16th September 1950.
Colonel Robert E. Hogan crossed out another day on his calendar. It had become a habit since he had returned from Stalag 13 to count all the days which had passed since then. In the beginning, it had been with a smile, a count of his days in freedom, days without fear, but much too soon this had changed.
Of course he could have done other things, of course he could have stayed in the military, he could have...
There were so many things which he could have, but had not done. He had wanted to go back as fast as possible, go home after all those years. But when he came home, it was not the home he had wanted to go back to. In his dreams, his home had been like it was before the war, a place of warmth and friendliness, a place to be the child he had been.
Still, he could not erase the image of his mothers tear filled eyes, when he opened the front door. She had never believed that he would make it home, she had hoped, prayed but the horror stories about what happened in POW camps had made her lose hope. He could see how the fear of finding a letter with the words: we regret to inform you, had changed his mother. Still, she was happy, so happy to have him back and they had hugged each other for a long, long time.
Then, he had believed that everything would return to normal and had stepped into the living room, expecting to find his brothers, but none of them were there. Questioningly, he turned towards his mother, who embraced him and cried onto his shoulder.
It was only then, that the reality crashed down upon him. No one would return home this dqay, no one would come home apart from him.
D- day, they were there. Death-day.
In the months that followed, he saw his mother fall apart. There were no other words to describe this. The loss of both her husband and two of her sons had been to much. In her last months she needed constant care and Hogan stayed with her, even when she did not recognise him any more. She died in 1947, another victim of the war.
From then on, Hogan was alone. In the beginning, he had kept in touch with his men from Stalag 13, but over the years, the contact had ceased. All of them now had their own lives, everyone lived on, continued where they had stopped before the war.
The last time he had seen them had been in 1947, when Allied High Command finally decided to declassify their operation. It had also been the last time, that his mother recognised him and whispered „I´m so proud of you, Rob.".
Heroes, that´s what they had said. They had been the heroes of the war, Hogan´s Heroes. He shook his head in disgust. Never had he wanted to be a hero, he had only done, what seemed necessary at that time and the more he heard the word hero, the more he thought about those he had not saved, those German soldiers who had died because of him and those people in his crew for whom he had had the responsibility, when they set out for that mission over Hamburg.
After the celebrations, for which he had only been grateful, because he could see his men again, he had retired from the military and tried to find a normal job, become a normal person. Now every morning, he saw the tribute he had paid to the war in his dull eyes and the streaks of grey in his hair. His handsome face was lined with the doubts he felt every moment, his mischievous twinkling eyes no longer happy.
Hogan dropped the pen on the nearby table and turned to the book he was reading. War and Peace. A bitter grin hushed over his face.
And you thought that the war hadn´t touched you. I guess now you know better. What has become of you?
He glanced around the room. It was a mess, nobody would doubt that. Clothes were scattered all over the room, books were lying on the ground and yesterday´s evening meal stood untouched on the table.
Why bother to make food when you don´t eat it anyway?
His gaze travelled towards the only items in this room, about which he cared. The photographs of his parents, his brothers and the picture taken by the liberating forces in Stalag 13.
He picked up the last picture and looked for the hundredth time in this week at the faces of the men, with whom he had spent three years of his life in a prison camp.
If someone had told you before the war, that you would long for the time you spent there once you returned home, you would´ve thought that he was nuts.
He looked again at the photograph. This time at himself. A handsome, dark-haired man grinned mischievously at him.
When did you cease to be him?
Glancing at the other pictures in front of him, he realised. That moment in his mothers living room, was where his life had fallen apart. Or had it been even earlier? The moment, he embraced Carter, when they said goodbye in June 1945?
Carter, young Carter, so untouched by the war. That´s what they had been fighting for, to let the Carters in the world trust again.
BOOOOM!
A loud crash echoed through the little village, when the little hut in the garden of one of the houses blew up.
Grinning, the owner of the house looked at the ravage in front of him. He could have known, that this would happen, all his experiments ended this way.
Andrew Carter was still grinning, when he entered the kitchen and washed the dirt of his hands. When the bell rang, he wiped his hands dry and rushed towards the door.
There stood an old woman and Carter grinned at her. This woman, miss Pineapple was part of this everyday routine. Everyday, Carter used to blow up something and she would come and ask him what the noise was about. He would invite her to have a cup of tea and they would talk for hours, about Carters experiments.
Miss Pineapples husband had been a chemist as well. He had died in 1948, when he not only blew up his laboratory, but himself with it. Since then, Carter had taken the task upon him to care for the old woman.
When she left Carter returned to the remains of his garden shed and began to rebuild it roughly. It did not matter that it didn´t look pretty, it would be blown up tomorrow anyway.
With an impish grin on his face, he carried his chemicals into the cellar. Tomorrow would be another day, another day of loud explosions.
He needed those explosions, not only because he liked messing around with chemicals, but also because they reminded him of Stalag 13, of his friends, about whom he still cared deeply.
"And the coin is gone!". Newkirk bowed towards the cheering crowd. After his magic act, he left the building quickly and dropped into his favourite pub.
"Hi Pete!". Newkirk turned his head and grinned. "Hi Alf!".
Alfie the artist was sipping his beer in the dark corner of the pub and Newkirk joined him. "How´s business goin?".
"If I didn´t know better, I´d say it was magic! Never ´ad more people in the audience.". Newkirk grinned.
"Magic fingers still in business?".
Newkirk shook his head. "No need for it. Jus´ magic tricks nothin´else.".
Alfie drowned his glass in one sip. "Seems the war´s been kind to you.".
Absent-mindedly, Newkirk looked into his own glass, thinking of Stalag 13. "You could say so.".
"War hero, hm?".
Newkirk shook his head. "No Alf, no hero, jus´ol´ Newkirk, who had a once over.".
Alfie nodded with a slight smile. "I knew you´d become somethin´ big, my boy, I always knew.".
Newkirk flushed. "What´s so big about havin´ been locked up in a bloody POW camp for three years?".
Alfie waved a warning finger in front of Newkirk. "You know as well as I do, that you´ve done more in that camp of yours than bein´ a POW. Remember, I was there once!".
Newkirk shook his head. "I had a great time, but I don´t want to think about it any more, it´s over.".
Alfie placed his hand upon his shoulder. "No, boy, it´s not over yet, you miss them, I can see.".
"Bonjour cherie!". Louis LeBeau stepped into his house and greeted the big dog that jumped onto his shoulders.
Heidi, the German guard dog had remained with him, as a living reminder of Stalag 13.
LeBeau looked out of the window, over Paris, the city of light. Beautiful she was, although the war was still visible. Streets were missing, some houses not yet rebuilt, but time would rebuild the city, time would mend every wound.
While he changed into his night clothes, Heidi walked around him, impatiently. "Oui cherie, I will get your food any moment, patience!".
After bringing Heidi her food, LeBeau dropped onto his bed. Today had been a long and tiring day, just as every day was. He had opened his own restaurant, shortly after the war and worked from morning until night, cooking, serving meals and after closing hour, cleaning up his place.
He had not had enough money to hire personnel. His only help was Hilda, the Klinks former secretary. After the war, she had volunteered to help him to realise his dreams.
The restaurant gave LeBeau much satisfaction. It kept him busy during the day and he could easily make his living from it. Still, it was not the ultimate gourmet restaurant of which he had dreamed, but maybe with time it would come.
Being one of Papa Bears men had proven a very good advert for his restaurant, which now carried the name "Papa Bear´s Den".
LeBeau smiled as he thought about the special dish, which he had invented soon after the opening of the restaurant. It was called "Menu Stalag 13" and consisted of the various dishes which leBeau had cooked in all the years in Stalag 13. It had proven to be an absolute hit, but nobody actually believed that this was what they had eaten in a POW camp.
Heidi jumped next to him and put her head onto his chest. He put an arm around her. Soon, he fell asleep, the dog curled tightly against him. He smiled in his sleep when Heidi turned into a beautiful woman and told him, that there was nothing she wanted in the world but him.
In New York, Kinch embraced his wife Beth when he came home from work. He also had retired from the army for various reasons. Firstly, he wanted to spend more time together with his wife and kids. But this was not the only reason. He had been the only one of Papa Bears group who stayed in the army after the war, but in 1946, when the myth of Papa Bears operation was still classified, segregation had put an end to his military career.
He could not stand the humiliations any longer. Before the war he had endured them, sometimes even believed that he deserved to be treated like this, but now he could take no more. Papa Bears operation had showed him, that he was worth a lot, that there were people who did not care about the colour of skin.
Kinch had wished that after World War II, when people would see to what evil segregation can lead, the world would stop making a difference between him and someone else, just because of the colour of his skin. His hopes were shattered soon after he came home and he sometimes wondered if he would ever meet someone, besides his wife and kids who could see him just as James Kinchloe and not as either "negro" or "war hero".
The war had taught him that it was not right to stick labels onto someone, just according to someone´s outer appearance. He himself had made the mistake with Carter. He had thought that Carter was nothing more than a blundering boy. A boy, who was too young to understand the real evil of war. Later, Kinchs opinion was prove untrue, when the talented demolitions expert proved his usefulness for their operation and above all an invaluable friend.
Kinch smiled at the thought of Stalag 13. It had been a good time, but life continued. He looked up when a seven year old boy peered into the room, with twinkling eyes. It was his son Robert, who was immediately followed by his younger brother Andy.
"Hi dad!", "Hi dad!". Both boys looked innocently at him. Their faces blank. Kinch knew this look.
"You want me to play football with you again?".
Two broad grins confirmed his suspicion and he looked at his wife. Beth nodded, with a smile and Kinch followed his two sons outside.
Beth looked at his broad shoulders, when he disappeared. He deserved a lot better, she knew. She knew that he was exceptional, but when would the world know, that for being exceptional you could just be James Kinchloe instead of Hogans Heroes.