter paused before answering, weighing Klink and his response carefully for several seconds.
"Don't tell me you're finding it difficult to do your job as kommandant here, Klink, because despite what I said earlier, I can readily find a replacement for you."
Klink responded, his tone blustery. "Of course not, General Burkhalter. I'm actually quite pleased to finally be rid of that troublemaker. I can assure you things will go much more smoothly here without him."
"I thought you'd say that, Klink." Burkhalter grimaced, as he lifted his bulk with effort from the chair and retrieved his hat and topcoat. "I don't care if you are pleased or not, I want no further problems from this camp, or you will find yourself sharpening your skates for the Siberian Ice Festival."
The flustered kommandant rose from behind his desk, quickly hurrying to help bundle the senior officer into his coat. A lackluster, "Heil Hitler," trailed the general from the office, before Klink leaned back heavily against the edge of his desk, head sagging.
He gradually turned to the window that overlooked the compound. What alternative did he have? He was baffled as to the reason for Hogan's change in personality over the past few weeks, but it didn't matter, he thought, as he looked out at a solitary figure walking painfully toward Barracks Two. There was still a prison camp to be run. He was only doing his job.
Chapter Seven
Turning his collar up against the cold, Hogan slowly made his way across the compound. "You are then to be transported to a camp at Dachau." A feeling of pure dread surged through him. His stay at Stalag 13 had been no picnic, but he knew Dachau would be a genuine hell on earth by comparison. During one of his visits to Headquarters, he'd read some of the debriefing reports of the few escapees from that horrific facility. News of the atrocities being perpetrated there was tightly held, but given the nature of Hogan's mission, he'd been allowed access to the sobering files.
The men seated around the long table in the middle of their barracks looked up as Hogan came through the door. The atmosphere in the room perceptibly gloomed. He didn't have to avoid making eye contact with anyone. No one dared meet his gaze, for fear they might make themselves the target of his evident foul mood. Hogan limped toward his room at the end of the barracks and slammed the door behind him without even a glance at the others.
Pulling the stool out from behind his desk, Hogan sat down heavily and dropped his head across his folded arms onto the table. Oh God, he felt so very tired all of a sudden.
He heard a faint tap at the door, but didn't want to acknowledge it. He half hoped whoever was there would go away, although he knew it wasn't likely. The door cracked opened, and a small face looked in, before a figure hesitantly entered the room. LeBeau quietly approached, sliding a mug on the desk toward him.
"Mon Colonel, I thought you might like some coffee," he said softly.
Still resting against his arms, Hogan turned his head to the side and opened one bloodshot eye to look at LeBeau. The Frenchman's face gazed down worriedly at him.
"After last night, did you think I might like some coffee, or was it more you thought I might need some coffee?" Hogan grumbled roughly. LeBeau's face reddened, recalling the intemperate display he'd witnessed the night before.
"Well, perhaps I thought you might need some, too, sir," LeBeau mumbled, shrugging his shoulders in embarrassment.
A grunt was Hogan's only reply, as he turned away and rested once more against his forearms. His head pounded with each movement, and the inside of his mouth felt as though it contained more wool than the meager blankets they'd been issued as POW's.
Hogan heard the door open a second time, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. A line of prisoners stood before him, hesitantly looking at each other. Kinch cleared his throat, grabbing Newkirk by an arm to restrain him from slipping back out the door. None of them wanted to confront Hogan, but they had agreed to do this as a team, and Kinch was determined to get it over with. He cleared his throat again, a bit louder this time, and scuffed his feet, peering down at the slumped figure.
Finally realizing they weren't going to leave him alone, Hogan wearily lifted his head and surveyed the men encircling his desk.
"Sorry. Tryouts for the camp barbershop quartet have been postponed. You'll have to audition another time."
He lowered his aching head once more, groaning slightly when it made contact.
"Uh, Colonel, we're sorry to disturb you, but we need to speak with you, sir." Kinch scowled at the others, his stern look riveting them in place to keep anyone from breaking rank.
A deep sigh issued from the hunched figure. Hogan slowly sat up and assessed their anxious faces.
"All right, I'm listening," he said sourly.
Kinch coughed uncomfortably, glancing quickly at the others before proceeding.
"Uh, well, sir, I think you should know that London radioed us yesterday, and we heard what happened."
Hogan looked at them more intently.
"Oh, I see," he said cautiously.
"Yeah, and can you believe they ordered us to take you into custody? Isn't that a riot, Colonel?" Carter forced a nervous laugh, the others glaring at him.
Hogan's eyes narrowed.
"Is that so?" he said, his tone darkening. "And just what have you decided to do about it?"
Kinch tried not to appear unnerved. "Well, sir, we really hadn't decided."
"I get the idea," Hogan said, nodding his head in disgust. "Well, what's it going to be? You going to draw straws for who gets to put me in handcuffs? Although, maybe with the way things have been going the past few weeks, the person who draws the short straw will be the winner and not the loser, hmm?"
"Look, sir, we're not trying to take sides on this thing, but London has us backed into a corner." Kinch awkwardly jammed his hands into his field jacket pockets in resignation, as Newkirk chimed in.
"Blimey, Colonel, if we don't follow through with their orders, they'll be bringin' us all up on charges next."
Carter spoke up, trying to appear neutrally helpful. "Yeah, in fact, we were supposed to alert them the minute you showed up."
Hogan fixed him with a steely glare. "Well, did you?"
"Uh, well, no, sir, we, uh, we thought we'd give you more time to recover from last night," Carter said haltingly, as he looked down at the floor.
"Oui, Colonel, we thought we'd wait until morning to talk with you to make certain it wasn't a mistake," LeBeau quickly added.
"Mistake, huh?" he said with a cynical chortle. "Yeah, there's been a mistake all right. Only the mistake was in my signing up for this lousy tour in the first place."
Hogan got up from the stool and slowly hobbled over to his bunk. He sat down heavily, reaching over to bring his sore leg up onto the bed. It was an even bet as to which throbbed worse, his ankle or his head. He propped his cap down over his eyes and folded his arms, leaning back against the wall.
"Uh, Colonel," Kinch said with concern, "the message from London said you'd been relieved of command. What on earth happened at Headquarters?"
"Headquarters." Hogan snorted with disgust. "That bunch of overstuffed desk jockeys, constantly second-guessing us. They're trying to pin the blame on me for everything, and I finally got tired of being the one sticking my neck out all the time."
He tilted the cap back on his head.
"Sometimes I don't know why I even bother. After all, what do I have to show for the sacrifices I've made?" His voice dropped. "Now, thanks to a certain technicality known as a court martial, my career is shot. Kaput. Over. I'll be lucky if I can get a job flying a broken-down bi-plane, giving rides at Coney Island to spoiled rich kids who'll get sick in the rear jump seat."
He darkly scanned the line of taut faces.
"And what about the rest of you, huh? What do you honestly think you'll have to show for this thankless assignment? Don't you realize because of that little piece of paper called a secrecy agreement they shoved in front of us, you'll never be able to even hint at what we really did here? As far as anyone back home will be concerned, we were so incompetent we got taken prisoner and then weren't even resourceful or maybe courageous enough to try and escape. They're all going to react the same way General Barton did. They're going to think we're sellouts and a disgrace, and we won't be able to do a damn thing to correct them!"
Carter, the eternal, impractical optimist, paled, but somehow found his voice.
"Look, Colonel," he said faintly, "it can't be as bad as that. We all volunteered for this dangerous assignment. That's got to count for something, right?"
"Count for something? Like what, Carter?" Hogan shook his head. "Has it occurred to you guys we're getting to spend the best years of our lives in a prison camp? Oh sure, we were all willing to go along with it at first, but things aren't the same any more. You know as well as I do we've had more food shortages and poorer treatment to put up with than when this began. Thanks to an increase in scrutiny from Hochstetter and his boys in black, our mission is becoming more difficult to accomplish, and Headquarters doesn't understand why. Hell, the brass in London is more interested in meaningless spit and polish and trying to follow the local cricket matches than in supporting us."
Kinch spoke softly, his dark eyes intense. "It hasn't been easy for any of us, Colonel. But we all agreed to this mission critical assignment because we thought we stood a better chance of making a real impact in the war."
Hogan glared at the line of men standing uncomfortably before him.
"I don't know why I even bother talking to you guys. You still think all this mission critical nonsense is on the level." Hogan's voice rose to a hoarse yell. "Don't you get it? Absolutely no one gives a damn about us!" He angrily tore off his cap, hurling it into a corner of the room.
LeBeau looked aghast, as the others stared in disbelief.
A sudden knock at the door thankfully drew their attention away from Hogan's livid face.
"What the hell is it now?!" Hogan shouted irritably.
The door cracked open, and Schultz, his eyes wide, looked in anxiously. "I-I-I'm sorry if I am disturbing you, Colonel Hogan," he said. "B-b-but I have been ordered by the Kommandant to, er, to t-t-tell you..." Schultz looked down at the floor, unable to continue.
"For crying out loud, Schultz," Hogan said disgustedly. "Just tell me what our beloved kommandant wants, will you?"
Schultz looked startled at Hogan's uncharacteristically brusque manner. His face flushed, and as he looked around at the other prisoners, he noticed the mixture of emotions on their faces. It would seem he was not the only one who had recently felt the brunt of the senior officer's ire.
"Jawohl, Colonel Hogan." Schultz coughed uneasily before continuing. "Corporal Langenscheidt is, er, out front with the truck whenever you are ready."
LeBeau wandered over to one corner of the room, where he absently picked up Hogan's cap. He stood there, mechanically fingering the emblem on its front, as he looked up in surprise.
"Ready for what, Schultzie?" LeBeau asked.
Schultz glanced at Hogan's averted face before answering. "Er, ready to take Colonel Hogan. He, er, is being transferred."
"To another barracks, you mean?" Kinch asked, puzzled.
"No. He," Schultz cleared his throat before mumbling, "is being transferred from Stalag 13."
The others looked at Hogan with shock.
"Is that true, Colonel?"
Hogan grunted his reply. "Yeah, and what about it? I'd think you'd be overjoyed at the news. After all, it relieves you of a certain problem, wouldn't you say?"
There was evident relief mixed with surprise on their faces, he noted. No one spoke in response.
Hogan glared at Schultz. "Tell him I'll be right there, Schultz. I'll be glad to be rid of this dump. It's clear nobody here is on my side."
Schultz's jaw dropped open. The other men's faces tightened, as Newkirk was the first to turn stiffly on his heels and stalk out of the office. He no longer cared if Hogan was supposed to be the senior officer, he'd heard enough. Kinch and Carter followed quickly after him, equally hurt by their former commander's remarks. LeBeau was the last to leave and dropped Hogan's cap on his desk on his way out, refusing to look at him.
Schultz, his mouth still agape, turned from watching the others parade out of the room.
Hogan's head dropped to his chest.
"Colonel Hogan?" Schultz said softly.
The American seemed lost in contemplation for a few moments, before his head jerked back up, frowning at being disturbed.
"Colonel Hogan, as soon as you are ready..." Schultz shrugged apologetically, his voice fading away. Hogan grimly smiled and waved at him to follow the others.
"It's not your fault, Schultz," he said quietly, as the door closed. "You're only doing your job."
Chapter Eight
Hogan was grateful for the opportunity to pack in private. He was reminded of another occasion, a year or so earlier, when he'd been told he was leaving Stalag 13. He recalled LeBeau standing at his desk, toying with the straps on his packed suitcase, not wanting to relinquish possession of it, as though he could somehow alter things and keep him there by clinging to it. He could hardly look at Hogan then for fear he'd burst into tears. Things certainly were different now.
He shook the memory off and finished latching his case, taking one last look around the room. He was surprised to find himself feeling almost sentimental about the place; it was as though he already felt some pangs of homesickness. The barracks had become as much of a home for him as anywhere else since he'd joined the military, he reflected. Nah. Those feelings were just more symptoms of his hangover, he told himself, as he picked up his cap and proceeded out of the now empty barracks.
Langenscheidt was leaning against the side of the covered truck and came to attention, when Hogan stepped out into the yard. He wordlessly handed the slight, young corporal his valise and climbed into the front passenger seat, taking one last look around the solitary compound. No one had assembled to wish him farewell. It was as though the camp chose to purposely ignore his departure. The scene was in sharp contrast to when he'd been transferred once before, fatefully bound for the Berlin Express. That time, he was ringed by a cadre of well-wishers reluctantly seeing him off.
"You are to be transported to a camp at Dachau." Burkhalter's words echoed in his mind. Hogan had definitely chosen the wrong morning to let his temper erupt. It had been simmering for weeks, a fury lying just below the surface, and all it had taken was Braden's one sarcastic comment for him to lose control. Hogan had clearly pushed Klink and Burkhalter too far this time, but it was too late now to try and make amends.
He glanced over at the Kommandant's office and thought he saw a shadow, partially hidden by the window frame, peering out. The vision was so momentary, it appeared to be an illusion, but pride prevented him from looking back.
As the truck approached the main gate, Hogan noticed LeBeau standing by their barracks. Reflexively, he lifted a hand to signal goodbye and then caught himself, looking abruptly away. LeBeau sighed and dropped his head. He thought for certain Hogan would at least have waved to him as he left, but he had turned too soon and missed the unconsummated gesture. How could a man he had so looked up to change so drastically?
The Frenchman proceeded around the rear of the barracks to where the others stood lounging in the cool late morning sun. Schultz, his shoulders slumped and wooden rifle stock dragging in the dirt beside him, shuffled past.
"Eh, Schultzie," LeBeau called out.
The guard glanced up, startled. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed their presence.
"Ja, LeBeau, what is it?" He sighed deeply, approaching them.
"Schultz, what Stalag is Colonel Hogan being transferred to?"
Schultz hesitated before answering, his voice unusually soft. "He's not being transferred to a Stalag, Cockroach."
"What do you mean, Schultz?" The Frenchman looked at him in confusion.
"I, er, I mean he's not being transferred to a LuftStalag, that's all." Schultz mumbled, turning to walk away.
"Wait a minute, Schultz," Kinch broke in. The German halted in his tracks. "Just where is the Colonel being taken?" His tone was filled with the suspicion that Schultz was trying to avoid telling them something.
Schultz dropped his eyes. "He's been transferred by General Burkhalter's orders to a special punishment camp at Dachau," he said uneasily. Although he didn't know the full implications of such a move, he had heard enough to know it was definitely something to be avoided. He'd overheard Burkhalter once say you stood a better chance of coming back alive from the Russian Front than from one of the special camps built for some yet unspoken purpose.
Carter stuttered, "D-D-Dachau? Are you sure, Schultz?"
Schultz, unable to reply, nodded morosely. The prisoners gasped audibly. They all immediately recognized the consequences. Had he been transferred to a regular POW camp there was a good chance he could have outlasted the war. At Dachau, one's chances for survival were slim at best. They were suddenly struck with the realization they might never again see Colonel Hogan alive.
LeBeau spun around and raced to the front of the barracks, the others immediately behind him. The truck was long since out of sight. He felt the bottom of his stomach drop. They'd never even said goodbye.
***
The truck jarred along and with each bump in the road Hogan heard the fateful pronouncement echo in his mind. Dachau. Dachau. Dachau. He knew he'd pushed Burkhalter too far this time, but never expected him to react that way.
Previously, he'd always been able to manipulate Burkhalter and Klink to get what he wanted, but recently he hadn't even cared to try. He'd been too tired, too frustrated and angry, and lately just didn't give a damn any more.
It had all begun with Rudy's death. Hogan had taken it pretty hard, although he wasn't sure if his men appreciated the impact the death had had on him. They'd experienced deaths before, most recently with the loss of a special courier who'd been killed delivering a booby-trapped briefcase for an attempt on the Fuhrer's life. But this time it was different. This time it was someone he'd considered a good friend.
Shuddering as he forced the persistent vision from his memory, he tried to think of the alternatives. Hogan knew his only chance was to make a break before they reached the train station. Once there he was likely to be manacled with handcuffs and leg irons, virtually sealing his fate.
He slouched in the seat, leaning his head back and tilting the cap down over his eyes. Langenscheidt glanced over at him and was just as glad the usually outgoing officer seemed withdrawn this morning. Schultz had told him what was to be the American's fate, and under the circumstances he was uncomfortable with having to engage him in casual conversation.
The day was clear, the air crisp with cold, and the young German took in the scenery, as they drove along the forested road. An arrowhead-patterned flock of geese swept above them, their noisy honking disturbing the silence. They reminded Langenscheidt of the times he had hunted for game in these same woods, his father and older brother by his side. Far too many years had passed since they had felt free to do that. It was odd, but in some respects ordinary German citizens were as much prisoners of the war as the Allied fliers contained within LuftStalag 13. Now, with his brother recently reported missing in action on the Russian Front, he tried not to dwell on the thought that they might never be together again. Langenscheidt longed for the end to this stupid war and dreamed of once again spending a leisurely day in the woods, the leaves crunching under his feet, as he made his way along the shady trails.
A sharp groan from the figure next to him interrupted his reverie. He glanced over and saw the American doubled over, desperately clutching his sides, his breath coming quickly in shallow gasps.
"Colonel Hogan, are you all right?" He suddenly panicked, worrying that the officer could be having a heart attack.
Hogan shook his head, able to only utter a miserable cry.
Langenscheidt quickly pulled the vehicle to the side of the road and jumped out. If he could get Hogan to lie down, he might be able to flag a passing motorist and summon help.
The corporal opened the passenger door and leaned in, trying to examine the slumped figure. The swift movement caught him totally by surprise. Hogan brought his arms up, landing a fierce blow to the plexus of nerves in the crook of Langenscheidt's neck. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was astonishment at how the stricken man had so quickly summoned such strength.
Hogan caught Langenscheidt, folding him into a heap. The move they'd taught him in his special operations training was most effective in stunning an adversary. Langenscheidt would be out for at least twenty minutes. He looked up the road to make certain no vehicles were approaching and then dragged the unconscious guard into the underbrush.
Slipping out of his leather flight jacket, Hogan turned Langenscheidt over to extract his arms from the long woolen overcoat. He knew with his injured ankle he'd have to take the truck if he wanted to get very far. It obviously wouldn't do to have an American alone behind the wheel of the German military vehicle. The enlisted man's overcoat and hat would at least superficially make him look authentic to anyone he passed. Hogan felt a twinge of guilt at having to leave Langenscheidt there in the cold and carefully bundled his leather jacket around the prone body.
Glancing hastily in either direction, he slammed the passenger door shut and hurried around to the driver's side. He hoped the vehicle had enough gasoline to get him to his destination. The gauge read nearly full. More than enough to make it to where he had to go, he thought, as he let out the clutch and started down the solitary road. His life on the run was only just beginning.
***
Kinch looked up from his book, when Newkirk wandered into the radio room, a clipboard in his hand and perplexed expression on his face.
"What's the matter, Newkirk?"
"Kinch, I could've sworn we inventoried everything not more than two weeks ago but already several things are missing." Tugging absently at the neck of his sweater, Newkirk shook his head in confusion.
"Like what?"
"Well, it's an odd assortment, really. Some German currency, a few suits of clothes, even one of the Walthers is gone, and I know we're extra careful about keeping track of the weapons."
Ordinarily, with the exception of the gun, he wouldn't have been so troubled about a few items missing from their vast underground supply. However, after Hogan's unexpected transfer, they had decided they'd better be fully prepared and held an inventory in the event London either sent them a new team leader or shut down the operation.
They were interrupted by the sound of someone pounding twice on the support structure above them. The two men looked up simultaneously to see LeBeau and Carter racing down the wooden ladder into the tunnel. In his haste, LeBeau missed the last two rungs and tumbled to the ground at their feet. The curse that flew from him in his native language was indecipherable to the rest, but they didn't need to understand the words to catch their drift. Carter helped him to his feet and turned excitedly toward Kinch and Newkirk, waiting with dumbfounded looks.
"Langenscheidt just came back into camp!" Carter exclaimed.
Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Oh for heavens sake, Carter, did you come tearing down here just to tell us that?"
"Yeah, the way you two were racing, you'd think you were going to a fire or something." Kinch shook his head and turned his attention back to his book.
"Mon Dieu, will you two écoutez un moment?" LeBeau glared impatiently at them.
"Okay, Louis, spit it out, what's so important about Langenscheidt coming back."
"He returned on foot!"
"What do you mean, on foot?" Kinch looked intently from LeBeau to Carter. "What happened to the truck? Did it break down?"
For an instant, Kinch's spirits soared to think mechanical problems had perhaps deterred Hogan from reaching his tragic destination. Sure, he'd been tough to live with the past few weeks, but they'd all quickly forgotten that when they'd learned of his fate.
Carter answered, still breathless. "No, Langenscheidt came back alone. Colonel Hogan knocked him out and made a break for it."
"He was left by the side of the road. When Langenscheidt came to sometime later there was no colonel, no truck." LeBeau's voice carried the same elation that swept through them all.
Kinch's grin quickly erased from his face. "Hey, Newkirk, those clothes missing from our inventory--what size are they?"
Newkirk examined the clipboard, flipping through its pages, each more rapidly than the one before. He looked up at Kinch with realization dawning on his face. "Why, they were all 40 regular, Kinch."
The two men looked at each other for several seconds before echoing in unison, "Same size as Colonel Hogan's."
Without saying another word, Kinch strode over to the ladder and began climbing upwards. The others paraded close behind, as he proceeded into the private office at the end of the barracks. He stepped inside the now vacant room and walked over to the locker, jerking open the door. Kinch whistled low, the others grouping around him. The locker contained a full complement of uniforms. Uniforms belonging to an Army Air Corps colonel.
"I'd say Colonel Hogan had an idea he wasn't going to need these when he packed up today."
"I wonder what he's got in mind?" Newkirk asked out loud.
"I wish I knew, Newkirk. All I hope, is it somehow keeps him out of harm's way."