Summary: His morale low because of the commandos' losses, Hogan assesses his team's chances of success. Meanwhile, Kinch arrives at a decision.
Author's Note: ~"Dialogue"~ denotes that a foreign language is being spoken, usually German.
Disclaimer: Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!
Copyright November 2001****
Just Another Missionby Syl Francis
****
"...A man...ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether he is doing right or wrong." (Socrates)
**** Friday 18 AUG 1944/0210hrs localOutside the Tauberbischofsheim Rocket Facility
****
If Carter could have paced, he would have had a hole worn out on the bottom of the half-track. They should've been back by now! He glanced yet again at his watch: 0210 hours. It's all gonna blow in another five minutes--!
At that moment, he caught sight of two silhouettes running from the bunker. Hogan and Kinchloe! Carter jumped behind the wheel, and reaching underneath the dashboard, crossed the wires he'd readied earlier. To his vast relief, the motor started immediately.
Easing the throttle, Carter inched the vehicle out of its berth and steered in their direction. A shout from somewhere towards his left was soon followed by gunshots. Uh-oh!
"Kinch! Colonel!" he called, bringing the half-track up next to them. Kinchloe grabbed on one-handed and easily swung himself onboard. He then reached down and offered Hogan, who was still running alongside it, a hand up.
"Thanks," Hogan breathed gratefully, un-slinging the bag and weapon he was still holding. "Come on--the gun!" he said, pointing at the 20-millimeter mounted cannon. He hastily began assisting Kinchloe in loading. Slapping an ammo belt into the feeder, he stood aside as his senior NCO expertly swung it around and started to fire.
With Carter driving and Kinchloe manning the 20mm cannon, they began tearing a swath through the outer compound. Guards ran back and forth, shouting warnings, and firing. As they approached the bridge, the gate guard ran up to the half-track, and in a last-ditch effort to stop them from crossing, started climbing onboard.
"Colonel!" Carter yelled, pointing at the new threat.
Hogan ran to the edge of the vehicle and climbing up on the side, he kicked out, connecting solidly with the soldier's chin. "Hey! No hitchhikers allowed, Fritz!" The momentum of the kick sent the German flying backwards into the concrete ditch below.
Exposed as he was, Hogan found himself seemingly targeted by all the small arms in the compound. He could almost feel the hot rounds ~zi-iinnngg!~ as they narrowly missed. The American flyer immediately dove back into the relative safety of the armored cab.
He glimpsed Kinchloe keeping a large company of SS pinned down behind a protective wall with deadly accurate fire. Grabbing the Schmeisser, Hogan joined in, firing quick, short bursts at any guard who was foolish enough to show himself.
"Good shooting, Kinch!" he shouted. "You must be part Texan!"
"Only on my mother's second-cousin-removed-by-marriage side!" Kinchloe returned with a grin. The next instant, the grin turned feral as he spotted and targeted another platoon-sized group that tried to rush them.
Watching the soldiers scatter before the deadly fusillade, Hogan shook his head admiringly. "Must be some cousin!"
By now the motorpool parking area was a scene of pandemonium--with soldiers scurrying, motors coughing to life, and several vehicles in pursuit. Strangely, Hogan saw that many of the trucks that started initially, died after moving only a short distance.
He glanced down at Carter. "I see you've been busy, Carter!" he shouted. The young explosives expert looked up and grinned proudly. "Good job, soldier!" he added, just as another guard elected to show himself. Both Hogan and Kinchloe fired simultaneously.
Grimacing, Hogan lay his weapon down. No matter how necessary, he hated this part of the job. Turning away, he quickly dug out the last two dynamite bundles from the shoulder bag. When they cleared the bridge, he armed the fuses to a ten second delay and threw.
At that instant, a low rumbling startled everyone into looking up. As the heroes watched, awed, it seemed as if a bright new star were joining its siblings in the sky. The enemy soldiers let out a long, triumphant cheer, inspired by the sight of the V-2 rocket roaring into the night--a testament to the Fatherland's mighty power.
The next moment, several massive explosions rocked the entire area, ending their short-lived celebration. The fuel tanks ruptured outwardly in an impressive show of light and heat, followed by the ammo dump and bridge going up, apparently in a sympathetic reaction. Simultaneously, the bunker resounded with a series of underground explosions, which violently shook the area.
Hogan and his men hastily ducked inside the armored cab for protection against flying debris. Several heartbeats later, Hogan and Kinchloe sneaked a look backward. Neither man spoke, overcome by the level of destruction left behind...
Long afterwards, Hogan stared at the strange, orange glow just beyond the horizon. Feeling suddenly tired, he glanced over at Kinchloe. His senior NCO and right-hand man looked back, his expression mirroring Hogan's.
"Sometimes, I wonder what's the point," Hogan said softly. Both men stood, their arms resting on the edge of the cab's cupola, their chins on their arms. "We blow one up...they build another. We blow that one...and they replace it, too. Sometimes...well, sometimes..." He shrugged lamely, his voice dying out.
"I know, Colonel," Kinchloe murmured. "Believe me, I know..."
****
Friday 18 AUG 1944/0400hrs localTunnel under Barracks #2, LuftStalag 13
****
Hogan stood, leaning tiredly against the tunnel wall, a steaming cup of black coffee clutched in his hand. He'd ordered everyone, except Kinchloe and Wilson, to grab some sack time.
"Plenty of time after roll call for a debriefing!" he shouted over their loud protests. He now watched as Wilson worked on Sgt. Vaughn's leg, wincing involuntarily when the British sergeant gasped in pain.
"Sorry, Vaughn," Wilson apologized. "That was the last of the morphine back at the farmhouse."
"Quite all right, mate," Vaughn muttered through gritted teeth. "It only hurts when I laugh. D'you wager I'll ever be able to play the piano, then?"
Shrugging, Wilson reassured him, "I don't see why not."
Grinning slightly, Vaughn dropped the punch line, "That's nice t'know...'cause I couldn't bloody play it before."
"Colonel?" Kinchloe was standing next to Hogan, holding out a folded message slip. "Report from London on the rocket facility at Fussen." Taking the communique, Hogan quickly scanned it. His drawn features lit momentarily.
"You hit a bull's-eye, Kinch," he said, his voice low. "The Underground reports that the third rocket factory was completely destroyed." Scowling, he pointed at the injured man with his chin. "What about our next supply drop? Any word on when it'll be rescheduled?"
Kinchloe shook his head regretfully. "The Air Force is stretched pretty thin right now, sir. Headquarters promises a drop as soon they have an opening."
Hogan sighed. "Funny...when HQ wants us to do something, it's always as of yesterday. We request our regular supply drop, and they give us the 'Don't call us, we'll call you' routine."
"So, what else is new, sir?"
Hogan gave him a rueful smile, then turned to Wilson. "How's he doing, Doc?"
Wilson spoke softly to Vaughn and then grabbing a towel wiped his hands. Standing, he walked over to Hogan and Kinchloe. "He'll be all right, Colonel. But, he's in a lot of pain...Isn't there anything we can do?"
Hogan checked his watch: 0400 hours--ninety minutes to Roll Call. "Kinch...don't we have a tunnel branch that goes under the camp infirmary?"
Kinchloe nodded. "Yeah. We've never used it, though. Never had any real need of it, thank goodness."
"Looks like we could use now," Hogan said. "Come on." He grabbed a flashlight and quickly headed down a little used branch of the tunnel.
Wilson watched them disappear around the corner, wondering not for the first time when it would all end.
"Doc?"
The labored whisper alerted Wilson. Instantly, he was kneeling next to his patient. "Yeah? What is it, Vaughn?" he asked. When Vaughn answered, his voice was so low that Wilson had to lean in close to hear him.
"I don't suppose...I could have...another one...of those aspirins...?"
Wilson immersed a washcloth in a basin of cold water, carefully wrung it out, and placed it gently on the wounded man's forehead. "I'd rather not just yet, Vaughn," he said softly, his voice not giving away his regret. "We need to give the ones you've already taken a chance to work..."
His mouth twitching in pain, Vaughn closed his eyes and nodded. "Right-o, Doc..."
Wilson again dipped the washcloth and repeated his earlier actions. All the while, he spoke in soft, soothing tones, attempting to take Vaughn's mind off his pain. "Y'know, you're the first real-life commando I've ever met," he said, keeping a critical eye on his patient. "Tell me, how does a guy qualify to get into a crack outfit like yours?"
Vaughn blinked several times, his face working in concentration. "Well...it's not so bad, really," he managed, swallowing around his dry throat. Wilson instantly had a glass of water against his lips, and Vaughn drank gratefully.
"The Leftenant and CO are right good chaps," he continued. "Always do whatever the lads have to do..."
As Vaughn spoke, Wilson surreptitiously took the young sergeant's pulse. To his intense relief, he found it steady; furthermore, he also noted that Vaughn's voice had grown stronger, no longer labored.
****
Friday 18 AUG 1944/0410hrs localAbandoned tunnel under Camp Infirmary, LuftStalag 13
****
Hogan flashed a beam of light across the darkened tunnel branch. He noted the cobwebs and light layer of dust that seemed to cover everything. Kinchloe found and lit one of the many torches that lined the series of tunnels beneath the prison compound.
"Blimey!" a low voice said behind them.
Hogan whirled to find Lt. Whittington staring open-mouthed. "I didn't believe Newkirk and LeBeau's description of your operation, sir. I see I was wrong." He gave Hogan an open look. "How may I help?"
"By returning to your quarters and getting some sleep, Lieutenant!" Hogan returned sharply.
Whittington raised his chin defiantly, his eyes hardening. He glared at Hogan, his stance belligerent. Kinchloe stepped between them.
"Lieutenant, I know you only wish to help, sir, but the colonel's right. You don't know the operation here, and we can't risk you getting caught. "
"That's right, Whittington," Hogan said, his tone softer. "If you were caught, we wouldn't be able to explain your presence in camp. It could blow the whole operation."
Whittington looked like he was about to argue further, but again, Kinchloe stepped in. "Sir, I know you're worried about Vaughn, but I think you know that it'd be better if you returned to your quarters."
The young British officer glanced from Hogan to Kinchloe. At first it seemed as if he were about to argue further, but instead, he nodded wordlessly and turned on his heel.
Hogan let out a sigh of relief and then returned to the mission at hand. Sweeping his flashlight around a recessed section along the tunnel wall, he finally spotted the ladder leading up to the abandoned infirmary entrance. About to start climbing, he stopped when Kinchloe abruptly grabbed him by the sleeve.
"Colonel, wait--!" Kinchloe warned. "Let me check it first, sir." Agreeing, Hogan stepped aside. Kinchloe expertly inspected the ladder, testing to see if it held his weight. Satisfied, he gave Hogan the thumbs up.
Nodding, Hogan muttered, "Let's go."
****
Friday 18 AUG 1944/0530hrs localMain Compound, LuftStalag 13
****
Hogan squinted blearily through the light, morning mist. He was dead on his feet and looked forward to a few hours of sack time after morning roll call. His mind wandered during the monotony of the camp's morning routine.
"Eins, zwei, drei..." Schultz droned sleepily.
Hogan thought about the last-minute raid of the infirmary. Everything had gone well, and they'd taken only what they needed, enough morphine for a few days. Hopefully, their two British guests would be on their way home within the next twenty-four hours.
"...All present and accounted for!" Schultz said in the background. Hogan blinked, coming back to the present.
As soon as Schultz made the usual morning report, Klink swaggered forward, his manner even more exaggerated than usual. Halting in front of the line of prisoners, he stared out at them, adjusting his monocle and rocking on his heels. His nervous grip on the ever-present riding crop seemed even tighter than normal.
"I just received a report this morning of a failed raid by your much-vaunted British commandos at one of the Third Reich's rocket facilities. Headquarters informs me that a company of over 50 British soldiers were easily stopped by the superior SS forces of the Third Reich."
The Allied prisoners met his announcement with angry catcalls and low rumblings. A growl to Hogan's immediate left caught his attention. Newkirk's mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes narrowed dangerously. Hogan placed his hand on the RAF corporal's arm.
"Take it easy, soldier," he muttered.
"But you heard what that bloody Kraut said, Colonel--!" Newkirk protested.
"Just think of the look on his face after we pay them back for tonight--!" He stopped, realizing that Klink was directly addressing him.
"Well, Col. Hogan?" Klink crowed. He strutted towards the senior POW, his steps that of a bantam rooster. "What do you have to say? Are you ready to admit that your cause is lost? That soon, the unparalleled forces of our glorious Reich will push the Allies back to the sea?"
Hogan felt his blood rise. Biting back a retort, he met Klink's triumphant gaze, his dark eyes burning in unspoken anger.
Relishing the moment, Klink continued, "Are you not ready to admit, Col. Hogan, that the Reich shall prevail for a thousand years? That your petty commando raid failed, because your armies cannot withstand the engineering superiority of our rocket facilities? That with our new and improved rocket technology, we shall soon bring the Allies to their knees?"
He glanced down the line of POWs. Spotting LeBeau and Newkirk, he added, "First Paris and then London." With an angry cry, the two friends immediately lunged at Klink. Grinning wolfishly, the Kommandant stood haughtily by as several POWs held back the Frenchman and Englishman. Turning to face Hogan, Klink continued as if there had been no interruption.
"And before the year is out..." he paused for dramatic effect. "Well, there are the reports of a new rocket being developed even now. One we call the 'New York Rocket'."
Hogan felt an icy hand grip his stomach. He'd already received Top Secret intelligence on the so-called 'New York Rocket'; unfortunately, the reports agreed that its threat was terribly real. Within another few months, the Nazis could have a rocket capable of reaching the US eastern seaboard. Hogan thought of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty.
Unbidden memories of the London Blitz superimposed themselves on his mental picture of New York Harbor. He could actually see Lady Liberty lying in a broken heap on her pedestal, and the once-proud Empire State Building a mere smoking ruin.
Locking eyes with Klink, Hogan fought off an urgent need to smash his fist into the Camp Kommandant's derisive sneer. Thinking about his own successful raid last night, Hogan's black thoughts began to dissipate. Before long, his dark expression transformed itself into one of his patented, disingenuous looks.
"Is that right, Kommandant?" he murmured. "Funny, but the prison grapevine is running rampant with rumors about malfunctioning V-2 rockets that seem to be flying all over the German countryside, destroying your own facilities. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, sir?"
Klink's triumphant grin instantly gave way to apoplexy. Unable to speak, the Kommandant saluted the senior POW and quickly turned on his heel. Halfway to his quarters, he remembered to call over his shoulder, "Disss-misssssed!"
****
Friday 18 AUG 1944/0600hrs localBarracks #2, LuftStalag 13
****
Kinchloe watched as Hogan slammed open the door leading into his quarters. His CO's momentary sense of triumph over Klink had been short-lived. His back to the others, Hogan appeared to be seething inwardly, seemingly wanting to smash his fist against something.
Wincing slightly, Kinchloe stood in the open doorway, his body effectively blocking the others' view. Knowing Hogan needed to be alone, Kinchloe wisely opted to close the door.
"Hey! Kinch--!" Newkirk protested. "We've gotta talk to the colonel!" LeBeau and Carter echoed their agreement.
Kinchloe unflinchingly withstood their shouts, his arms crossed. "No one goes in until the colonel says so." He spoke in soft tones, but his dark eyes glared ominously. Nodding towards the tunnel entrance, he added quietly, "Come on. We've got a lot to do before tonight."
****
Hogan stared out his lone window, the gray dawn dismally breaking over the compound. He heard the slow, trudging footfalls that signaled the changing of the guard. A stray beam from the morning sun caught a glint off the machinegun emplacement on the guard tower.
Soon the shadows around the dingy, nondescript buildings began to recede. The place looked even more forlorn than usual.
He wondered for the umpteenth time just what had possessed him to accept this rotten assignment. He could have easily escaped years ago. Returned to his squadron and flown hundreds more missions.
That is, if I could've convinced Gen. Duncan not to ground me first.
He scowled, remembering his last conversation with his commanding general. Hogan had already flown twice the allotted number of missions deemed 'survivable' by the Army Air Corps statisticians, and the highly decorated combat pilot had faced the dreary prospect of being grounded permanently upon his return from his latest mission.
A mission from which he had not yet returned.
He sighed, thinking of the war from the air. Somehow it all looked so much cleaner from up there. When the bombs hit their designated targets, the ensuing plumes on the ground seemed almost majestic, beautiful in their way.
Probably could've had over 500 bridges by now, he grumbled. Then added ruefully, Or I could be flying a desk, signing endless orders, and sending other air crews to their possible deaths.
Deep down, Hogan knew that if he had been forced to accept a ground assignment in England, that eventually the constant worry for the lives of the crews and restlessness over his own inactivity would have driven him crazy.
And yet...
Fighting a clandestine war with a few men and even fewer rules, his hands seemed sullied, stained by the mud and grime. He felt as if he'd been robbed of something precious.
My soul perhaps?
Try as he might, Hogan couldn't escape the innate ugliness of his war. From the pristine, spotlessness of his cockpit, he'd viewed the war as a deadly ballet executed with elegance and grace.
From here, he saw it for what it was. Brutal. Sadistic. A waking nightmare from which there seemed no end.
He thought of the 50 commandos lost or captured the previous night. And what of his own team? So far he'd been extremely lucky and hadn't lost anyone. But there seemed to be no end to the war, even with the current string of Allied advances.
Sooner or later, Hogan knew that his luck might run out. And what if I lose someone? What will I do then...? Leaning forward on his elbows, Hogan felt a sense of hopelessness wash over him.
If only...
Unbidden thoughts of the countless downed Allied airmen that he and his men had rescued and returned home over the past two years came to him. What if he'd never accepted this assignment? What of them?
They'd probably be in some lousy POW camp just about now, he admitted. Or dead.
And what about the numerous other missions that he and his team had carried out? Somehow none of his previous successes helped him feel better. Glaring out at the all-too familiar sights, Hogan glanced towards the front gate, where the new guards were just now being posted. His black mood intensified, threatening to overwhelm him.
If only...
Frustrated, he slammed the heel of his palm on the window frame. Moving away, he threw himself on the lower bunk and stared up at the mattress above. Here and there bits of straw could be seen peeking out from the worn-out cover. Looks like I'm not the only one here ready to call it quits.
Snorting in disgust, he sat up and swung his legs over the side.
Can it, Colonel! Nobody's quitting here. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start coming up with a plan to take out that last rocket base.
Giving himself a curt nod, he stood and strode towards his field desk. Pulling out maps, pencils, reconnaissance photos, a small notepad, and other odds and ends, he sat down and set to work.
****
Friday 18 AUG 1944/1630hrs localBarracks #2, LuftStalag 13
****
Shouts from somewhere outside filtered in through Hogan's open window. Looking up from his notes, he was surprised to see the late afternoon sun streaming in. He'd managed to work straight through the morning and into the afternoon without a break. He stood and stretched, working out the kinks in his back and neck.
A sudden rumble from his stomach told him that he'd skipped breakfast and lunch. He checked his watch--16:30 hours. No, he hadn't missed dinner. At least not yet.
Hogan was about to call LeBeau for a sandwich, when he heard more shouts coming from outside. This time, they sounded loud and angry. Curious, Hogan walked over to the window to see what all the excitement was about.
A two-truck convoy with a staff car in the lead had pulled up to the fence. The senior occupant in the sleek, black car had the gate guards hopping. Hogan caught a glimpse of a closed, gloved fist being shaken at the hapless soldier from the open rear window. Instantly alert, Hogan watched as the Corporal of the Guard rushed to open the double gates, fumbling in his confusion.
As soon as the convoy entered the compound, Hogan hurried outside.
Taking up a carefully nonchalant stance against his barracks wall, campaign cap pulled low over his eyes, he watched intently as Klink ran out of his office to greet the officer in charge.
"Major Hochstetter!? Klink gushed. "What a pleasant surprise! Two visits in one week! To what--?"
"Klink!" Hochstetter yelled by way of greeting. "Shut up!"
"Yes, sir...shut up," Klink mumbled, nodding in defeat.
"We are delivering these prisoners to Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin," Hochstetter explained pompously. "And as much as it pains me to do this, we must stop here for a few hours. The bridge over the River Elbe was destroyed a few nights ago, and the engineers haven't yet completed the temporary crossing. While we wait, I expect another truck to arrive later this evening with twelve additional guards."
"Later this evening?" Klink asked, nervously. "About what time?"
"It is, of course, none of your business, Klink," Hochstetter replied. Klink reluctantly nodded in agreement.
"Yes, Herr Major...none of my business--" Klink repeated.
"But I will tell you, nevertheless!"
"But you will tell me, neverthe--"
"Klink, shut up!"
Klink immediately clamped his mouth close.
"A small platoon of our finest SS soldiers will arrive at approximately six thirty this evening."
Klink stared in dismay at his uninvited and unwelcome 'guest.' Hochstetter's words finally sank in. He'd be here at the compound for almost two and half hours. Clasping his hands in a phony gesture of bon homie Klink smiled broadly.
"Well, until then, you'll just have to be my guest, Major! How very delightful!" Klink said with cloying pleasantness.
"Yes-esss, Klink," Hochstetter said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "How very delightful. "
"Yes, yes!" Klink continued, oblivious to the Gestapo major's obvious distaste. "You will, of course, join me for dinner--?"
As he spoke, one of the prisoners--a British noncom, Hogan immediately saw--jumped out of the back of the truck, surprising his captors.
"Hey, mate! I demand to know where we're being hauled off to--!"
Hochstetter instantly whipped out his sidearm, while Klink ducked behind the relative safety of the Gestapo officer.
"Schultz--!" Klink shouted. "Guards--!"
Four soldiers bearing ugly red Swastikas on their upper arms, which identified them as Gestapo, jumped from the truck where they'd been riding shotgun, their Schmeissers ready.
Shaking his head at the Kommandant's open display of cowardice, and the British noncom's recklessness, Hogan sprinted towards them. He pushed his way through the tight circle of black-uniformed, armed guards, and immediately placed himself between the British sergeant and the drawn German weapons.
"Kommandant, I demand to know what's going on!" Hogan insisted.
"Kliiinnnkk--! What is this man doing here--!" Hochstetter spluttered.
"Col. Hogan, this is none of your business--!" Klink stammered, frightened by the sudden turn of events. The afternoon had been going so well. How could all of this be happening? And he hadn't even had his afternoon Schnapps, yet. "Schultz--!" Looking around desperately, he wondered what hiding place his rotund Sergeant of the Guard might be cowering in. When I get my hands on that fatheaded dumkopf--!
"As senior POW," Hogan was saying, "I'm responsible for the safety and fair treatment of all prisoners assigned to Stalag 13."
Out of the corner of his eye, Hogan realized that a weapon was being held inches from his cheek. Turning deliberately, he glared directly into the cold eyes of the enemy soldier. Then, placing his finger inside the muzzle of a weapon, Hogan casually pushed it aside.
"Hans, didn't your mother ever tell you that it's impolite to point?"
Nonplussed the guard took a moment to recover from Hogan's audacity. Frowning suddenly, he jerked his weapon back to its original position: directly in Hogan's face. Hogan turned away, pointedly ignoring him.
"Ah-ha!" Klink said from behind Hochstetter, waggling his finger over the Gestapo major's shoulder. "But these men have not been assigned here--"
"Klink!" Hochstetter screamed, slapping Klink's hands, while simultaneously shoving the flustered Kommandant away from him. Pointing at Hogan, he shouted, "I want this man arrested and shot! Immediately!"
"Name, rank, and serial number only, pal," Hogan muttered under his breath. The slightly confused British soldier nodded.
"Shot?" Klink stammered. "B-But--"
"If you won't do it, I will!" Hochstetter raged, waving his Luger in Hogan's direction. "These prisoners are part of the commando unit that attacked the Mutlangen rocket facility, and the Gestapo intends to deal with them! Personally!"
At Hochstetter's words, Hogan felt a momentary surge of pride and relief wash over him, which was immediately replaced by a new sense of urgency. He and his men would have to rescue the British commandos.
"But, Major," Klink protested, "we can't--! I-I mean, the Geneva Convention--?"
"Bah! The Gestapo does not recognize any such treaty--!"
While Klink and Hochstetter argued, Hogan pulled the POW aside. "Is that true, pal? You one of the boys who dropped into Mutlangen?"
The British soldier glared suspiciously at Hogan. "How do I know I can trust you, Yank?"
"Because," Hogan began, then recited the recognition signal:
"I have done one braver thing
Than all the Worthies did,
And yet a braver thence doth spring,
Which is, to keep that hid."
Grinning, the Englishman gave the countersign:
"Then you have done a braver thingThan all the Worthies did;
And a braver thence will spring,
Which is, to keep that bid."
Hogan offered his hand as he introduced himself. "Col. Hogan."
The British commando took the proffered hand, and the men quickly shook. "Sgt. Ripley, sir."
"How many made it, Ripley?" Hogan asked without further preamble.
"Two dozen." His tone darkening, Ripley added, "More would've made it, but the Gestapo shot the wounded." Hogan's countenance matched the sergeant's mood.
"Sergeant, I promise that--" Hogan began, but was interrupted by Klink.
"Col. Hogan, I must insist that you return to barracks. These POWs are not being assigned here. Therefore, they are none of your concern."
"On the contrary, Kommandant, any Allied prisoner of war who enters this compound is of my concern." Hogan stepped up to Hochstetter, his manner dangerous. "And what's this I hear about British wounded being shot by the Gestapo?"
Klink gasped in horror. "Col. Hogan! That is a very serious charge! Surely, you do not believe for one moment--!"
"I don't just believe it, mate!" Ripley shouted. "I saw it with me own eyes!"
"E-nough!" shouted Hochstetter. Pointing at Hogan, he demanded, "Klink, if this prisoner does not return to his barracks immediately, then I will shoot him right here for trying to escape." Grinning ominously, Hochstetter chambered a round and deliberately aimed his pistol at Hogan.
"Kommandant! I protest!" Hogan shouted, but several camp guards, led surprisingly by Sgt. Schultz, suddenly grabbed him, dragging him from the circle of Gestapo soldiers. Before he could say anything further, Hogan found himself being hustled back to Barracks Two.
"Please, Col. Hogan..." Schultz hissed, his expression terrified. "Please...You must return to the barracks. For your own safety." Suddenly realizing what a courageous act the normally timid Sergeant of the Guard had just performed, Hogan nodded and did as Schultz requested.
"As for you, Englander--" Hochstetter was saying in the background, "--the Gestapo will deal with you!"
****
Friday 18 AUG 1944/1700hrs localBarracks #2, LuftStalag 13
****
"That's about it," Hogan said, wrapping up his impromptu briefing. They were all squeezed in his quarters for the moment, his men either standing or sitting in various degrees of relaxation or alertness. "You'll head out at 17:45 hours. That'll give the Krauts enough time to change the guards after what passes for the evening meal and--"
"--And give ol' Schultzie enough time to catch a short nap, eh, Colonel?" Newkirk interjected, grinning broadly. He was rewarded with a glare from Hogan and a smack on the back of the head from LeBeau.
"Knock it off, Newkirk!" Kinchloe growled. Properly chastened, Newkirk shuffled his feet and apologized.
"Sorry, Colonel."
Grinning slightly, Hogan chucked him on the arm in a sign of comradeship. "Forget it." Turning to the others, he added. "Rapunzel will have her team waiting at the rendezvous point. Remember, it'll be a one for one exchange. Newkirk, as soon as everything's set, get on the horn to Baker. Do you have any questions?"
"Just one, sir!" All eyes turned to the newcomer, Whittington. "Your plan calls for the three of us--" His expression took in Newkirk and LeBeau. "--to practically single-handedly take on that company of Gestapo guards--"
"Oh, but that's not exactly true!" Carter chimed in. "You'll have Rapunzel's team--over fifteen men! Three more than you'll need--" He stopped, taking in the tight, silent faces. "Well, it's true," he added, shrugging nervously. "You'll have--"
LeBeau elbowed him in the ribs. "Quiet!" he hissed, nodding meaningfully in Hogan's direction.
Their commanding officer was casually slouched against his bunk, thumbs hooked into his jacket pockets. "Go on, Whittington," he said quietly. "What are you really trying to say?"
"Well..." Whittington quickly glanced around. Swallowing, he cleared his throat and continued, "Begging the Colonel's pardon, but while we're all mucking about the countryside and risking our lives to intercept that truck full of Gestapo, just what are you going to be doing?"
LeBeau uttered an expletive in French and made a move towards the British officer. Newkirk instantly grabbed his diminutive friend by the collar.
"Take it easy, Louis," he muttered.
"But you heard what he said!"
"That's all right, LeBeau," Hogan replied. "The lieutenant is a guest, and a guest is always treated with courtesy." His cool gaze held Whittington's defiant eyes. "You asked what I would be doing while the rest of you risked your lives, is that it?"
Whittington nodded once, sharply.
"Why, I'm gonna be--"
"He's going to be sabotaging the Mutlangen rocket base is what he'll be doin'!" Newkirk interrupted. "The Colonel, Kinch and Carter here are going to carry out your mission...sir!"
****
Friday 18 AUG 1944/1730hrs localTunnel under Barracks #2, LuftStalag 13
****
Kinchloe went through the final checklist, meticulously noting each item: weapons, ammunition, uniforms, truck...He and the others had not sat idly while Hogan worked behind closed doors that day. They'd taken care of most of the preparations for tonight's two-pronged mission.
The veteran NCO's expression remained grim as he worked. Like Hogan he was relieved that so many of the commandos had survived. Unfortunately, this meant that they would need their combined resources to rescue the commandos and destroy the rocket site.
And once again, the CO is forced to split the team, Kinchloe added silently. He shook his head. This was a turn of events that neither man liked; however, there was little they could do.
The need to act was critical regardless of the risks. The French Underground was rampant with unconfirmed reports that the population of Paris was being urged to take up arms in a general insurrection. The day before, the hated tool of Nazi collaboration, the Vichy government's Radio-Paris, had ended its transmissions, signaling the fall of the puppet French government.
Furthermore, the American forces were just days from crossing the River Seine at Mantes.
All in all, Hogan's men had to destroy the rocket site tonight in order to prevent it from launching its deadly fusillade at Paris before the City of Lights liberation. And of course, there was the little matter of rescuing the commandos...
Piece o' cake, as the Colonel would say.
He hesitated at one particular item on the list--final letter home. A sudden wave of cold dread swept through him.
Can it, Sergeant! He grumbled. It's all standard operating procedure.
Giving himself a mental headshake, he turned back to the job at hand. However, try as he might, his thoughts kept returning to this reminder of their mortality. Before every mission, each man wrote a letter home--just in case. Naturally, each of the heroes took the matter in stride.
In fact, as far as Kinchloe knew, neither Hogan nor Newkirk had changed their letter since the second mission they'd been on. In contrast, prior to each mission, LeBeau wrote a letter to a different girlfriend he had stashed somewhere in France. Kinchloe grinned. At last count, the diminutive Frenchman had over a hundred 'last letters home' on file.
On the other hand, Carter conscientiously wrote his mother a new letter every time, happily discarding the previous, unused one.
Kinchloe guiltily thought of the last time he'd updated his own letter home. Six months? No, more like nine months ago. Well, I don't have time for it now, he reminded himself, continuing with his checklist.
Momentarily, he stopped again, unable to shake this unexpected feeling of...what? He couldn't put an exact name to it, although he was fairly certain he knew what it was.
He'd been making plans again, he realized. Thinking of home and what he'd do after the war.
And yet...
Thoughts of Hogan and their current mission intruded. He knew that the Colonel was worried. That despite Hogan's light-hearted claim that this was just another mission, he was deeply concerned about the impossible odds they faced.
And maybe this time will be it, Kinchloe thought. The last mission...
He thought of his family back home in Michigan. Maybe he should take the time to update that letter, he thought. Just as quickly, he discarded the idea. What could he possibly say to them that he hadn't said already?
Dear Mom and Dad, If you're reading this, then...I have no regrets...Always remember I love you...Your loving son, James...
With a mental shrug, Kinchloe went back to his checklist. Moments later, he found an item that had not been marked off.
Frowning, he went in search of Carter.
****
"I don't have any left, Kinch," Carter said.
"I've already checked my whole inventory--three times!"
"Well, check it four times!" Kinchloe ordered. "I don't care what it takes! We can't blow up the place without those fuses."
"Kinch--I-I'm s-sorry," Carter said, shrugging helplessly.
At the young sergeant's look, Kinchloe almost relented, but the situation was too grave. If they didn't come up with something, they'd have to scrap the whole mission. Wracking his brains, he thought and discarded several ideas. Without much hope he asked, "What about improvising? Like before--with the magnesium-chlorine fuses?"
Carter shook his head regretfully. "I used up the last of the stuff, Kinch. I don't even have enough timers left--just three. And you know we haven't had a supply drop in weeks! The only fuses I've got left are the bad ones. I've checked them out. Only a handful are any good...Not enough to take out the entire rocket base."
Trying to keep his impatience reined in, Kinch nodded somewhat curtly. "Okay, Carter, you told me what you can't do. Now, I want you to tell me what you can do!"
"Well...I could maybe concoct a few Molotov cocktails," Carter mused without much enthusiasm. "It would be really crude, though. Just gasoline in something breakable, with some kind of flammable material for a fuse. The timers that we do have would be useless with them. Which means that once we light them, we'll only have seconds to get away."
Kinchloe nodded thoughtfully at this information. "Sounds doable," he said.
"There's just one small problem," Carter said.
"What?"
"Transportation," Carter explained, shrugging. "The three of us would never be able to carry enough to make much of a difference."
Kinchloe felt a headache coming on. Looks like we'll have to scrap this mission after all.
"Or...?" Carter paused in sudden thought.
"Or what? Did you just think of something? Well, what is it, Sergeant? Spill it!" As Kinchloe spat out his rapid-fire delivery, he unconsciously advanced ominously on Carter.
His back against the wall, Carter swallowed nervously, shook his head and shrugged helplessly. "What if we ask Rapunzel if her outfit has any fuses to spare?"
Kinchloe blinked. Of course! I should've thought of that, he mentally chastised himself. His dangerous expression replaced with one of sheepish admiration, he clapped his friend on the shoulder.
"Great idea, Andrew. I'll get on the horn to Rapunzel right now."
Both men hurried to the radio room.
****
Kinchloe sat, staring at the communique in his hand. Abruptly, he crumpled the paper and threw it in the burn can.
"Um, uh, Kinch...shouldn't we tell the Colonel?" Carter asked uneasily.
"You let me worry about the Colonel, Carter. You worry about the Molotov cocktails." Since we're not getting any fuses from the Underground.
Rapunzel reported that on their last supply drop, her organization had also received a shipment of fuses with the bad lot number. Carter nodded, and hurried back to his lab.
Alone Kinchloe sat at his station a moment longer, in deep contemplation. Thoughts of his family came, memories of happier days playing out in quick-cut, black and white flashes, much like a Saturday matinee newsreel. Finally, he took out a single sheet of paper and began to write...
****
End of Chapter 4