Summary: Hogan requests a transfer to the British Royal Air Force.
Author Note: Thanks to everyone who has commented on the story so far. I really appreciate your kind comments.
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 September 2002****
Friday AUG 16 1940//0600hrs local
Bentley Priory, RAF Fighter Command HQs
Uxbridge, England
****
A double-decker bus full of uniformed men and women rolled up the long, stately drive leading towards Bentley Priory, an historic, elegant dwelling that had been converted into RAF Fighter Command HQs. A queue largely comprised of RAF personnel just going off duty was already waiting to be shuttled back into London.
Hogan rode on the top deck of the bus, the sole American officer amongst the RAF uniforms. As the bus came to a stop, he folded his London Times and stood. Uniformed commuters flowed with him towards the exit, most waited patiently for their turn to climb down to the lower level, but a few jostled rudely past him without a glance.
However, Hogan's mind was on other things this morning. The news from the home front appeared promising for a change. The US had just signed a pact for the mutual defense of the North American continent with Canada. Roosevelt used this as a ploy to bypass the Neutrality Acts and agreed to start sending US Navy destroyers to Great Britain.
About time--! When is Washington gonna wise up and enter this thing? Can't they see that if England falls, we'll be next?
Exiting the bus, he was so preoccupied with planning just how he would approach Gen. Duncan this time that he did not see the young woman until it was too late. He walked right into her, accidentally pushing her down onto the pavement, and spilling the contents of her briefcase.
"Now see what you've done, Yank!" The accusatory tone spelled no love for Americans. He quickly crouched next to her and attempted to help her gather her papers.
"I beg your pardon," Hogan murmured, diving for a particular sheet before it flew off. So intent was he on what he was doing, that he fell on top of her, sending them both sprawling. Chagrinned, he struggled to regain his feet, while attempting to ignore the laughter from passersby.
His campaign hat pushed slightly askew, Hogan blew a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. Seeing the rather ignominious heap in which she had fallen, he stood hurriedly and reached down to help her. She wore the uniform of an officer in the British Women's Auxiliary Air Force. Checking her sleeve insignia, Hogan mentally went through the WAAF rank structure.
Section Officer, he thought, the female equivalent to an RAF Flying Officer, which in turn was the equivalent of a US Army First Lieutenant. Her hat was shoved low over her eyes, giving her an endearingly comical look. Always on the lookout for a pretty girl, Hogan admired how her short-cropped dark hair framed a lovely heart-shaped face. He smiled at the small, delicate nose that ended just above a full, sensuous mouth.
However, as she took his hand and looked up into his eyes, Hogan was caught off-guard by her icy-blue glare. Brrrr...! If looks could kill...!
"I'm terribly sorry, Miss, um, I mean, Section Officer, um--"
"My report!" she cried. "I spent hours getting it ready! We're supposed to brief the Air-Vice Marshal at 0800 hours! But now, look at it. It's ruined!" She held out the trampled and torn stack of papers, and waved them under his nose.
"Look, let me help--" he began, reaching for the papers.
"No!" she said sharply, jerking them back. "I bloody well think you've already helped more than enough. Now please, just stay away from me!"
As she spoke, the WAAF officer angrily stuffed the papers back in her briefcase. Amused, Hogan threw his hands up in mock surrender and stepped back. With one final toss of her now disheveled head, she turned and stomped off in an angry huff. Grinning, Hogan let her go, pleasantly surprised to discover that she was heading in the same direction as he. A uniformed crowd had gathered to watch their impromptu altercation.
"Tallyho, Yank!"
"That's setting Anglo-American relations back a bit, mate!"
"A bit 'brassed off' with you, eh, Yank?"
Grinning, Hogan tipped his campaign hat far back in his head and shrugged expansively.
"She's mad about me," he said with a knowing wink. The crowd broke into mild laughter and slowly dispersed, the show over. Only when she had disappeared into the building did he follow.
****
Friday AUG 16 1940//0630hrs local
US Military Liaison Offices,
Bentley Priory, RAF Fighter Command HQs
Uxbridge, England
****
Hogan spent the greater part of the morning arguing with his immediate superior about his request for a transfer. For the third time since just after the evacuation of Dunkirk, Gen. Duncan turned down his request for transfer to the RAF.
"Major, you know I can't spare you," Duncan said dismissively. "The work you're doing here as military liaison to the Air Ministry is vital to US interests--!"
"--Vital to US interests!" Hogan repeated sarcastically. "So far all we've done is sit back and watch someone else fight our war for us--"
"Major, this isn't 'our' war, as you put it," Duncan cut in. "Pres. Roosevelt has made our neutrality in this conflict abundantly clear. We'll offer whatever assistance we can--"
"Our neutrality--!?" Hogan retorted, holding up the London Times. "Yeah, we're neutral all right! We're so neutral, we've agreed to start sending American destroyers here. This way, the Brits can continue doing all the fighting, while we cower on the other side of the Atlantic!" Hogan slapped the rolled newspaper against his leg in a show of contempt.
"Well, thanks, but no thanks!" he continued. "I've stood back long enough and watched others fly off on combat missions, while I cowered--safe and sound--with the women and children in some cushy bomb shelter."
"I don't think that flying as a neutral observer during combat runs exactly qualifies as 'cowering,' Major," Duncan countered quietly. "And I seem to recall you taking the controls of that Blenheim bomber when both the pilot and co-pilot were shot." But Hogan shook his head.
"That's just the point, sir! I'm a pilot. I should be flying alongside these men, not sitting back and watching from the sidelines. The RAF needs all the qualified pilots they can get their hands on."
Hogan walked towards the wall and studied a yellowed photo of a boyish pilot, striking a dashing pose next to a World War I bi-plane, the French-made SPAD scout. Painted on the nose were six German flags, one for each enemy killed. The young ace, Hogan knew, was 2Lt. Cameron Duncan--now Major General Duncan--a member of the famed WWI American Squadron, the Lafayette Esquadrille.
Hogan did not bother to point out what he saw as an apparent hypocrisy coming from Duncan, a highly decorated combat pilot who had volunteered to fight with the French two years before America entered WWI, and who was now denying him the opportunity to do the same with the British. However, the irony of the situation was not lost on either man.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't stand back anymore and do nothing while others take the risks. If you won't approve my transfer, then I'll be forced to resign--"
"Don't be ridiculous, Robert!" Duncan cut in. "I've known you for a long time. You're a professional officer--not one of these 90-day boy wonders that the Army schools are beginning to crank out--and you know your duty."
"I know my duty, sir. And it isn't to sit back and watch others die while I do nothing to help!"
The two men glared at each other for a long time.
"Gen. Duncan...I'm an experienced pilot. I've spent these past few months observing and analyzing the RAF's fighter tactics. I'm fully qualified on both the Spitfire and the Hurricane--"
"And just about anything else with wings...Yes, I know that, Major. I've heard this argument before." Duncan took out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a long drag he steadily held Hogan's eyes and continued as if uninterrupted. "What you always fail to mention is that your reports to Washington on the RAF's tactics have been instrumental in the current Army-wide revision of our own air operations." Duncan paused, shaking his head. "Sorry, Major, but as I've said before, the work you're doing here is too critical for me to spare you."
A muscle jumped along Hogan's jaw line, and his normally mild, dark eyes flared momentarily. "Sir, you know from experience that it isn't enough to have skilled pilots. When the US finally enters the war--" He held up his hand to forestall argument. "--and we both know that's coming in the near future--" Duncan glared at him but had the grace to nod in agreement. "--Then we're going to need skilled combat pilots to train the new kids."
The two officers stared at each other for a long time without speaking. Finally, Duncan dropped his gaze and looked away. He walked over to the same photograph that Hogan had studied earlier, and stood in front of it for a few minutes, smoking quietly. His thoughts traveled back to a conversation with his own superior, Lt. Gen. Ryder, just two weeks ago. Unknown to Hogan, Duncan had requested virtually the same thing from Ryder--a transfer to the RAF.
Unsurprisingly, his request had also been denied. And now I'm doing the same to Hogan.
"Sir, will you grant me the transfer?" Hogan asked again.
Sighing, Duncan turned and saw the same intense look in Hogan's face that he knew had been in his when he had asked Ryder for a transfer. But Hogan's situation was not the same as Duncan's. The US Army was not in the business of transferring its generals to a foreign power's armed forces, even if that nation were Great Britain. What was more, Duncan knew that his days as a combat pilot were over. From here on, the only flying he would do would be from behind a desk.
But it was different for Hogan. The younger man was at his peak as a trained Army aviator. And besides...he was right.
The service would need experienced combat pilots to train the new crop of kids to fly into hell and back as soon as the US entered the war. And who better than a man like Hogan? Duncan thought of the work they were doing here as neutral observers and military liaisons. It was important, but--? He shook his head.
When the balloon goes up, we're not going to need more desk officers who can write reports--the Lord knows we've got enough of those! We're going to need proven leaders. Studying the younger officer, Duncan knew what Hogan's look of grim determination meant. Whatever I decide, I'll lose him either way.
Duncan liked and admired Hogan. While working on the Army Staff, he had been deeply impressed by then Capt. Hogan's technical and tactical expertise, as well as his easy-going leadership style, which made him extremely well liked among the junior officers and enlisted men. When Duncan had received his initial orders to England as part of the US Army Air Corps' liaison mission to the RAF, he had immediately requested that Hogan be assigned to his staff.
Hogan will go far, Duncan thought. But first, I've gotta get out of his way. He smiled wryly, remembering his first commanding officer's admonition on the three leadership options available to an officer: Lead, follow, or get out of the way.
I guess it's my turn to step aside for the new generation of officers, Duncan admitted with a shrug. Meeting Hogan's eyes, he nodded grimly. "I'll see what I can do, Major."
At Duncan's words, Hogan's hard expression softened.
"Thank you, sir."
****
Friday AUG 16 1940//1230hrs local
Operations Room
Bentley Priory, RAF Fighter Command HQs
Uxbridge, England
****
Shortly after 1200 hours, they received the first reports of an incoming attack. His hands steepled before him, Hogan watched the proceedings from the observation deck. A level below him, an operations map was spread out on a huge table. Serious-faced WAAFs used long thin pointers to push models of planes, representing Luftwaffe and RAF squadrons, onto the map. Working with quiet purpose, they updated the locations of the squadrons as the reports came in.
The initial Luftwaffe attack formation split into three separate raids, heading to different airfields. As the RAF pilots' voices came over the intercom, Hogan leaned forward listening intently. Outwardly calm, he felt his adrenaline kick in. He was inside the cockpits with the pilots, his hands automatically mirroring their actions.
"This is Red Fox Leader! Bandits at two o'clock! Tallyho, lads!" Hogan wondered if it was the same Red Fox Leader that had come to his rescue back in May. A cold fist settled in his stomach as the war took on an unexpectedly personal twist.
A few minutes later, another voice cried, "This is Red Fox Six! I'm hit! I'm hit! I can't hold her!"
"Red Fox Six! Bail out!"
Hogan grasped the metal sides of his chair, the whites of his knuckles the only indication of his tension. From below, he heard one of the WAAFs suddenly cry out, "Dickie, bail out!" A deadly silence hung in the Ops Room for what seemed an eternity.
"This is Red Fox Five! I see a parachute!"
"This is Red Fox Leader! Red Fox Five--follow him down and orbit until he's picked up!"
"Roger, Red Fox Leader!"
A spontaneous cheer broke out from the Ops Room. Hogan covered his eyes in momentary relief. Then, searching the room below, his eyes fell on a tearfully smiling WAAF who handed her pointer over to another young woman who hugged her. Without another word, she quickly headed out of the Ops Room. As she passed directly below him, Hogan recognized her from earlier that morning.
Section Officer Ice Princess...! Guess she knows the pilot. He remembered that she'd called him by name--'Dickie'--probably her sweetheart. Hogan felt suddenly very tired. One man (Out of how many, he wondered?) had survived to fight another day. And here he was again, sitting back while others fought and died.
Unable to tolerate his inactivity, Hogan strode out of the elegant headquarters building and hitched a ride back to London.
****
Friday AUG 16 1940//1430hrs local
Trafalgar Square, London
****
He was dropped off in London's West End, near Trafalgar Square. That was as far as the driver, a WAAF corporal, told Hogan she could take him when she agreed to give him a lift.
"I have a delivery for the Cabinet War Rooms, so I'm in a bit of a rush."
"That's all right, Corporal," Hogan said climbing out of the staff car. He leaned in her window to thank her and caught a faint whiff of her perfume. Female drivers were definitely one of the few 'bennies' of the war. "I could use the walk. Thanks, Corporal...um...?" He gave her a questioning look and smiling she instantly provided the answer.
"Randall, sir. Cpl. Alice Randall. And may I add that anytime you need a ride into town, sir, be sure to look me up. It'd be a pleasure." She offered this last with a long, knowing look.
"I'll be sure to do that, Cpl. Alice Randall," Hogan replied with a jaunty grin. Stepping back, he was about to head off when she stopped him.
"Say, Yank--!" Randall began. "Um, I do beg your pardon, sir. I meant no offense--!" She looked up him, her previously playful expression suddenly worried.
"No offense taken, Cpl. Randall," Hogan said with quiet reassurance. As he spoke, he noticed a light smattering of freckles across her slightly upturned nose, which made her appear no more than a schoolgirl.
"Sir...? Do you know when you Yanks are finally going to--?"
"--Enter the war?" Hogan finished. At the pretty WAAF corporal's nod, Hogan shook his head. "I really wish I knew..."
Nodding pleasantly, he stepped back while the staff car pulled away. Taking a long look around the major London intersection, Hogan noted the resolve on pedestrians' faces as they hurried about their daily business. They did not appear like a people who would be easily cowed into submission.
Hitler sure picked the wrong country to 'brass off'!
****
Friday AUG 16 1940//1930hrs local
The Ram's Head Tavern, est. 1623
Covent Garden, London
****
Hours later, Hogan found himself sitting at a highly polished bar, nursing a very warm pint of beer. He had discovered the Ram's Head Tavern his second week in country. Feeling a bit homesick, he had wandered the Covent Garden neighborhood immediately around his apartment building, nodding at people he met on the street and taking in the various shops and cafes.
He had explored the Garden's famous farmer's market, strolling from stall to stall, buying vegetables and other items that he had no idea how to prepare.
They say a guy's best friend is his Mom, he thought ruefully. Too bad mine never showed me what a pan was for.
Eventually, Hogan's feet carried him to an ancient half-timbered building that was emitting a soft, warm glow from within. Soon, the blackout curtains would have to be pulled down, but for the moment, the place invited others to come in and cast aside their worldly troubles.
Since that day, Hogan tried to stop by the Ram's Head at least once a week for a pint. The regulars had even grown used to him. Perhaps he was not entirely one of them, but they accepted him well enough to nod on occasion and wave in recognition.
"Hey, Yank!"
"Good news from the States, eh?"
"Aye! Me hat's off to your President Roosevelt, mate!"
Hogan nodded and smiled in acknowledgement of the friendly greetings. He waved at the bartender and proprietor, Iain MacAlistar, who poured him his usual--a pint of warm ale. As was his habit, Hogan sat alone at the bar, nursing the bitter draught. While he did not care much for the taste, he cared even less to being cooped up alone in his tiny, airless flat.
Here, he could sit in companionable silence, accepted but not bothered by the other patrons. Taking a sip, he felt the tension around his back and shoulders finally begin to leave him. He thought about Duncan's words. The general did not promise anything, but at least, this time he had not said 'no.'
Maybe, just maybe...
A warm feeling washed over him. Whatever happened, Hogan knew he would owe Duncan for agreeing to his request. As he reviewed the day's events in his head, he heard the neighborhood air raid warden call out over a bullhorn: "Blackout conditions! Hog's Head Tavern, this is the second time this week that I've been forced to warn you! The next time--!"
"Och...!" MacAlistar grumbled as he pulled down the shades and drew the heavy blackout curtains. "I heard you, y' thievin' Black Guard!"
Hogan quickly looked down into his beer, hiding his smile. It was no secret that there was no love lost between MacAlistar and Montgomery MacCollum, the air raid warden. Rivals since boyhood, they carried the feud into adulthood, when as young men they had courted the same girl. She chose MacCollum, and MacAlistar had never forgiven him.
Checking the time, Hogan thought about ordering something to eat, but decided against it. Paying his tab he got up to leave. As he did so, the air raid sirens suddenly began to wail across the city. Another bomb run.
The tavern patrons quickly left the building and began heading towards the local bomb shelter. Following them, Hogan looked up, studying the darkening skies with a critical eye. Soon, in the dimly lit horizon, he saw the telltale signs of vaporized slipstreams against the early evening sky.
The RAF's getting better, he thought. They were already scrambled and on the counterattack. Soon, Hogan heard the distinct thrumming of multiple engines. Here they come! His experienced ear instantly identified the approaching enemy aircraft: Dornier-17s. Sound like they're headed towards the dockyards. This was going to be a massive bomb run.
The dark skies suddenly lit with the eerie strobe-like flash-bang of anti-aircraft fire, followed by the steady ~Phoom--! Phoom--! Phoom--!~ of the firing batteries. Within minutes the air whistled with a familiar sound of an incoming shell. There was a sudden moment of silence instantly followed by an earsplitting explosion.
Hogan stumbled from the force of the shockwave, almost losing his footing. Recovering, he continued for the nearest air raid shelter. As he ran, Hogan caught the whiff of burning cordite mixed with other, more unpleasant smells. The next moment, he again heard the familiar whistle signaling another incoming bomb. This time, it was much louder.
It's gonna be close! The air raid shelter was only a few meters away. About to close the last few yards, he was surprised by the sudden appearance of a panic-stricken woman running from the shelter.
"Tommy! Tommy!" she screamed, looking around frantically. Instantly, he sprinted towards her.
"Get down!" At that moment a violent explosion shook the street and the surrounding buildings. Hogan threw himself on top of the young woman, knocking them both onto the cobbled street, using his body to shield her from flying debris. After a few minutes, he chanced a look around.
"That was too close for comfort," he muttered, helping her to her feet. Seeing that she was still distressed, he asked, "Miss, what is it?"
"My little boy. I don't know where he is. He was just with me a minute ago. Please! Can you help me?"
"What does he look like?"
"He's only five...brown hair, green eyes...wearing a white shirt and dark, short trousers. Oh, please, help me!"
Hogan nodded quickly. "I will...but please, get back in the shelter!" As he spoke, he hurriedly urged her back inside. Once ensured that she was safe, Hogan started looking for the boy, calling out his name. "Tommy! Tommy!" His yells were almost drowned out by the explosions that resounded throughout the night. He ran up the rubble-strewn street and stopped midway.
"If I were a five-year-old boy, where would I go?" He spotted the remains of a recently bombed out building. Dark, spooky, mysterious--the skeletal remains had 'adventure' written all over them. "Yep...that's where I'd go, all right!" he muttered, running towards it. Stopping at the shattered entranceway, he peered into the shadows. A hastily tacked sign warned, 'Keep Out! Danger!'
"Oh, swell," he grumbled. Would a five-year-old be able read the warning, he wondered? That was when he heard the broken-hearted whimper.
"Mummy...Mummy!"
Hogan immediately began moving carefully towards the sound. "Tommy!" he called. "Tommy, where are you?" The soft sobbing instantly stilled. Hogan froze in place and listened for it. After a few seconds, the broken sound of a child's cry started again. This time, Hogan did not call out, afraid he might further frighten the boy.
Mindful of the instability of the structure, Hogan took slow, deliberate steps, testing the floor with his foot before placing his weight on it. A sudden gasp from the deep shadows alerted him.
"Mummmmeee! Mummmmeee!"
Forgetting about safety, Hogan hurried to where the terrified boy sat huddled in the rubble. Bending down, he gently lifted the small child. "Hey, hey, hey..." he murmured reassuringly. "Everything's gonna be A-Okay, soldier. The cavalry's here."
"C-Cavalry--?" the boy asked, his interest piqued despite his fright. "Like the cowboys and Indians in the American cinema?"
"You betcha!" Hogan said with an emphatic nod. "And I should know, 'cause I'm as American as apple pie." Clinging to Hogan's neck, the boy smiled at him, his earlier fears forgotten.
"Are you a cowboy?" he asked in awe. Smiling, Hogan took off his hat and placed it on the boy's head.
"Well...you could say that, pardner," Hogan drawled in his best movie cowboy imitation. As he spoke, he started the careful trek back outside. "But instead of riding horses, I fly planes."
"Really? Spitfires? Like my Daddy?" Tommy asked excitedly.
"Oh? Is your Daddy a pilot, too?" Hogan asked. Looking down, Tommy's shoulders shook slightly, and he placed his head on Hogan's shoulder, hugging him tightly about the neck.
"He went away...It made Mummy and me awfully sad." By then, they were safely outside, and the All Clear sirens began to sound. Hogan paused momentarily and held the boy closely. You're an idiot, Major! A real, four-star idiot!
"I'm sorry, Tommy," he said and held him a little longer. Then setting him down, Hogan took Tommy's hand in his and began leading him back to the shelter. "Look, soldier, your Mommy is terribly worried about you. What do you say, we go find her?"
"Right-O!" Tommy held up a single thumb. Laughing, Hogan returned the gesture. A few minutes later, mother and son were reunited amidst tears and laughter.
"I don't know how to thank you!" Tommy's mother said. "Please...I don't even know your name."
"Hogan, ma'am...Maj. Hogan."
"Thank you, Major," she said, offering her hand. "How can we ever repay you?"
"Repay me?" he repeated. Smiling, Hogan crouched down to Tommy's eye level. Ruffling the boy's hair, he addressed him directly. "Soldier, there are two things you can do to repay me. Want to hear them?" Tommy nodded solemnly. "The first is that you will never play in one of these bombed-out buildings again. Understand?"
"Uh-huh."
"Good...The second thing is that you must promise me to always listen to your Mommy." Hogan leaned in closer, and whispered conspiratorially, "Want to know a secret?" Tommy nodded eagerly. "A good soldier always listens to his Mommy, 'cause she'll never steer him wrong. Got that?"
Smiling broadly, Tommy gave Hogan an emphatic nod and threw his arms around his neck. Hogan hugged the boy for a long moment, and then releasing him, turned him around and handed him over to his mother. Taking Tommy's hand, she again smiled gratefully, and soundlessly mouthed, 'Thank you.'
Smiling, Hogan started back toward his apartment.
****
Saturday AUG 17 1940//0600hrs local
US Military Liaison Offices,
Bentley Priory, RAF Fighter Command HQsUxbridge, England
****
"You wanted to see me, General?" Hogan asked. Duncan looked up and returned Hogan's salute.
"Grab a cup of coffee and take a seat, Major." Duncan nodded first to the carafe sitting on a table along the wall, and then at the sole remaining chair in his office. Gratefully, Hogan poured himself a cup and sat down. Duncan was still immersed in his early morning reports.
"We lost eight pilots and 22 aircraft yesterday. At least fourteen of the pilots bailed out safely and have already been recovered. Enemy losses were considerably higher: 72 confirmed kills, 29 probable, and 41 damaged. In addition to the 72 confirmed kills by the RAF, three more planes were lost to anti-aircraft fire."
"Not bad," Hogan murmured. He sat back and took a careful sip of the general's coffee. Careful, because it had been his experience that the first sip of the general's morning coffee was usually a 'lulu.' Swallowing the hot, bitter liquid, he made a face and gasped, "The idiot who made this batch needs to face a firing squad, sir!"
"What's wrong with my coffee?" Duncan asked, feigning insult.
"Begging the general's pardon, sir...but I've had motor oil that tasted better!" Hold held up the cup and pointed at the contents as he complained, sloshing much of it on the floor.
"What if I told you that I'm the idiot who made the coffee this morning?" Duncan asked.
Not missing a beat, Hogan gave Duncan his most ingenuous smile. "Then I'd say, sir, that you have a great future in aircraft maintenance. Why this stuff could keep our planes flying high through the Duration!"
"Thanks...I'll keep that in mind," Duncan said wryly. He sat back for a moment and silently studied the younger man. Coming to a decision, he opened his desk drawer and took out a manila file folder. Tossing it on the desk, he said, "Your orders, Major."
Gingerly, Hogan reached for the file, almost afraid that if he touched it, it would turn to dust. Reading through the orders carefully, savoring each acronym and obscure military phrase--little more than gobbledygook to the uninitiated--he heard Duncan somewhere still speaking to him...
"...And as of 0600 hours today, you are officially transferred to the Royal Air Force, assigned to 11 Group, located nearby in Uxbridge Field--"
"--Spitfires!" Hogan whispered, hardly able to believe his request had come through. And better yet, he was being assigned to a Spitfire squadron! "11 Group's assigned the defense of the London corridor."
"And Southeast England," Duncan added, standing and slowly walking around his desk. He stopped in front of Hogan, pointedly looking at his watch. "As of 15 minutes ago, you are officially AWOL--absent without leave--Major...I mean, Squadron Leader."
****
End of Part 2