Roll call came early each morning at Stalag 13, and mornings after a successful mission were even harder to wake up for. After a mere hour and a half of restful sleep, Colonel Robert Hogan, Senior POW Officer, was startled awake by a loud banging on the door of his private quarters. "Everybody up! Time for roll call!" a loud German voice ordered. "Roll call, Colonel Hogan, roll call!"
Hogan rolled himself out of bed, pulled on his shoes and his brown bomber jacket, and grabbed his cap as he came out the door. "OK, Schultz," he informed the portly German sergeant who was fidgeting in the middle of the main barracks. "I'm up." The rest of his men were sleepily dragging themselves out of bed. "Come on, men," Hogan called out. "Rise and shine!"
The POWs lined up outside the barracks, shivering in the predawn autumn morning. It had gotten cold during the night and a thin layer of frost covered the parade ground. Hogan stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and rocked back and forth on his heels, trying to look nonchalant and keep from shivering.
As Schultz moved through the ranks, counting the prisoners, Hogan thought back to their mission last night. It had been ingenious, really, using the bombing of a munitions factory as a diversion so that he and his men could sneak into a hidden rocket base nearby, steal some vital plans, and blow the place sky-high, leaving the Germans to think it was just someone else's lucky shot. Of course, then there was the difficulty of getting the plans to the Underground in the confusion, especially since the bombers had been instructed to drop bombs indiscriminately across the countryside to make the other explosion seem like an accident. All of it had resulted in a long and exhausting evening. Hogan only hoped that London would give them a day or so to lay low before their next assignment. A week would be ideal, so as not to arouse suspicion, but that was highly unlikely. Even as he stood there, Hogan's elation at the success of the mission was replaced with a vague sense of unease.
Just as Schultz finished his counting, the Kommandant of Stalag 13, Colonel Klink, came stalking out of his office, shivering as well in the frigid morning air. "Schultz! Report!" he yelled, exactly like he did every morning.
"All present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant!" Schultz replied, exactly like he did every morning. Nothing around here ever really changed, which was exactly the way Hogan liked it. The more predictable the Germans got, the easier his missions became to pull off.
Then, Klink started in on his morning tirade. "It seems that an Allied Air Force squadron bombed the Hammelburg Munitions Factory last night, leaving it in ruins." The POWs broke into loud cheers and catcalls at this statement. Klink's face went red. "Silence!" he shouted, and the cheering slowly died down. "As I was saying… due to their extremely poor marksmanship, however, the raid spread across the roadway several kilometers south of here, leaving a large amount of debris. Work details will be going out today to…"
All of a sudden, one of the guards in the gate towers sounded an alarm. Klink jumped in surprise, recovered quickly, and shouted "Report!" as another guard came running over.
~"Herr Kommandant, there is a man lying in the roadway! He looks badly injured, maybe even dead!"~
~"A man? Is he a soldier? One of ours? I will see to this at once! And get a stretcher!"~ Turning back to the assembled prisoners, he dismissed them all hurriedly, then marched quickly out of the front gate, accompanied by the guard.
The prisoners quickly dispersed, and Hogan slowly sidled over near the front gate, accompanied by his 'senior staff': his right-hand man, Sergeant James "Kinch" Kinchloe; their resident jack-of-all-trades, RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk; the camp's gourmet chef, French Resistance Corporal Louis LeBeau; and their explosives expert, Sergeant Andrew Carter. "I wonder what that's all about?" Hogan mused aloud to his men as they watched the Krauts gathered in the roadway.
"Who knows?" Newkirk spoke up. "It couldn't be one of ours, could it, Colonel? A pilot from last night's mission, or an Underground agent or somethin'?"
"I don't think so. I don't recall any of our planes going down last night, and the bombing didn't come anywhere near here." Then, he saw Klink gesturing frantically, and Schultz took the message and headed towards the little group. "I guess we're about to find out, though." He broke away and headed towards the Sergeant of the Guard as the rest of them dispersed back to the barracks.
"Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant would like you to come and see this, please." Schultz sounded very distraught about something.
"Sure thing, Schultz. Lead the way." Hogan headed towards the front gate, where he was flanked by two other guards as he headed towards the road. He broke through the circle of soldiers to find one of them kneeling next to a crumpled figure lying at the edge of the roadway.
When Hogan recognized the uniform, he swallowed a gasp of surprise and dropped to his knees next to the injured man. The soldier lying in the roadway was wearing a Royal Air Force uniform, though it was so shredded and covered with dirt and blood that it was hardly recognizable. Hogan couldn't even find any visible rank insignia, but one look at the soldier's face told him that he was too young to be more than a captain, and he was probably just a lieutenant. He didn't look older than 20 or 21, hardly more than a boy.
Hogan looked at the German soldier kneeling across from him. "Is he…?" He couldn't even bring himself to ask.
"He is still alive," the soldier replied curtly, "but only just. He has lost a lot of blood, and he is very cold."
Hogan's hand went to the boy's wrist, the left one, as he noticed the right one bound in a crude sling across his chest. His hand paused, shocked, as he noticed the handcuffs on the boy's wrists. An escaping prisoner? But why would he be headed in this direction? And how did he get so badly injured? He searched for the soldier's pulse and breathed a sigh of relief as he found it, faint and erratic as it was. Then, he turned to Colonel Klink. "Well sir? What are you waiting for? This man obviously needs medical attention!"
"But he's an Allied soldier!" Klink protested.
"He's also a prisoner of war," Hogan motioned to the handcuffs, "and last time I checked, this was a prisoner of war camp. Under the Geneva Convention, it is your duty to ensure the health and well being of the prisoners under your command. You wouldn't just leave him here to die, would you, Kommandant?"
Klink sputtered, looking confused as always. "But, but… he's not under my command!"
Just then, the men with the stretcher showed up. Klink absently motioned for them to start putting the injured man on it as Hogan continued to butter him up. "He is now, Kommandant. The way I see it, he was probably escaping, and you captured him fair and square. If he's returned in good health, you will probably be commended for capturing him, sir."
A thoughtful expression crossed Klink's face, and Hogan knew he'd hit his mark. Klink liked the thought of doing something he couldn't possibly be lambasted for by General Burkhaulter, and since the new prisoner was already loaded onto the stretcher, much to Klink's surprise, he waved his men through the gate. "Hogan, if there is a medic among your men, I suggest you bring him to the guest quarters. I will contact one of the doctors in Hammelburg and see if he can't be spared to come out and treat our new prisoner."
"That is most magnanimous of you, sir," Hogan gushed, rolling his eyes at Klink's gullibility as he was escorted back inside the gate. Then, he hurried of in search of Sergeant Wilson, the camp's only resident field medic.
Thirty minutes later, Hogan stood fidgeting in the corner of the camp's guest quarters. Because it was reserved for visiting German officials, usually high-ranking officers, SS, or Gestapo, it was the nicest set of rooms in the stalag, nicer even than Klink's quarters. How ironic, then, that it was currently serving as the sickroom for an Allied soldier.
Sergeant Wilson was finishing his cursory examination, cleaning and bandaging the numerous cuts along the young soldier's right arm and leg, removing shrapnel from his back, and examining him for possible internal injuries that would have to be taken care of when the doctor arrived. He finished everything that he could do and came over to Hogan, wiping his hands on a bloody rag. "I've done as much as I can, Colonel. The rest will have to wait until the German doc gets here."
"How's he looking, Sergeant?"
"Well, sir, it looks to me that he's been injured twice, both quite recently. Initially, his injuries were taken care of; there are stitches in his forehead and left shoulder, his ribs were taped, and his right ankle had been broken, reset, and bandaged. More recently, he seems to have been dragged along a road or something; there are rocks and dirt embedded in his right arm and leg. He was also caught in an explosion by the look of the metal shrapnel in his back and legs and the bleeding in his ears. He has a broken collarbone, cracked ribs, and a fractured ankle, but I don't think there are any severe internal injuries."
"So he's going to be fine?"
"Yessir. Once the doctor gets here, we can cast the broken bones, give him penicillin to prevent infection from the shrapnel and gravel, and he should fully recover, given time, which is obviously something he wasn't given before."
That was a great relief to Hogan, but there was still the question of the pilot's identity. "Did you find any dogtags or insignia on him? Any clue as to who he is?"
Wilson pondered that for a second, then looked shocked as he recalled, "Well sir, the stripes on his shirt indicate lieutenant, but there was no other identification on him. That's not right, is it sir?"
That surprised Hogan as well. Why wouldn't he have dogtags? Or an ID card? "It's possible he lost them, or left them behind when he escaped. I'm sure we'll find out who he is when he wakes up."
"And what happened to him, I hope," Wilson added. Glancing over at the unconscious patient, he said, "From the looks of it, that kid's been through Hell." Both men were suddenly interrupted by the door opening as Schultz came in, followed by Dr. Freiling. The doctor was a white-haired, dignified gentleman who ran a successful practice in Hammelburg and, as an added bonus, also happened to be a member of the Underground.
Both men greeted the doctor after Schultz left, then Freiling shooed Hogan out of the room as he and the sergeant worked on the young pilot. Hogan paced around the sitting room for almost an hour until the doctor came out and motioned for him to have a seat.
"You may relax now, Colonel Hogan. The young man is going to be just fine. We have taken care of all his injuries, and he should regain consciousness within a day or so as his body recovers from mild hypothermia and blood loss. Your medic tells me you have no idea who this man is, or what happened to him?"
"You guess is as good as mine, Doc," Hogan shrugged. "The best I can figure is that he was an escaping prisoner that got caught in an explosion sometime last night. Which wouldn't surprise me, considering how many bombs were going off out there."
"Ah, yes. I noticed the handcuffs. I must go ask Colonel Klink for permission to have them removed. I also noticed that he had some minor injuries that had been bandaged prior to his escape. He has obviously been through a lot in the past few days. I'm sure he will have quite the story to tell when he wakes up." Noticing lines of exhaustion in Hogan's face, the doctor switched patients momentarily. "I suggest you go and get some rest now, Colonel Hogan. You look exhausted, and there's no more that you can do here. Your medic and I will keep a close eye on the young pilot and I promise to inform you the moment he regains consciousness. I believe you should also inform your men about his condition. I am sure they are as worried as you are."
Relief crossed Hogan's face as he rose to leave. He reached out and shook the doctor's hand. "Thank you, sir, for everything." Then, he headed back to the barracks to get some shuteye before the men came back from work detail. He would have Kinch contact the Underground to listen for reports of missing prisoners in the area. Until then, he needed to get some sleep.
The next afternoon, Hogan was leaning on the wall of Barracks 2 in his usual spot, surveying the bustle of activity in the camp around him. Kinch was down in the radio room waiting for a message from the Underground, LeBeau was making dinner inside the barracks, and Carter and Newkirk were sitting on the steps nearby, working on a uniform for their new arrival. Such a tranquil scene, Hogan thought. No one would ever guess that they were all on pins and needles. His gaze fell on the open window over at the guest quarters. As if sensing his thoughts, Newkirk and Carter both stopped talking and glanced over, following their commanding officer's gaze. Then Newkirk got up and came to stand beside Hogan.
"You said he'd be alright, sir. I'm sure he'll be awake soon."
Carter wasn't far behind. "Yeah, and then he'll be able to tell us who he is. That is, if he remembers who he is. I hear sometimes that people who bump their heads real bad wake up and they don't remember who they are! Boy, if that happens to him, we'd really be in a fix…"
"Carter! You're not helping!" Newkirk shouted, but there was a friendly sound to his voice, and he grinned as he pushed the boyish sergeant's hat down over his eyes for the umpteenth time.
"I was just saying…"
Hogan couldn't help but smile either. "I'm sure he'll remember, Carter. I don't think he hit his head on anything, so his memory will be just fine." He hoped.
Just then, the door to the barracks opened and Kinch's head poked out. "Message from London, Colonel. And you'll really want to read this one."
"London? But I thought they were supposed to be giving us a rest here!" Hogan said as the three men piled into the barracks and crowded around the table.
"This isn't a mission, exactly," Kinch explained as he handed his CO the rather lengthy message. Hogan read it, then read it again, and a worried look spread across his face as London's message sunk in.
"What is it, Colonel?" Newkirk was the first to notice the frown on Hogan's face.
"Is it bad news, mon colonél?" LeBeau, who had left the stove and joined the others, asked.
"You could say that. One of the Falcons is missing."
"The falcons? What falcons?" Carter was always the first to ask the questions.
"Falcons, capitalized, Carter. The Falcons are a crack spy team for the British Secret Service. Sort of like us, but a bit more official. They're twin brothers who are amazing pilots, crack sharpshooters, and masters of impersonation, among other talents. They are also the Allies' best-kept secret. So well-kept that no one who would admit it actually knows who they are, not even their names."
"And one of them is missing? Why does this concern us?" Newkirk sounded skeptical.
"Allied Intelligence has reason to believe that the missing Falcon was shot down during a bombing raid over Germany almost two weeks ago. They don't know exactly when, or which raid, because they were only alerted to it the other day when his brother reported in to say he had been sent on a flying mission to Germany and hadn't reported in. He left their base of operations ten days ago and was supposed to return in five, but he never showed."
"And London wants us to look for the bloke? That's like lookin' for a needle in a haystack!"
"They don't want us to LOOK for him, Newkirk, just keep a look OUT for him. We're to keep our eyes open and our ears to the ground, and in the event that he's nearby, we're to get him back home ASAP."
"But I thought you just said that no one knew who this fellow was. How are we supposed to know him when we see him? Or hear about him for that matter, since we haven't the faintest idea what his name is?"
"They're supposed to send us that information in a few days, once Command finds it out for themselves. They want to keep this as quiet as possible. It should strictly be Secret Service business, but because we're already in Germany and are working for High Command, they're going to get clearance so we can help." Hogan folded the sheets of paper and slipped them into his breast pocket. "I only hope he isn't dead, or being interrogated by the Gestapo. If the Germans find out anything about this man, the entire Allied offensive on France could be in jeopardy."
"France?" LeBeau's ears perked up at the mention of his homeland. "Why France, Colonél?"
"The Falcons have been working undercover in France for the past six months, gathering tactical information, troop deployments, and defensive plans in preparation for a major Allied offensive someday soon. However, if Germany suspects their security has been compromised, the entire mission will be discovered and all the information would be useless." Then, Hogan looked at each of his men in turn. "I'm sure you realize now that this job cannot be taken lightly. We can't let anyone know how important this man is, not even the Underground. This is a closed operation. In addition to a security compromise, if the Krauts even suspect that they have captured someone important to the Allies, the lives of all Allied prisoners recently captured could easily be forfeit."
"Does that include the one in the guest quarters right now, Colonel?" Carter asked innocently, but the question gave Hogan pause.
"What did you just say…?" he trailed off, stunned at the possibility that had just gone through his mind.
"Carter opened his mouth to repeat himself, but just then, Sergeant Wilson came barging in the door. "Colonel Hogan, the prisoner is waking up!"