No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.
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Hogan tumbled into his bunk, his eyes burning and his ears still ringing from the overwhelming noise of the B-17 he had left about an hour ago. Tonight's raid over Berlin had been considered a success; Goldilocks had dropped her load pretty much on target, thanks to the bombardier, Billy Martinez, and no planes had been lost, although one came back with damage severe enough to ensure a long term grounding while it was repaired.
Hogan sighed as he tried to flex his cramped muscles and find a comfortable position to sleep in. He made fists to try and warm his fingers, which had been freezing in the plane despite the gloves he wore. Then he turned over, exhausted after the initial adrenalin rush that came with any raid had worn off, his aim to fall asleep as quickly as possible so he could enjoy the longest rest he had had in months. But that was not to be: the black backdrop provided by his closed eyes was invaded by bursts of orange as shells exploded and flak littered the air. The shouting of his men over the intercom system and the noise of the engines and enemy fighter attack provided a symphony of adrenalin and fear that assaulted his ears. He could feel the jerking of Goldilocks as she unloaded her five-hundred pound bombs onto the invisible earth below.
Hogan hadn't debriefed upon return, a mistake he never let his own boys get away with. But this time, he must have looked shattered, because after making sure no one had been badly injured, he had begged off and somehow been allowed to get away with it himself, leaving the presentation to his co-pilot, Montgomery. "Mission accomplished," was all he said to those in charge, and he was dismissed with a promise of a proper question and answer session in the morning. Now, he regretted it.
Opening his eyes, Hogan tried to imagine pulling off such a mission during the day. All he could see was carnage and loss, and defeat. He wanted to dismiss those ideas as pure fear, with no basis in reality. But he knew he was wrong, and the knowledge that it was about to become reality, mixed with the experience he had already had that night, kept him awake until dawn, when he got up tiredly to greet the bleak day.
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"How's she looking today, boys?" asked Hogan, as he watched the ground crew swarming over Goldilocks like bees in a honey-filled hive.
"Lookin' great, Papa Bear—you've pulled it off again!" called one of the men from the wing.
"You can thank Bailey for that one," Hogan answered. "And the rest of the fellas in the squadron who helped keep her clean!"
The mechanic laughed and turned back to his work. Hogan took a moment to study the plane that was the only thing standing between him and enemy fire. The large white star in the dark circle on the flank of the plane made him proud, and so did the triple row of bombs that was emblazoned on the side in bright yellow paint. But it was the beautiful, buxom blonde near the nose that made him smile the most: Goldilocks. Long hair breezing behind her, even longer legs ended with graceful hands on hips that sat below a tiny waist. And the swimsuit she wore was anything but modest about how well the young lady had been endowed by the obviously-starved-for-female-companionship artist. Her big blue eyes invited men to come to her as she blew with fully puckered, red lips into a steaming bowl of porridge. And come they did, with a wolf whistle that made Hogan laugh whenever he heard it. There was no point in reminding anyone that she wasn't real; Hogan could hardly believe that himself, and he always winked at Goldilocks as he passed her to climb into the cockpit before a mission, saying, "One more time, girl. Just one more time."
In the mess hall, Hogan found he couldn't stomach more than a cup of strong coffee, and he smiled acknowledgement when others in the large room greeted him and congratulated him on his squadron's success. But he kept by and large to himself, still thinking about what lay ahead.
Soon after, Bailey appeared and sat, uninvited, beside Hogan. "Hey, Papa Bear," he said in greeting.
Hogan smiled tiredly. Papa Bear. Co-Pilot Trevor Montgomery had dubbed him that, shortly after Goldilocks appeared on the B-17, loudly refusing the moniker "Mama Bear" for himself, and somehow the joke had stuck. Hogan didn't mind; he knew it was all done in good humor, and he was never one to stand on ceremony with his own crew. Insisting on the use of rank when in a life-and-death struggle against the Germans hardly seemed practical. And besides, it would only serve to isolate him from the others in the crew, something that simply could not be allowed to happen if teamwork was to flourish. "G'morning," Hogan mumbled into his cup.
"Brilliant night last night, eh, Papa?" Bailey said enthusiastically.
Hogan smiled into his coffee. "Yeah, Bailey. Brilliant." He shrugged. "Everyone got back alive; that's the important thing."
Bailey started plowing into the huge meal he had gathered for himself. "So what's wrong?" he asked through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
Hogan put down his cup, startled. "Wrong?" he repeated. "Nothing's wrong."
"Come on, Papa; I'm not an idiot." Bailey took a swallow of coffee. "There's something going on in that head of yours, and you're not letting the rest of us in on it. What gives?"
Hogan shook his head. "Nothing."
"You might fool the others, but you can't fool me." Some bacon disappeared. "You're plotting and planning. And worrying."
Hogan shrugged again. "Maybe I'm just still tired after last night."
"I don't doubt it. I'm still pretty beat myself." Bailey stopped and turned to Hogan. "But it started before then. It was there when you gave us the briefing in the afternoon. It was there at dinner last night, and it's still there today."
"Can't you just mind your own business once in awhile?" Hogan asked, trying to avoid the question with wry humor.
"Nope," Bailey said. "I'm here to keep you in line." He paused and looked at Hogan's eyes, which seemed locked on something Bailey would never see. "What is it, Colonel?" he asked gently.
Hogan shook his head and brought his eyes back to the table. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. I'm just an idiot, that's all." He stood up. "I have some paperwork to fill out. I'll see you this afternoon after the briefing. We'll be at it again tonight."
Bailey watched Hogan leave, not believing a word his commanding officer said, but wishing to God that he could.
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Hogan stood before the men of the 504th Bomb Group at four o'clock in the morning, three days later, dreading every word about to come out of his mouth. All had come to attention when he entered the briefing room, drawing their light-hearted, sleepy banter to an immediate close. "At ease, gentlemen," he said, nodding for them to take their seats.
"We're trying something different this time, boys," Hogan said as he took to the stage. The eyes of two dozen flight commanders stared at their Group leader, ready to take the information he gave them back to their own men, to then pass on to the crews who would be flying the next mission. "You are no doubt wondering about the early call. Normally, I'd have an afternoon briefing for a night time raid. But that's exactly why I'm calling you now. This won't be any night time raid. We're going in, in broad daylight."
A collective murmur of disbelief passed through the room. Hogan gave it only a few seconds, knowing that the longer the men had to let their fears get to them about this plan, the easier it would be for them to pass those same fears on to their own crews. He immediately launched into his well-rehearsed patter. "We've got a job, and it's a big one, but we've got an extreme element of surprise on our side. After all, this hasn't been tried in quite a long time. The Krauts probably think the Allies wouldn't dare try it again." He turned and pulled the curtain on the wall away from the map he had detailed earlier. He knew exactly what the men were focusing on: the string. The string that connected their location on the map to the target destination in Germany. It was always the biggest draw. And he could see all eyes gauging the distance, wondering how many of them would be making it home.
"As you can see, gentlemen, our target is Leipzig. A submarine construction plant on the outskirts of town in an old factory. We're sending out five stacks: mine will be in the lead as usual, with two others coming up on either side. We leave at noon. The rest of you will be preparing for a nighttime offensive on Willemshaufen. You'll have back-up from the 379th." Hogan paused. The looks on the faces of the men staring back at him were daunting. Hogan made sure his composure was intact and continued. "I know the Americans haven't tried anything like this before; this little foray is just a test to see if a renewed, full-scale daylight offensive is practical." Now for the clincher: an appeal to their pride. "The 504th has been chosen because we have the highest success rate and the lowest attrition rate around, and they're counting on us to keep those records intact." Pause. "I told the General that we wouldn't have any trouble with that."
A long silence. Then heads nodding slowly around the room. Hogan said, "Reeve, O'Malley, Walker, Downey. You four will have to meet with me after we break up for details. The rest of you, Group Captain Roberts will be briefing you himself about tonight's offensive at fifteen hundred hours. I expect I'll be tied up around that time." Small, almost nervous laughter. "Any questions?" Hogan held his breath, hoping there would be none. There weren't. "Dismissed."
Hogan couldn't help feeling like he'd just handed down a sentence of execution for the nine hundred men who would be heading out that day.
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"So that's what it was all about," Bailey said to Hogan about two hours later. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You know why," Hogan answered, fishing through his footlocker. "I'm not allowed to discuss sensitive military issues, remember?"
"But gee, Papa, daytime bombing? Without fighter escort? Why don't they just line us up and shoot us?"
Hogan shook his head, still concentrating on his locker. "It might not be that bad," he replied.
"No?" Bailey's voice was disbelieving.
"No. The Krauts won't expect a daylight raid, and by the time they scramble, we'll have dropped our loads and taken off."
"Well that might work once, but what about the second time, and the third, and the fourth?"
"We'll just have to see what happens."
Bailey shook his head and sat down on Hogan's bunk. "You don't like it, do you," he said.
It wasn't a question. Hogan knew that Bailey could read his thoughts almost as easily as his own. He paused in his search and sighed. "No," he admitted. "I don't like it."
"You telling Roberts?"
"I have. But orders are orders, and he and I both follow them. And so do you."
Bailey nodded. "Sometimes I think we're idiots, you know that?"
Hogan smiled briefly. "Yep. But that's what war is all about." He shook his head. "I've got some work to do. Meet you and the others as usual?"
"Yeah—a little earlier than normal, but yeah." Bailey got up, ready to gather the crew of Goldilocks for their ritual coffee and bull session in the canteen before heading out on a mission. "Hey, Papa," he said, turning as he got to the door. Hogan looked up from his papers. "It's not your fault. You didn't ask to send us out there today."
Hogan paused then nodded slowly. Bailey—christened Hogan's "Baby Bear." Somehow he always knew. "Thanks. See you in an hour."
"Sure. In an hour."
Hogan sat down on his bunk and looked down at the half-written letter in his hands. He reread what he had already composed, then crumpled it up and tossed it in his locker. Then he started again. He struggled to find the words, but reminded himself that he might not have another chance if things went wrong today. July 5, 1942. Dear Mom and Dad, In case I never get to tell you in person, I want you to know how proud I am of my men….