I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story.
This was originally meant to be the introduction for the 2021 SSSWC, but as it hasn't quite achieved its purpose in that respect, I've detached it from the event and reconfigured as a stand-alone story, for better or worse.
"You know, Doyle, I hate to leave a party early."
Colonel Hogan tossed this over his shoulder as he peered through the narrow gap he'd left open a few minutes earlier, when he and his companion had passed through the door from the elegant salon into this small antechamber. As far as he could tell, everyone was having a great time. Countess von Stolzing had invited the cream of Hammelburg society to her soirée, and had taken every care to make sure it went with a swing. The wine and the hors d'oeuvre were excellent and in plentiful supply, and the musical interludes the Countess had arranged had been very well received so far, although that was likely to change, quite soon.
Lieutenant Doyle allowed himself a prim smile as he buttoned his uniform tunic. He'd just finished changing, at express speed, from the borrowed formal wear which he'd been wearing all evening. "If you don't mind, Colonel," he said, "I would rather not stay to listen to the Kommandant and his string quartet."
"Me neither," put in Sergeant Schultz. He still sounded a bit drowsy; he had fallen asleep on his chair, sitting by the little tiled stove while he waited until he could drive Hogan and Doyle back to Stalag 13. He would then return to fetch the Kommandant, who was yet to complete his part in the entertainment.
For a few seconds, Hogan surveyed the assembly. He'd located Klink, still hovering at the edge of the crowd, preparing for his big moment with copious amounts of champagne. The Countess herself was in the centre of the room, with her granddaughter by her side, chatting pleasantly with her guest of honour, the famous maestro Otto Zwitscher. Hogan had absolutely no interest in him; he was more concerned with the man he couldn't find – the Countess's son-in-law, General Beckmesser.
Well, there was nothing to be gained by looking for Beckmesser if he wasn't there. Hogan closed the door, and turned around. "Okay, we better hit the road, guys. We don't want to be out all night."
Schultz grumbled under his breath, and made an attempt to stand up. The two prisoners exchanged looks, and with one accord went to help him, each taking a pudgy arm and heaving the guard out of the chair. "I know I've mentioned this before, Schultz," said Hogan, slightly breathless with the exertion, "but you need to do something about your weight. It's not healthy to be that heavy. One of these days, someone's gonna put his back out, getting you on your feet."
Schultz glared at him: "That's not funny."
"It sure won't be for the guy it happens to." Hogan reached for the latch of the door opposite, which led to a long gallery and the stairs. Before he touched it, however, it swung open.
"Ah, I see I am just in time." General Beckmesser stood in the doorway, regarding Hogan with something akin to triumph in his eye.
The intrusion, though not unexpected, was decidedly unwelcome, but Hogan remained outwardly cheerful: "Hi, General. Kind of you to see us off, but shouldn't you be helping the Countess entertain the guests?"
"They will do very well without me," replied Beckmesser, in a cool, confident tone. "I have something rather more pressing to deal with now. Sergeant, before you take these men back to where they belong, you must search them."
"Of course, I was just going to do it," said Schultz. He paused for thought, then added: "What am I searching for?"
"Are you really so stupid? Your prisoners have had two hours of almost unsupervised access to this house, during which time they could easily have helped themselves to all kinds of valuables. It should be a matter of routine, before they leave this house, to make sure they do not take any contraband with them. So if you please – Wait. On second thoughts, I will do it myself." He waved Schultz back.
Hogan sighed, and held his arms out to allow the general to pat him down. He was aware of Doyle trying to catch his eye, but he didn't respond. He knew perfectly well how this was going to end.
Sure enough, Beckmesser moved on to Doyle. A brief investigation produced what he was looking for. He stepped back, holding up the slim sheaf of paper he had found tucked inside Doyle's tunic.
"Now, I wonder what this might be," he remarked.
Doyle met Hogan's gaze with a degree of apprehension; and in spite of his own outward calm, Hogan felt his gut tighten. He'd weighed up the risks before agreeing to this, but there had always been a chance things could turn ugly, not just for himself, but for Doyle as well.
Maybe we should have kept out of it, he thought, as he cast his mind back to when it had all started, a little over twenty-four hours ago...
"They're playing that song about fleas again."
Newkirk gestured irritably towards the recreation hall, whence issued a lively tune, apparently played on a combination of every musical instrument which could be found within the bounds of the camp, and a few which couldn't. Several tin whistles, an ocarina, a couple of kazoos, a cigar box guitar, improvised percussion, and beneath it all the wheeze of an accordion; there was a whole lot going on there, yet somehow they'd found a common harmony, guided by the sure hand of their conductor. Lieutenant Doyle knew his business, and his business, even in wartime, was music.
"Are you sure you got that right?" asked Carter. "About the fleas, I mean. Doyle says it's a real old country dance."
"Which just goes to show you. Take my word for it, I know fleas when I hear 'em." With the air of an expert in old country dances, not to mention fleas, Newkirk slouched back against the barrack wall and took a drag on his cigarette. "It's even worse than what those tossers in Barracks 7 have been belting out. Something about bananas, but it's in Dutch, so heaven only knows what it's all about."
"I wish they would finish so we can practice our act," said LeBeau. "The show's on Sunday, and we have hardly had any rehearsal."
Kinch glanced at him with a slight grin. "You know the rules, Louis. First we blow up the munitions convoy, then we steal the new German code book, then we get to practice for the camp concert. Anyway, we don't need the rec. hall, we can practice in the barracks."
"Not without the accordion player, we can't," grumbled Newkirk. "And since he's part of every single act on the programme, we can't get him. Whenever we're free, he's busy with the Barracks 7 lot, or with Doyle's orchestra. We should be allowed to claim priority."
They fell silent, as Schultz came into view, progressing in a slow, ponderous rhythm towards the sergeants' mess. They let him pass by, before striking up, in unison, with a soft melody: "Oh, how I hate to get up in the..."
"Jolly jokers," growled Schultz, glaring back at them.
"Just running through one of our concert songs, Schultz," said Kinch. "Sounds pretty good, doesn't it?"
Schultz rumbled incoherently and trudged off. He had been on night patrol for the last week, and his usual good humour wasn't taking kindly to it. He barely glanced at the closed car which had just been admitted at the main gate, and which drew up in front of the Kommandant's office.
The prisoners were more interested. Newkirk sat up straight, and Carter slipped into the barracks to apprise Colonel Hogan, who emerged just in time to see the car's occupants descend: a man in the uniform of an SS general, an old lady carrying herself with the air of an aristocrat, and a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties. There was enough resemblance to assume the two women were related.
"Any ideas, Colonel?" asked Kinch.
Hogan studied the little group thoughtfully. "Not yet. Let's see what happens."
Kommandant Klink came rushing down the steps from his office. He greeted the general with a degree of enthusiasm which was apparently not mutual, bowed to the ladies, and gestured towards the building in a clear invitation.
"We'd better listen in," said Hogan. "Coffee pot in order, Kinch?"
"Yeah, I managed to clean it out, but the next time I find out someone's made coffee in it..." Kinch let the rest of the sentence lie as an unspoken warning, and led the way indoors towards Hogan's quarters.
A few seconds was all it took to set up the coffee pot receiver, which immediately picked up Klink's voice: "...delighted to welcome you to our little Stalag, General Beckmesser. I had a call this morning from my very good friend, General Burkhalter, who asked me to extend every possible – "
"Kommandant," the general interrupted, "I have neither the need nor the desire for your courtesies. I have come here for one reason, to introduce you to Countess von Stolzing, who is the mother of my late wife. The Countess has a proposal to make to you. I do not approve, but she has already spoken to General Burkhalter, and he has assured her of your co-operation."
Clearly, from the vibrato in his response, Klink was slightly awed: "Madame, it will be an honour to assist in any way I can."
"Beckmesser – he's recently been sent back from the Russian Front, right?" asked Hogan.
"Wounded on the battlefield," said Kinch. "They've been taking a pounding up there."
"Anybody heard of Countess von Stolzing?" Hogan glanced at his men as they huddled around the desk.
"No," replied Newkirk, "but if she's got Burkhalter by the short and curlies, she can't be all bad."
The Countess had a particularly clear and cultured voice, with a pleasingly low pitch: "Allow me to explain. You will have heard of Otto Zwitscher, the world-famous conductor? "
Klink uttered a nervous giggle. "Well, of course. Who hasn't heard of Otto Zwitscher?"
"Just so," murmured the Countess. "As it happens, the maestro has come to Hammelburg for a short visit, and has graciously accepted an invitation to attend a small soirée to be held at my villa at Glockenspitz tomorrow evening. Naturally the occasion will include a number of musical items."
"Naturally. Of course."
"My granddaughter has a particularly fine mezzo-soprano. No, don't blush, Leonore, you have a great gift. Leonore has prepared a few very sweet songs for the occasion. Unfortunately, the pianist I engaged as her accompanist has failed us at the last moment, owing to a sudden attack of appendicitis, and we need to find a capable substitute. And this, Colonel Klink, is where you can help us."
"Me?" Klink uttered the word with a glissando which wouldn't have shamed Benny Goodman. It took him a few seconds to bring it under control. "I beg your pardon, madame, but you seem to have been misinformed. I play the violin, I play very well, if I do say so myself. But I'm not a pianist."
"So I have been told. But you have within this camp a particularly capable musician. Leonore and I were in the audience when you allowed some of the prisoners to take part in the recent benefit concert in Hammelburg. Of course, Leonore recognised Lieutenant Doyle at once."
Hogan's eyebrows drew in. He sensed the restless movement amongst his men.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," said Klink. "Is the young lady acquainted with...?"
The young lady answered for herself: "I knew him when we both went to the same music school. In London, years ago, when we were children. But he hasn't changed very much."
"That can't be right," Kinch put in. "I'm pretty sure Doyle never went to any kind of school in London. He was a boarder at a cathedral school somewhere in the north."
Hogan folded his arms, frowning as he turned things over in his mind. "I don't like it. There's more to this than they're letting on. Where's Doyle now?"
"Rehearsing with his penny whistle band in the rec. hall," replied Newkirk. "Shall I fetch him over here?"
"Not yet. Let's hear what else they've got to say." Hogan leaned forward, clasping his hands loosely on the table top as he listened.
"...so, as we have not been able to find a replacement accompanist, we hoped you would be kind enough to allow us to borrow the young man for the evening."
There was a brief silence, before Klink said, somewhat hesitantly: "And General Burkhalter has given permission for this?"
"He made no objection," replied the Countess. "But the final decision, of course, rests with you."
"I see." Once again, Klink paused for thought. "Well, it's a most unusual request. I have every sympathy with you. However, as the Kommandant of the toughest prisoner of war camp in all of Germany, I find a policy of strict adherence to routine is the best way to maintain discipline. I'm sorry, it's quite impossible."
"Oh, dear. This is most disappointing," said the Countess. "I had hoped you might also be able to join us, and perhaps bring your violin. I have heard you lead a string quartet, which would have been a delightful addition to our programme."
"Wow!" The exclamation came from Carter. "How badly does she want Doyle at her party?"
"If she's willing to let Klink and his violin loose on her guests, she really, really wants him," replied Hogan. "And I'd very much like to know why."
The Countess was still speaking. Obviously she hadn't given up: "Perhaps if I approach General Burkhalter again... I have heard he plays the mandolin, which would be a novelty. We should have time to catch him at his office before..."
"On the other hand," Klink broke in, "I've always held that discipline should be tempered with benevolence. I think I could, perhaps, make an exception in this case." The scratching of wood came through, as he pushed back his chair, then the sound of the door opening. "Langenscheidt, come here. I wish to see Lieutenant Doyle at once. Where is he?"
"He is in the recreation hall, Herr Kommandant," replied the guard, "rehearsing with the orchestra for the prisoner's concert."
"Go and get him, and bring him – "
Before Klink finished, he was interrupted by the voice of the girl Leonore: "Oh, please. Can we not go to him? An orchestra, in a prisoner of war camp – how delightful!"
"My dear Leonore," said Beckmesser, "you cannot possibly go amongst the prisoners. It would be far too dangerous."
"Nonsense," snapped the old lady. "What could possibly happen? The Kommandant will be with us, there are plenty of stalwart German guards. Come, Leonore. You, soldier, lead the way."
Hogan straightened up. "Carter, get over to the rec. hall, and tell Doyle he's about to receive callers. We'll try to delay them."
Carter had gone on the word. Hogan headed off after him, but slowed to a saunter as he reached the barracks door. The last thing he wanted right now was to attract suspicion. He took up a position in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the door frame, and proceeded to inspect his fingernails.
There was no music coming from the rec. hall. "LeBeau," murmured Hogan, "go after Carter, and tell those guys to start playing something. Anything at all. Kinch, you got that baseball with you? How about you and Newkirk get some pitching practice?"
Klink and his visitors were already at the steps of the office. Beckmesser descended first, and turned to offer his hand to the Countess. She ignored him, accepting Langenscheidt's help instead. Leonore skipped down and put her hand through her grandmother's arm, leaving the two officers to follow.
Moving out towards the centre of the yard, Kinch wound up and pitched the ball to Newkirk, who fielded it neatly, and returned it with a slow overhand delivery.
"We're not playing cricket, buddy," observed Kinch, tossing it back.
Newkirk smirked as he caught it. "You play your ball game, and I'll play mine. Now watch out, I'm sending down a googly."
He stepped back to give himself a short run up, and once again bowled overhand. The ball hit the ground a few feet in front of Kinch, broke to the left and hurtled away to intercept the progress of the Countess and her entourage. It wasn't a cricket ball, but it was still a formidable missile.
"Newkirk! Kinch! What have I told you?" Hogan strode forward, set on forestalling any potential explosion from either Klink or Beckmesser. "You're gonna hurt someone one of these days. I'm sorry, ma'am. They didn't do it on purpose."
Klink uttered a low, anguished noise, like a trodden-on bagpipe. "Hogan, how dare you? Countess, are you all right?"
Newkirk and Kinch were already engaged on a duet of self-exculpation and mutual blame-sharing, but Hogan cut them off without mercy: "No, don't make excuses. You should be ashamed of yourself, when we've got visitors. Go back to the barracks."
"The barracks?" thundered Klink. "It'll be the cooler. Ninety days."
"Oh, come on, Kommandant. That's a bit harsh." Hogan allowed his tone to modulate into plaintive notes. He'd expected no less, but for the sake of appearances he had to offer some kind of protest.
Klink swelled up, but before he could explode, intercession came from an unexpected quarter. The Countess had stepped between him and the two delinquents. "Colonel Klink, if I may, I will ask you to show leniency. No harm has been done, and I do not wish to be the cause of any resentment amongst the other prisoners."
Before the Kommandant could respond, Hogan took the initiative: "Say, thanks, ma'am, that's real kind of you. Kommandant, I can promise you, it won't ever happen again. You two, into the barracks, and write out a hundred times, I will not bowl googlies in the prison yard."
"But I didn't..." Kinch began, but wilted beautifully at the look Hogan gave him, and finished up, quite meekly: "Yes, Colonel."
He followed Newkirk back into the hut, and Hogan turned back to the Countess, who was receiving Klink's grovelling apologies with remarkable fortitude. Beckmesser, who might have been expected to show some solicitude, stood back, observing with narrowed eyes. Clearly there was no love lost there.
Cutting in front of Klink, Hogan gave the lady a smile. "Thanks for being so understanding, ma'am. They just didn't think. You know what boys are like. I hope they didn't give you too much of a fright."
"Not at all, Colonel...?" She finished on a gentle interrogatory note.
"Hogan, ma'am. Senior officer of the prisoners of war."
"It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is von Stolzing – ah, listen. The musicians are playing."
She started forward with Leonore. Klink tried to catch up, but Hogan got there first. "That's our camp orchestra, ma'am. Are you keen on music? Then you're gonna love this."
By intent he kept his tone light and chatty, but inwardly he was furious. When he'd sent LeBeau off to get the band playing, he hadn't thought to put any caveat on Doyle's choice of music, because he hadn't known this particular piece was in the repertoire. Considering the limitations imposed by the range of instruments, it sounded surprisingly good, but that wasn't the point
The Kommandant probably wouldn't realise the significance of the work, and the grand old lady might not care. But Beckmesser had been wounded on the Eastern Front. If he took offence at being greeted by that great anthem of Russian military success, the 1812 Overture – well, who knew what might happen?
Lieutenant Doyle has appeared in some of my previous stories.
