No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.
----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----
Hogan could have groaned out loud when the back of the truck was opened and the men were ordered in loud, insistent voices out of the vehicle. As it is, he shook his head and shot a meaningful look at Newkirk and let his eyes scan the span of mangled railway line and scatterings of debris. We did all this on purpose, he thought. I wasn't planning to clean any of it up!
The other men disembarked as the guards barked orders at them. One by one, they also looked at the damaged rails, some of them breaking into slow smiles as they realized that they were being asked to help pick up after some Allied sabotage. They might just enjoy this, after all.
Newkirk looked at the sheer amount of damage and grinned even as he shook his head. Cor! What a lovely mess we made here! He glanced over at Hogan and frowned as he saw his commanding officer being herded off to the side by a pair of guards while everyone else, himself included, was directed toward the wreckage and ordered to begin clearing it away.
The Englishman found himself working with a couple of the Frenchmen where they'd been put to work loading the debris into carts. He dumped a large piece of twisted metal into a wagon, and took a look over his shoulder to where Hogan was being guarded. The Colonel was standing ramrod straight, with his arms wrapped tightly over his chest. His drawn face could not disguise his rage. It's just a bit of work, gov'nor; don't let it get to you. We're glad to do this now—at least it means we had the dignity to follow your lead and do the right thing in the mess hall last night.
Hogan watched the men with only occasional glances toward the guard standing beside him. Look at them, he seethed to himself. They had the guts to try and rise above the hand they've been dealt, and this is the reward they get. He looked at Newkirk, trying on his own to lift a long piece of wood and failing. Without thinking, Hogan moved forward to help, but a rifle shoved roughly into his abdomen reminded him that his punishment was to observe. "You stay," the guard said in heavily accented English.
Hogan glared at the guard, then lowered his head in submission. He had to let the Germans have their way; if he didn't, they might make it worse for the others. Still, he would watch carefully. Forcing the prisoners to work was already against the Geneva Convention; forcing them to clean up an act of sabotage, while almost poetic, was hard labor—so many of these men had not eaten well in weeks, possibly months. Newkirk and Hogan had only had to suffer the poor food for a couple of days—thanks to Le Beau there was almost always something nearly tempting on offer—but that kind of eating was only a dream to these men, and they would be weaker, unfit, and in some cases, Hogan thought, watching as a smaller American prisoner seemed to struggle under his burden, stopping to sneeze and wipe his eyes, unwell. Just let me work with them, Hogan begged silently. Don't make me stand here and watch this.
Dropping the end of the railroad tie, Newkirk glared at it in disgust as a French Sergeant came over and pointed to the opposite end. Nodding in reply, Newkirk picked up his end and the Frenchman took the other and started toward the area where the salvageable timbers were being stacked. The Englishman stopped, shook his head and pointed with his chin at the debris cart. The Sergeant looked at the perfectly good tie, and smiled slowly as the two men tossed it into the cart.
The next tie they came to was badly charred along one side, and as the Frenchman bent down to pick up his end, he gave the Englishman a look and nodded toward the stack of good materials. When they'd put that one, charred side down, onto the pile, Newkirk turned to his partner in crime and grinned. "You, um, how does Louis always say it? Oh yeah, compris?"
The Sergeant put his hand to his mouth to stifle the laugh that threatened to burst out at on hearing the Englishman's terrible accent, and nodded in reply. "Oui, je comprends, et j'aime l'idée, l'Anglais." The Frenchman moved off to join one of his countrymen as Newkirk made his way to a small group of Americans, both men already planning how to spread the idea of making even more of a mess for the Germans than there already was.
Hogan watched intently from the sidelines, studying each man as he labored under the heavy burdens in the cool morning and with no equipment to help make their work easier. As a punishment, aside from physical torture, this was about as bad as it got—forcing him to stand idly by while other men paid a price for his own actions. Sure, he had often supervised work details. But not under these conditions, and not without there being some advantage to the men. And never for this reason. These men had acted on Hogan's lead and had reached out to each other; this kind of reprisal could very well stop them from trying again. He hated it, and he wanted to be involved, to take away his own anger, and his own guilt.
Looking again at the guard, who was observing the workers with casual disinterest, Hogan suddenly smiled. He wasn't going to be left behind after all. He forced himself to relax his hands that were gripping his arms tightly enough to cut off circulation, and he flexed his shoulders to ease the tension in them. Then he started rocking back and forth on his toes. He nodded and smiled, then said offhandedly, "Hard work. Too bad they have to do it!"
The guard flicked his eyes toward Hogan but said nothing. Hogan tried again. "Mind if I sit?" he asked, pointing to a tree stump nearby. The guard frowned, not understanding. "No point in everyone slaving away. After all, you and I don't have anything to do!" Hogan laughed lightly and made to sit on the stump.
The guard finally seemed to take in Hogan's meaning. "Nein. Das ist Strafe! Aufstehen!" And he gestured with his rifle for Hogan to stay standing.
Hogan shrugged. "Okay, Fritz. But I can't see how this is such a terrible day for me. At least I don't have to get my hands dirty." He laughed again. "Just like you!"
The guard glared at Hogan and raised his rifle, clearly intending to knock the grin off the American's face. Hogan pulled his head back automatically but did not step away. The guard checked himself mid-swing and lowered the weapon as his glare turned into a malicious grin. "Schweigen! Bekommen Sie das Bewegen!" The German pointed the rifle muzzle at Hogan, then gestured toward the work area. "Gehen Sie dort und Arbeit wie die anderen Hunde!"
If Hogan hadn't been so relieved that his plan worked, he might have taken offense at the way the guard referred to the prisoners as dogs—if he could have let on that he understood German. Raising his arms in a gesture of innocent surrender, Hogan allowed the guard to prod him toward the others with his rifle. He did his best to keep the grin off his face as he protested loudly that he was supposed to be watching, not working, and that this was not going to make Brinkfried very happy.
Newkirk, meanwhile, had found himself up in one of the debris carts, carefully demonstrating to some of his fellow countrymen the fine art of stacking a half load to make it look full. A pair of guards strolled by, causing a couple of the men to freeze up, but Newkirk kept right on working and the Germans ignored him completely. He stepped down from the cart and grinned. "That, mates, is how you pull this off," he whispered. "Keep moving, make yourself look busy, an' they'll pass you by."
Moving past the other Englishmen, Newkirk crouched down to examine another railroad tie when he noticed a pair of hands take hold of the other end. "Right then. You ready on your end, mate?" he asked, not really looking up as he got a grip on the heavy timber.
"I've been ready for half an hour." Hogan grinned as he watched Newkirk's face register surprise, and he sighed in relief at finally being able to do more than watch as others cleaned up for the Germans. He grunted as he lifted the end of the tie, then straightened and nodded toward the cart.
"Why do you want to help the bleedin' Krauts, gov'nor? I think this one's just about perfect for the pile we're savin' out of this mess for them." Newkirk spoke softly, and kept most of the grin off his face, but the light in his green eyes told Hogan that his Englishman was up to something. "It's got a lovely crack running right down the middle that ought to split right in two when they try to drive a spike into it later on."
"Newkirk, you're devious, deceitful, and a general nuisance to have around," Hogan murmured, clearly delighted. "And I'm sure glad you're on our side." He smiled as the two of them moved the piece to the salvage pile. "And for your information, I don't want to help the Krauts—but I sure did want to help you fellas. I couldn't take standing there watching while you worked your tails off on account of me." He shook his head. "Brinkfried knows just how to get to me. And someday, I'd like to get to him."
"Why, Colonel Hogan, that's got to be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Newkirk grinned finally, embarrassment at the high praise from his commanding officer mixing with the pride he felt on hearing it. "Careful there, sir, or I might get the idea that slacking off like this is a good idea. Then the next thing you know," he paused as he got ready to pick up another tie, "I might start doing it on a permanent basis, and then where would you be?"
"Never mind," Hogan answered. "Let's just get this done and get back to Stalag 2. We're both going to need some rest if we're going to make it out of here tonight." He looked around subtly while they worked. "We did a pretty good job," he admitted. "Now let's see if we can't just keep the goons out of action a little longer. Think we can pull this kind of thing off for the rest of the detail?"
Newkirk did his best to look offended. "Take a good look around you, mate. I think you'll see a lot less work going on than you thought there was." He grabbed one end of the tie and started lifting. "Now take up your half and let's put this one on the rubbish cart where it belongs, shall we?"
Hogan nodded respectfully at Newkirk and, smiling, helped him move the nearly perfect railroad tie to the rubbish cart. He was still sore from his going-over at roll call the day before, and his knee was still swollen and very painful, and he was sure Newkirk and some of the other men weren't in the best shape either. Still, the meaning behind the work now sustained him, and the loads felt a bit lighter even as the time passed slowly. He looked around at the other men and saw occasional subdued nods and winks, and he began to accept the circumstances, and was grateful that the others had found purpose in their work as well.
Newkirk was picking up a large piece of scrap metal when a loud metallic groan could be heard coming from the pile of debris. Too far away to do anything, the Englishman could only watch in horror as a section of the tangled metal slid down, landing on a man working nearby. He ran to the scene, immediately joining the dozen or so men of all nationalities who were feverishly pulling the wreckage apart so they could reach the trapped man.
Hogan had also dropped his load and ran when the noise began, and without thinking he immediately reached out and lifted a corner of the metal pressing down on the young, suffering Corporal. "It's okay!" Hogan gasped, trying to comfort the man even as he struggled to pull it away. "It's all right; we'll get you out—you'll be okay." He could feel his muscles rippling as he tried desperately to hold up the wreckage, and he felt the hands of others join his as he thought he had finally made some progress. "You!" Hogan barked at an RAF man close to him. "Grab the other end of this—and you!" He gestured with his chin toward another man who looked at a loss. "Get down there and be ready to pull him out when we get this up—but do it carefully; we don't know how badly he's hurt!"
The men instantly obeyed the orders, never questioning their source or their usefulness. Hogan himself hadn't thought twice before taking command; there was no senior officer to speak of in the camp, at least not one that had presented himself to them as new prisoners, and although Hogan wasn't interested in giving himself away, in a situation like this he couldn't sit by and take a chance that a disorganized effort might not work. Hogan looked down at the youth whose face and one arm were the only things protruding from the pile of debris. The boy was clearly suffering but trying not to cry, and Hogan's heart nearly tore in two. "We'll get you out in a minute," he said softly, suddenly realizing that this was one of the mere children who had made room for the Frenchmen at dinner last night. "You'll be fine," he said, wishing with all his being that he was right.
Hogan suddenly felt himself being jerked away from the wreckage. He lost hold of the metal he was holding, and it fell downwards toward the young man, who cried out when it shifted. Hogan yelled, "No!" and tried to get back to the task. But it was the German who had ordered him to work who was gripping him, and he was pulled away again forcefully, punched in the face, and thrown, stunned, onto the ground away from the scene. "Jetzt ist Ihre Strafe," the guard said with a small smile. Now is your punishment. Hogan turned red with rage. "Bleiben Sie fern, oder ich werde ihn schießen." His gestures were quite clear—Hogan was to stay away, or the injured man would be shot.
Hogan felt a rush of cold run through him, but, still dazed by the blow, he nodded his understanding, and could only watch through blurry vision as the others continued in their attempts to get the boy free. The guard kept his rifle trained on Hogan, as the other Germans kept careful watch on the prisoners but did not stop them from their work.
When the men had the wreckage braced, Newkirk and one of the others crawled in and pulled the injured man clear. "Easy there, lad. You'll be right as rain in no time." When another Englishman came forward and started to examine the Corporal, he got out of the way and looked around for Hogan. Seeing the Colonel on the ground and surrounded by Germans, Newkirk's relief at rescuing the young man gave way to a surge of anger as he headed for his commanding officer.
As one, the Germans raised their rifles and aimed at him. Hogan looked up, clearly still not fully in himself, one hand holding the side of his face near his eye where the guard had struck him, and he shook his head warningly, painfully, but not harboring much hope that the Englishman's obvious anger could be contained.
Newkirk took a few more steps before he realized that the guns were all pointing at him. They didn't have any effect on his anger; it was the look on Hogan's face that brought him to a stop. The Englishman's eyes locked onto the American's, and his shoulders slumped as he nodded slowly and raised his hands in surrender. "You all right there, mate?" he asked quietly.
Hogan closed his eyes and cradled his throbbing face with his hand. "Yeah, yeah," he replied softly. He felt humiliated, hurt, and weary. But he wouldn't give Newkirk's naturally fiery temper any reason to flare, so he raised his head to the Corporal. "How's the boy?" he asked, without anger, or any other emotion.
"Looks like he'll be fine," Newkirk eyed the guards. "If he gets a chance to rest, that is." We'll make sure he does, no matter what these ruddy Krauts say.
"See if they'll take him back to camp," Hogan suggested, still subdued. "He'll need to be checked for internal injuries. The medic can at least give him a going-over."
Newkirk slowly lowered his hands. "Any of you lot speak English?" he asked as he looked over the guards. This would be easier if I just spoke up in German, he thought, knowing that doing so would not be a good idea. "Anyone speak German, then?" he asked the prisoners.
One of the Frenchmen spoke up. "Je parle allemand."
Hogan glanced up. "Can you translate for him?" he asked. The Frenchman looked like he was struggling to understand Hogan's words fully.
"I can speak French," an American piped up. "I can tell him, then he can talk to the Krauts."
Hogan made to answer, but stopped as a throb of pain in his face sent nausea sweeping through him. He lowered his head, then waved a hand toward Newkirk, whom he knew had the right idea already.
Newkirk's hands balled up into fists as he watched his commanding officer. The only reason Hogan wouldn't be back on his feet already would be because something was wrong. The problem was, however, that he couldn't afford to think only of Hogan right now; there was also the injured boy to consider. Is this what the gov'nor goes through when he's tryin' to make a deal with Klink? Having to try and think about everything that's going on all at once like this? Right then. I'm no officer, but I'm gonna have to act like one, at least for now.
The Englishman took a deep breath and let his hands slowly fall open again. He turned to the American and nodded. "Let's get crackin' on this then, shall we? Ask him," Newkirk indicated the Frenchman as he spoke, "to ask the guards to let us take the lad that was hurt back to camp early so the medic can have a go at him."
The men started their jobs while the guards listened, and when the Frenchman made the request, the guard who had been watching Hogan grunted. He looked at the boy who had been freed from the wreckage and was sitting surrounded by concerned prisoners. He turned to the others. "Er verlangsamt die anderen," he said to them. They nodded and considered, then the guard turned back to the prisoners. "Sehr gut. Wir werden den Lastwagen senden."
The translation made it back to the others: they would send the truck since the injured man was diverting the attention of the others.
"See if they'll let Kirkland go with him," Hogan said finally to the French-speaking American. Newkirk looked at him, dumbfounded. "The boy will need someone to explain what happened; it might as well be you. Then you can catch up on your sleep," he said softly to the Englishman.
Newkirk turned to the American half of the translating team, shaking his head. "Hold off on that last bit; it's Dane that needs to go back with him. He's the one that's been getting knocked about here, not me. See if they'll send him with the boy instead."
Hogan's strength seemed to rally just long enough for Newkirk to absorb his commanding officer's unstated order. "It's my punishment," he said through gritted teeth, staring down Newkirk as best he could from the ground. "I have to watch the work party. There are others who need to get some rest." Hogan looked again at the American translator. "Make it Kirkland. He did double duty last night; he's dead on his feet. Don't tell the Krauts that, though, or he'll never be allowed back."
The Englishman's hands started curling again, but the look of anguish on Hogan's face struck Newkirk harder than any physical blow could have done, completely knocking out both his anger and the urge to resist the American's words. He can't actually make it an order, but that's what he wants, and I'm only making matters worse for him if I don't go along. I might mess things up for that boy as well.
All right then, Colonel. You win, but I bloody well don't have to like it! The expression on Newkirk's face left no doubt in anyone's mind how he felt about the whole matter even as he nodded in agreement.
The Germans agreed that one person needed to go with the injured man, and miraculously, they agreed to let Newkirk be the one. Hogan staggered to his feet as the Englishman hopped onto the truck with the boy, and watched as the other prisoners were ordered back to work. At least Newkirk would be in better condition for what was ahead tonight. Hogan hoped this work detail would end soon, so maybe he could go back to camp and have a rest as well. It was turning into tough work, being an ordinary POW, and Hogan wished he could go back to the less stressful work of being in charge of saboteurs and spies very, very soon.