Summary: Saunders learns a little more about Hogan and his secret operation.

Acknowledgement: See Part 1.

Note: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "Dialogue."

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Copyright: December 2005

Escape to Stalag 13

By Syl Francis

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0531hrs local

Tunnel Under Barracks 2

LuftStalag 13

Saunders stood a moment longer looking up at the trapdoor through which the colonel had disappeared. What had Sergeant Kinchloe called him? Colonel Hogan?

"Well, Colonel Hogan," Saunders muttered, "I don't know what's going on, but I intend to find out." With those words, the veteran infantry sergeant began taking stock of his surroundings.

His initial cursory glance around the place left him in open-mouthed awe. He stood in the midst of a vast, labyrinthine network of underground tunnels. No claustrophobic crawlspace here. From where he stood, he could see that building this underground complex had taken a feat of superior engineering. How prisoners of war--and Saunders had already surmised that his 'captors' were actually captured prisoners themselves--had managed to construct it under the very noses of their captors was beyond his reckoning.

Saunders thought back to his own previous experience as a POW under an SS Captain named Steiner. The prisoners had started a fake tunnel to throw their captors off their real scheme, which involved electrifying the outer gate. Although they never had any intention to actually use the tunnel, the little that they had excavated--no more than ten feet straight down--had taken most of the strength that his men had left.

Of course, they had had only their bare hands and crude tools with which to dig. Looking around once more, he shook his head in utter amazement.

Also, Saunders had to wonder at the improbability of POWs that seemingly had free reign to come and go as they pleased, while running around the woods dressed up like commandos on a secret raid. What had he gotten himself into? Who were these guys?

And who exactly was Colonel Hogan?

Saunders shook himself. He did not know how much time he had before the others got back, and he intended to find out as much as he could prior to their return.

Spotting a radio, Saunders started there. He found parts manuals and a notebook with notations written in a neat hand. Flipping through it, he soon put it back. It was written in an indecipherable code.

"Greek to me," he muttered.

With a shrug, he continued his inspection. Soon, Saunders came to a series of vertical metal lockers with double-doors. One set held German uniforms of various ranks--from private to general. It also held civilian clothing, more specifically women's clothes. One outfit in particular caught his attention: A bright red skirt, lovely peasant blouse and rough-spun shawl.

Did Hogan and his men actually disguise themselves as women at times? Trying to picture the Schmeisser-wielding, stone-faced men he had seen back in the farmhouse dressed in drag, Saunders shook head. "Nah...could never happen," he muttered.

Next to the uniform locker stood another with doors slightly ajar. Naturally, Saunders took it to mean that it was an open invitation to investigate the contents. Yanking the doors open, Saunders stared for a moment; the next instant, his face lit in a pleased smile. He had found their weapons locker.

"How very careless of you, Colonel Hogan," he murmured. "Didn't they teach you better in officer training one-oh-one?"

Hurriedly rummaging through the locker, he made an unexpected discovery--a Thompson. He quickly checked its operation, expertly running it through the weapon's maintenance and safety checks. Finally, he pointed it down one of the several tunnels that branched off into the darkness and dry fired.

It was in perfect condition. He took a moment to run his hands almost lovingly down its stock, enjoying the feel of the well-oiled wood. At last, slinging it over his shoulder, he went down on his knees and searched the many ammo cases at the base of the locker for .45 caliber rounds.

Scrounging up a few ammo magazines, Saunders slapped one into the weapon and stuffed the rest inside his shirt. Feeling fully dressed for the first time in several days, Saunders took another look around the underground complex before his eyes moved of their own free will toward the trapdoor above the ladder.

Making up his mind, Saunders moved quickly toward it and was soon cracking open the trapdoor at the top. Taking a cautious peek, Saunders' face quirked in a 'now what?' expression. The trapdoor was cleverly camouflaged as part of one of the bunks. "First, a tree stump that opens into the tunnels, and now a bunk bed that serves the same function. These guys are full of surprises."

Carefully climbing out, Saunders held the tommygun at ready as he slowly inspected the 'upstairs lounge' as Colonel Hogan had described it. There were several double-tiered bunks lined along both walls of the building. In the center stood an old-fashioned wood burning stove and a beat up table. From the center pole hung a lit oil lamp that barely managed to pierce the gloom.

The bunks were in a state of disarray, probably due to the scramble to make their morning roll call. The walls, floors, and windows had a film of dingy gray from numerous washings with dirty water. A dim light was trying to break through the windows' grimy outer layer.

"Drab and depressing," he assessed.

He saw a door clearly marked 'Exit' and cautiously opened it a crack. Peering out, he saw a large, ragtag formation of men in the uniforms of different Allied armies. They were not exactly standing sharply at attention, he noted. In fact, several were yelling catcalls at the German guards, while others laughed at their friends' antics.

Spotting Hogan at the head of the prisoner formation, thumbs hooked inside the pockets of his leather jacket, looking the very picture of casual disrespect, Saunders surmised from whom the other prisoners were taking their cue.

Closing the door, Saunders crossed the open barracks to a closed door located at the far end. He grinned suddenly when he saw that it had been marked 'Private.' Smirking, he did not have any trouble visualizing Colonel Hogan hanging a 'do not disturb' sign outside his door in a POW camp.

"That probably went over well with the Krauts."

Trying the doorknob, he found it unlocked and pushed it open. In a well-practiced move, he stepped quickly to the left to avoid silhouetting himself against the door. He blinked in the sudden darkness. The tiny room's only window was shuttered close, its only source of light whatever seeped in from the main room.

Saunders took a moment to let his eyes adjust before moving. He made out a small field desk with a coffeepot sitting on top, a straight back chair, a metal vertical locker and twin bunks. Within minutes his search of the desk and locker had yielded nothing, except ordinary items one would expect to find.

The desk had a neat stack of paper and pencils on the upper left-hand corner. A dog-eared copy of Shakespeare's Tragedieslay opened to HamletPicking it up, he read a passage that had been underlined.

"'This above all...To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.'" Curious, he read a couple more underlined passages then with a thoughtful expression lay the book back down in its original place.

He picked up and then put back down a common, metal coffeepot that sat on the table, awaiting its next job. He wondered why the colonel kept the empty coffeepot on his desk rather than on the stove in the other room but shrugged, figuring rank had its quirks as well as its privileges.

At that moment, he heard the door in the next room slam open, followed by the sound of men's raised voices as the barracks' occupants returned to their quarters.

Holding the Thompson at the ready, Saunders leaned against the locker and waited. Colonel Hogan, followed by Sergeant Kinchloe, strode in.

"That was beautiful, Colonel. You sure got to him."

"Kinch, like taking candy from a baby," Hogan said immodestly. "A very large, very ugly baby but--"

He spotted Saunders and halted. More importantly, he saw the Thompson that the sergeant was handling quite expertly.

"Okay, gentlemen," Saunders said pleasantly. "Now, it's my turn--hande hoch!"

At his words, both Hogan and his sergeant winced.

"Please, Saunders...stick to English!" Kinchloe griped.

"Yeah, with that accent you could be brought up on war crimes charges," Hogan added.

Saunders gave them a sardonic look. "Okay...English it is. But I'm not the one doing the talking--you are." He emphasized his words by jabbing the muzzle of his weapon at them.

"That's what you think, Blondie!" As he spoke, Kinchloe made a move toward Saunders, but the younger man was ready. Easily shifting the tommygun in his hands, he struck the black NCO in the midsection with the stock of the weapon. Kinchloe grunted, doubling over, his knees folding under him. Before Hogan could react, Saunders already had him covered.

"Sergeant Saunders, y'know you're making it awfully hard for us to want to help you," Hogan protested.

"Look, I don't want to hurt anybody. But unless you prove to me that you're not running some kind of secret Kraut operation here--"

"A Kraut operation!" Kinchloe spat out, struggling to his feet.

"Yeah! I've got eyes, pal! I saw the radio and secret codebook. Plus, I saw the German uniforms--enough for an army--and I've been shot at enough times by German infiltrators to know that I don't trust rats that keep enemy uniforms handy."

"That's ridiculous, Saunders," Kinchloe argued. "Those uniforms are legit--so's we can infiltrate local enemy operations!"

"Yeah, but whose army are you infiltrating?" Saunders countered. "I've seen guys like you who speak perfect English and sound just like the folks back home, but then they turn around and shoot you in the back." He indicated the Thompson in his hands. "And let's not forget the arms locker or that marvel of tunnel engineering downstairs. There is no way that ordinary prisoners of war could've dug that out."

"Colonel," Kinchloe growled, "I say we throw him out on his ear and feed him to the goons." He glared at Saunders. "Listen, you pig-headed dogface, we're the best thing that's ever happened to you, but you're too stupid to see it!"

"Then why don't you enlighten me?" Saunders bit out. The other man was about to reply, but Hogan broke in.

"Kinch, he's right."

"What? Colonel, you can't be serious!" Kinchloe protested. "We can't let him in on the operation. We haven't even verified his identity!" He gave Saunders a sardonic look. "What if he's an infiltrator? I mean with those looks--!"

Saunders took a threatening step forward, but then stopped. He fingered the trigger almost squeezing it. "I oughtta turn this loose on you--!"

Stepping between the two noncoms, Hogan said sharply, "That's enough!" Glaring at Kinchloe, he spoke quietly, passionately. "You're both wrong!" Then turning to Saunders, he added, "And you're both acting like a couple of spoiled kids."

Both men looked momentarily nonplussed, then each stood down and waited for the senior officer to continue. "Saunders, what Kinchloe said is true. We can't reveal the entirety of our operation until we have verified your identity. Will you allow us that much? I mean, before you shoot us?"

When Saunders glanced suspiciously from one to the other, Kinchloe rolled his eyes in frustration.

"Look, pal, you're an NCO," Kinchloe said, "or at least those stripes say you are. Unless they're just decorations on your sleeves, then you know that the colonel can't just show you our operation without first checking to make sure that you are who you say you are." He paused, glaring at the junior noncom. "Besides, we still need to contact the doctor to go pay your wounded friend a house call." At Saunders look of surprise, Kinchloe plunged in for the kill. "Well, what will it be?"

Saunders held the senior noncom's dark eyes until, at last, he slowly lowered the weapon.

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0630hrs local

Tunnel Under Barracks 2

LuftStalag 13

Saunders looked around the large, excavated open space below ground. He still felt amazed at the vast scope of the underground complex. He wondered about the kind of military operation that Hogan and his men were clandestinely involved in, knowing it had to be something big.

However, he would have to wait for any explanations, so he leaned on the table that held the radio transmitter/receiver and watched as Kinchloe expertly encoded the messages he was about to send. As he watched, he recalled the surprises of the past few hours and the more recent scene in Hogan's quarters...

Earlier Saunders had been persuaded to turn the tommygun over to Hogan. As expected, the senior officer had promptly handed it to Kinchloe.

Only after Saunders surrendered his weapon did he realize that the men on the other side of Hogan's door had been waiting for the word to storm it. The men forced the door open in a uniformed avalanche, and Saunders recognized the young man who had introduced himself as Carter as he tumbled inside.

Two others landed on top of him whom Saunders remembered as being the Frenchman LeBeau and RAF corporal Newkirk. Lying in a heap of arms and legs, three pairs of eyes blinked up at their commanding officer, expressions showing varying degrees of embarrassment and annoyance. Several more men crowded just inside the doorway.

"You okay, Colonel?" Carter asked. He smiled uncertainly at his officer.

Hogan and Kinchloe glared down at them, Saunders noting that their eyes narrowing and jaws clenching in identical scowls. Simultaneously, they crossed their arms in similar gestures of annoyance.

"Newkirk, will you get your knee out of my ear?" LeBeau complained. Frowning, he turned and was about to say something further, when he saw Newkirk's look of warning. Slowly, the diminutive Frenchman's eyes followed Newkirk's. Swallowing, he looked up first at Hogan, then at Kinchloe and immediately closed his mouth.

Clearing his throat, Newkirk somehow managed to disentangle himself from the others and came slowly to his feet. "Uh--good to see you're all right there, Guv'nor," he said lamely. Hogan only shook his head in answer. By then LeBeau and Carter had also regained their feet.

Kinchloe looked over their shoulders at the rest of the men. "Okay, guys, break it up! The party's over." The other men slowly shuffled out of the door and back to the main room of the barracks. "You three clowns were a lot of help," Kinchloe grumbled.

"Our pleasure," Carter said with a smile. He gently punched Kinchloe on the arm. "Couldn't let a buddy down, could we?"

Kinchloe stared at Carter, read only genuine sincerity in his eyes, glanced wordlessly at Hogan who winked back in amusement, and then rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah, Carter...you guys were really helpful," Kinchloe muttered.

"You're welcome," Carter said. He beamed at Newkirk and LeBeau who simply shook their heads.

Kinchloe handed the Thompson to Newkirk, who in turn looked like he was about to aim it at Saunders. However, Kinchloe laid a hand on Newkirk's arm and stopped him.

"That's enough, buddy. The colonel wants us to have him checked out." He held Newkirk's eyes steadily. "Why don't you put that thing back where it belongs before Schultz sees it and has a heart attack...?"

Now, Saunders watched, fascinated in spite of himself, as Kinchloe sent a coded signal. He listened to the almost musical beeps of the Teletype key as it tapped out its message in a series of dots and dashes. While Saunders was no novice in radio communications, he had neither felt the need nor desire to learn Morse Code. At the moment, he wished he knew or at least understood it.

Kinchloe quickly tapped out the message to the local Underground that they needed to send a doctor to the farmhouse.

"Message sent and received, Colonel," Kinchloe reported. He turned to Saunders. "They'll let us know your friend's condition as soon as the doctor returns and reports in."

Saunders nodded. "Thanks."

"Okay, Saunders...now it's your turn." Hogan came up beside Saunders and slapped him on the shoulder. "Name, rank, service number, and unit." He paused, shrugged and continued, "Any known birthmarks, how old you were when you had your first kiss, the name of the girl, her current address and phone number, if she has any sisters...you know, important stuff like that."

By the time Hogan was done, Kinchloe was sitting back with an amused smirk on his face. He caught Saunders' bemused expression and shook his head. "You've gotta understand, Saunders...we've been cooped up in this place for more than two years. Sometimes it's hard to remember what a girl looks like, much less how it feels to kiss one."

Hogan's eyes twinkled suddenly. "Speak for yourself, Sergeant! As you well know, I've had my moments." He winked knowingly at Saunders. "The kommandant's secretary is not exactly immune to my charms and has helped us in the past on a few occasions."

Kinchloe gave him a sour look. "Oh, yeah, Colonel, you've charmed her all right. At last count, she's taken us for two pounds of coffee, ten pairs of nylons, five pounds of chocolate, and--"

"Okay, stop already!" Hogan said, holding his hand up. He placed it over his heart and gave Kinchloe a pained expression. "Kinch...you sure know how to hurt a guy." There was a long pause in the conversation, and then both men burst out laughing. Again, Saunders was struck by the easy-going relationship between the colonel and sergeant. "Okay, buddy, get this young man's vitals. I've gotta get back upstairs and recheck those coordinates Tiger sent last week."

"Wilco, Papa Bear." Grinning, Kinchloe gave him a mock salute.

At his words, Saunders stared. "Did you say, 'Papa Bear'?"

The other two went immediately silent. Kinchloe gave him a measured stare. "Yeah...so?"

Saunders shook his head. "No...it couldn't be," he said almost to himself. "It's too fantastic."

Hogan walked up to him. "What's too fantastic, Sergeant?"

Saunders looked into the senior officer's eyes. Gone were all traces of warm-heartedness and good humor. In its place Saunders detected an underlying layer of steel that the man generally kept expertly hidden. It was all beginning to make sense--if anyone could call it that.

Until this moment, Saunders could not put his finger on what made the colonel tick. He was starting to understand.

"During one of the stops the POW train made, I met an airman assigned to the Eighth Air Force. He mentioned some guy, codenamed 'Papa Bear,' whose exploits more closely resembled a comic book hero than a living, breathing human being: Demolitions behind enemy lines, helping downed flyers, other kinds of covert ops." He shrugged. "You know, the kind of heroic stuff that gets passed around and grows until it's more like a myth or legend." He looked at the senior noncom and officer for their reaction. Neither man looked pleased.

"Sounds like you've become famous, Colonel," Kinchloe said sourly.

"Yeah, just what I need," Hogan returned sardonically, "to be famous while I'm trying to run a secret operation."

"Then what they said is true--?" Saunders began.

"What do you mean 'they'?" Kinchloe asked. "I thought you said you spoke to one airman?"

"There was an RAF corporal who joined us and confirmed the airman's story," Saunders explained. "They made it sound as if the story is well known by all the flyboys. And each said that if he should ever escape, he'd try to find his way to 'Papa Bear' who was known to help downed flyers get back to their lines." He paused, shaking his head. "Incidentally, Papa Bear is supposed to operate out of Stalag 13 under the very noses of the Germans."

Grinning, he looked from one to the other. "Can you believe that? They really think that--" Neither Hogan nor Kinchloe were grinning back. Saunders stopped abruptly and closed his eyes. Coming to a sudden realization, he took a deep breath. "And we're currently located underneath a German POW camp, aren't we? And you're running some kind of covert operations out of it, directly under the enemies' noses."

"Sergeant Saunders, meet Papa Bear," Kinchloe said ironically.

"So those fantastic stories are all true," Saunders could not quite keep the awe out of his voice as he looked from one to the other.

"Except the part about being faster than a speeding bullet or more powerful than a locomotive," Kinchloe said.

"Well, now that the sergeant here knows almost everything that there is know about us," Hogan said, "how about he return the favor and tell us a little about himself. Kinch, take care of our young sergeant here." At Kinchloe's nod, the senior officer turned to go. Pausing, he looked back at Saunders, the normal twinkle in his eyes having returned. "By the way, Sergeant Saunders, welcome to Stalag 13. It's a little drab, but we call it home."

End of Part 4