Chapter 3

"This is the weirdest place," Private William Johns muttered as the squad walked around the camp after a fast dinner in the crowded mess hall. "Not like any camp I ever saw."

"So, how many prison camps you see?" Private Dick Church asked.

"They can't all be like this place!" Chet Walton, called Doc by his squad, said.

"No," agreed Guy Halsey. "They're a lot worse." He eyed the walking, talking men inside the fence. "Here — decent uniforms, decent food, most of them in good shape — this could pass for any army base I've been on."

"Johns is still right," Conroy Sands said. "This place is weird. A German colonel who saves our necks by killing his own. An American colonel who asks for his help in protecting the area."

"And those scars on Klink's back," Halsey said.

"Huh?" from the others.

"The Kommandant's back," Halsey said. "Scars, fairly new ones, I think; one looked like it was bleeding slightly."

"Like a whip?" Doc said.

"Something like it," Halsey said.

"Maybe that's why the Kommandant killed the SS guys," said Doc. "Maybe they did that to him."

"Maybe," from the Lieutenant. "But why would they?"

"Hey, I hear music," Johns exclaimed.

"So do I," from Church.

"It's coming from . . . "

A group of men left the building ahead of them. Curious, the American squad opened the door.

It was a recreation hall with several tables — billiards, ping-pong, cards — shelves with games and assorted musical instruments, and a man sitting at an old piano picking out a tune. A few dozen men were inside, including Hogan's men. Spotted by the others, the American squad was greeted and invited in.

Lt. Halsey wandered over to the five lieutenants in the hall.

"I'm J. B. Miller," said one of the Americans. "Steve Patterson, but we call him Pat," another American. "Brian Gayles, if you don't like the food, it's his fault —"

Gayles, the remaining American, snorted loudly.

"Mike Scott — "

"Michael, if you please," he said in a Scottish accent.

"And Francois Laurent," the Frenchman who inclined his head.

"Ian MacGregor's playing pool over there. And the last one," Miller continued, "is Walter Townsend — he's with the RAF. He's got the graveyard shift this week, so he's snoozing now."

"Guy Halsey," introduced himself. "Been here long?"

"Townie and Laurent have been POWs for four years, but they didn't get to this camp until late '42. Mac showed up in late '43. Pat arrived last summer, Scott a couple of months, Gayles last month. I've been here about a year," Miller said. "Flew in with a double agent."

"What happened to him?" Halsey asked.

"The underground took care of him," Miller said.

"And you got stuck here," Halsey said. "Try any escapes?"

"From the toughest camp in Germany?" Miller laughed. "No way." He grinned at Halsey's expression.

Sands had walked over to Hogan's men, watching them play cards.

"Care to sit in, Sergeant?" Newkirk asked.

"Sure." Sands sat down as Kinch made room for him. And started to reach for his wallet.

Baker shook his head. "No money. And can't buy anything with it if we had it."

"Then what do you play with?"

Kinch held up some scraps of paper. "Scrip. Get enough points and you can redeem it in Capt. Martin's commissary. We'll spot you a hundred points."

The cards were dealt.

"Been here long?" Sands asked as he looked at his cards.

"Almost five years," LeBeau said.

"About four years," from Newkirk.

"Andrew and I have been here almost three," Kinch said. "Rich, what? Two years?"

Baker nodded.

"I didn't know we were bombing Germany back in '42," Sands said.

"We weren't. Andrew and I were temporarily attached to the British, observing some of their bombing runs."(1)

"And Hogan?" asked Sands.

"Nearly three and a half years," Kinch answered.

"Wait a minute," Sands said. "We haven't been in the war that long."

"The Colonel was attached to the RAF in 1941; they even gave him a bombing group after they saw him fly," Kinch explained. "That's when he got shot down, November 1941."

Sands asked the same question as Halsey. "Try any escapes?"

"Your bet, Sergeant," from Newkirk.

Church, Johns and Doc didn't learn much either. They were comparing notes in a quiet corner when Hogan and Klink walked in together. A chess game had been set up for the two colonels, a game that attracted a crowd. And a number of side bets. The squad stayed on the side, watching.

"Chummy group," murmured Johns.

"They've been together a long time," Church said. "Can't believe no one's managed to escape this place."

"The Kommandant must have kept an iron hand on them," Johns said. "How many times have I heard that phrase used? 'The toughest camp in Germany'?"

"But they all laugh when they say it," Doc said. "Like it was a joke or something."

"Did hear one thing," Johns said in a low voice. "Hogan wasn't the man put in charge after the camp surrendered. Seems there was another guy who was."

Halsey looked at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir. I talked with one of the men who came in with him. A colonel named Randall was assigned to take over the camp."

"So where is this Randall?" Sands asked.

"Maybe we should find out," Halsey said.

They left the hall together.

They found Randall. In the cooler. A man named Stinky(2) was more than happy to talk to them. A malcontent, Halsey pegged him. A troublemaker too. Didn't like Hogan, didn't seem to like anything. But he told an interesting story. Hogan didn't appreciate being back in the army. Didn't appreciate Randall's discipline. He and Klink had a thing going. That's why no one ever escaped — it was part of Hogan's deal with Klink. And Randall stopped it. Hogan didn't like it, so he had Randall thrown in jail on some trumped up charge.

Stinky caught sight of Captain Mitchell and melted away.

"What do you think, Lieutenant?" Church asked as they walked past the Kommandant's fence and into the shadows of the building.

"It makes sense," Halsey admitted.

"But command went along with it," Johns pointed out. "They left Hogan in charge."

"Maybe they didn't have a choice," Sands said. "The war's still not over. Who really cares what happens in a POW camp in the middle of nowhere? At least for now."

"Makes sense," Church agreed.

Halsey nodded. "I'd like to see this Colonel Randall and hear his side of it."

"That cooler's guarded night and day," Doc pointed out.

"Guards can be distracted," Sands said evenly.

"Company coming," Johns said softly.

The men faded further into the shadows of the building as Hogan and Klink came into view and stopped before the small garden fence.

"Congratulations on winning the game," Klink was saying.

A sound like a snort. "I only won because your mind wasn't on the game," Hogan said.

"No, it wasn't," Klink said. "I imagine Schultz felt the same way whenever I disappeared into the night."

"It wasn't your fault, Wilhelm."

Hogan's use of Klink's first name startled the listening men.

Hogan continued. "In fact, I was thinking what could have happened if you did notice the American squad. Would you have confronted them?"

"Probably not."

"They would have kept on going, maybe running into Schultz. That band of Germans would have found them. And there's a good chance that Schultz and the squad would have been killed, along with anyone else along that road. It wouldn't have been easy to stop those forty men. Lord knows who else would have died. Let's face it, most of my men aren't used to fighting armed battles, never mind the townspeople."

"If you're trying to make me feel better, Robert," Klink said as the hidden men exchanged glances, "it's working."

"Good."

"How's your back?" Hogan asked.

"Healing."

"Good," Hogan said. "That takes care of the physical. What about the mental scars?"

"That may take a little longer. I didn't sleep well last night."

"Randall?" The hostility in Hogan's voice startled the listeners.

"Randall, Reiner, Hochstetter, Haas. They are jumbled together in my dreams."

"Since they all tortured you," Hogan said to the Americans' surprise, "that's not unexpected. By the way, London wants to keep Randall here for now. If you have no objections."

"What about the others?"

"Same thing."

"As long as they are tried."

"They will be. The depositions and the pictures will ensure that."

"Pictures?"

"I took pictures of your back after Randall got through with it." Anger crept into his tone. "Living color pictures."

"I think you hate Randall more than I did," Klink said.

"I do. I nearly killed him after you collapsed."

A soft, "I know."

"And if you died . . . " Hogan began in a shaky voice.

"Frightening, isn't it?" Klink asked. "To realize how easily you can kill without thinking."

"But I was thinking," Hogan said in a stony voice. "I wanted to hurt him as much as he'd hurt you. More. I wanted him dead. That . . . that's the frightening part."

"I know."

"Did you ever want to kill someone like that?" Hogan asked.

"Once," Klink said. "And I almost did. It was during the first war. I came upon a soldier, scarcely older than I, who had raped a farm girl he'd found living in some ruins. When I found them, he was stabbing her to keep her from talking. For the first and only time in my life, I lost all control. I was on him, twisting the knife away and choking the life out of him. By the time I realized what was happening, he was half dead. And the girl was dead." A soft, "I didn't realize how much rage I had bottled up inside me, how much I hated the war, the senseless killing. And I was so sick of it. And myself."

"What happened?" Hogan asked in a hushed voice.

"The village priest found us. He took one look and knew what happened. He was a very compassionate and a very wise man. He let me cry out the fear and rage and we talked for a long time. Then I went back to my command after handing the soldier over to my superiors."

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"What happens all too often," Klink said. "Especially in a war. He was too valuable to imprison for what many men wouldn't even consider a crime."

"But she was dead!"

"He was pleading self-defense," a bitterness invaded Klink's voice. "What an obscene joke! I wished then that I had killed him. And that appalled me even more. I nearly deserted then. I hated the war, what it was doing to me."

"But you didn't," Hogan said. "You stayed."

"I had decided to desert the next day. That night the tunnel wall collapsed on me(3). After a few days in the hospital, I was sent home on leave. As I told you, I had been accepted into the Luftwaffe. In the hospital, I had time to think, to decide what was important to me. And despite my hatred of the war, I wasn't willing to risk the disgust, the possible hatred of my family that deserting would mean. But staying had its own price. I changed after that. I had no delusions left about the war, patriotism. I became less emotional, far less open. That blind rage disappeared, leaving behind an odd contentment. I will admit it has enabled me to survive the past ten years with some sense of, for lack of a better phrase, inner peace."

"I suppose that's something."

Baker's voice sounded. "Colonel, Kommandant. Olsen called. Everyone we requested from Hammelburg will be here by nine tomorrow morning."

"Good," Hogan said. "Thanks, Baker." Hogan looked at Klink as Baker walked away. "Are you sure that's enough time to hear from your contacts?"

"From most of them; they have been keeping an eye on troop movements for weeks."

"It will be interesting tomorrow. Especially with the news about the EAB. Well, have a good night, Kommandant," Hogan said as he started walking away.

"Good night, Colonel." Klink turned into the yard.

Klink disappeared into his quarters and Hogan began walking back to his barracks as the listening men came out of the shadows and went closer to the main gate. Around them, men were leaving the recreation hall and other buildings, returning to the barracks. The guards on the gates and watchtowers were relieved by other German-uniformed men.

Halsey checked his watch. From what Miller had said, it would be lights-out in an hour.

"At least we know why this Randall's in the cooler," Sands said, mulling over the conversation they'd heard.

"Yeah, we did," Halsey said. "But I'd still like to — "

"Connie? Is that — ?" A voice called from their left. "It is you! Connie!"

Conroy Sands turned toward the voice, a voice he hadn't heard since the battles in the Ardennes back in December.

"Willie!" cried Johns. "Willie Miles! We thought you were dead!"

Miles, on crutches, came closer. "And I thought you guys were dead!"

There was a light coming from the building behind them. And now the men could see Miles, thinner than he had been, with a scruffy beard, and, they looked down, his left leg missing below his knee.

"Artillery," Miles answered their unspoken question. "Ours! I woke up bleeding, in shock, surrounded by dead — Americans and Germans — and there was a German medic bending over me. He got me to a first aid station, which evacuated into Germany. I ended up in a hellhole of an SS prison after the doctors removed the remains of my leg, and got dysentery a few weeks before the prison was evacuated to Stalag 13(4). That's when Dr. Bauer took care of me. 'Course, you guys know all about that mess," Miles rushed on. "Were you in the batch of guys that arrived before me? Or were you caught earlier than that? So which barracks are you in? Maybe I can bunk there with you guys; Sgt. Wilson thinks I can leave the infirmary now," he said with a grin. "God! It's good to see you guys! You're lucky you got to stay together; makes it easier to be here if you know someone. After all, there's 2500 guys here!"

Miles stopped for a breath. And his excitement turned to wariness as the men looked at each other and him with some puzzlement. Then . . . "You're 'doc', aren't you?" he said to Walton. "How come . . . I know I was out of it for a long time. But . . . But how come I never seen you in the infirmary? Not working with the other guys or Sgt. Wilson(5) . . . How come . . . You're not prisoners, are you?" Miles finished in a flat voice. "Oh, hell, I shouldn't be talking to you guys!"

"Why not?" Sands asked in a low voice.

"Orders," Miles mumbled. "No talking to outsiders. None. Not until . . . Oh, God!"

"Orders by who?" Halsey snapped; Miles was acting as if he was afraid of something.

"The colonels," Miles managed to say. "Oh, Lord. I'm — "

Captain John Mitchell appeared with a dozen armed men, and surrounded them. "Gentlemen, it appears . . . Miles, isn't it?"

Miles gulped audibly. "Yes, sir."

A faint smile. "So, Wilson finally let you out on your own. Though . . . Do you know these men?"

"Yes, sir. I've know them since D-Day. We were together until the Bulge battles." A quick look at the squad. "I thought they were dead; they thought I was."

"So, you trust them?"

A firm. "Yes, sir."

"Okay. Gentlemen, we need to have a serious chat with you. Miles, you come with us. After our talk with London, they need a character reference."

"What," Halsey began.

Mitchell held up a hand. "Save it for the Colonel. Colonels."

Behind them, they heard the door to the Kommandant's quarters open and close.

"After you, gents," Mitchell said, gesturing to the building. "You too, Miles."

It was a quiet group that went into the small yard and then up to the door.

Inside the building, a grim-faced Hogan and a sober Kommandant waited, along with a far too serious Captain Witton.

"Well . . ." Hogan shook his head, and took the glass of brandy Klink handed him. Mitchell and Witton also poured brandies for themselves.

For the past hour, the American squad had been split apart and questioned relentlessly about the mission that had brought them to the camp. The four privates knew only what Halsey and Sands told them, so they were quickly confined to the kitchen under guard and told to keep quiet. Sgt. Miles, who knew nothing about the mission, told his story to Mitchell and reiterated his trust and confidence in the squad before being banished to the outside porch with a guard. Halsey and Sands had been split up — Sands, Witton and Mitchell to the second bedroom where Sgt. Walter Red Hand, a Lakota from North Dakota(6), waited to take notes. Halsey stayed in the living room with the two colonels and Sgt. James Ivan Kinchloe. Each of them told their story and then found themselves having to retell it as the colonels and the captains switched places to back up what they'd been told.

Now, Sands and Halsey had been reunited and confined to the second bedroom with a guard as the four officers compared notes.

"They're just the lucky messengers," Mitchell said with a grimace. "Make that unlucky."

"Agreed," Witton said, looking over the notes taken by Kinch and Red Hand.

Hogan nodded. "Kinch, get down to the radio, the special one. And send the names they mentioned to Edmondson's aide." He shook his head. "Edmondson and Mason picked a hell of a time to take a trip to DC!"

"Captain Giles Abbott is a competent man," Klink said. "Mason and Edmondson trained him well. He knows what to do."

"You've met him?"

"A couple of years ago." A faint smile. "You thought I went to Paris."

"You're lucky I didn't tag along that time like your other trips to La Belle France!"

"If you did, you would never have returned to Stalag 13."

"What!"

"Or come down with a bad case of food poisoning. I hadn't decided which I would have enjoyed more."

"Thanks!"

A flicker of a smile. "I think it's time," Klink said in a sober voice.

"Yeah. Okay, Mitchell, bring them all in to face the music."

Mitchell nodded and went to get the men.

The five men of the squad came in, along with Miles, with wary expressions, and more than a little anger.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," Hogan said. And grinned. "I'm going to tell you a story about a man named Zorro. Once upon a time . . ."

And the men listened, and listened, and as they did, the wariness, the anger was replaced by incredulity, by disbelief, by bemusement, then a grudging trust, and finally, finally acceptance, and respect for the two men seated before them.

Mitchell and Witton handed the men, still trying to absorb what they'd heard, glasses of brandy.

"And that's it, gentlemen. We notified London of your mission, and didn't think it through completely at first — especially since London didn't tell us about it ahead of time," Hogan finished in a sober voice. "When General Edmondson's office told us they didn't know what we were talking about, we got a mite suspicious."

"We have had incidents when the camp has been infiltrated by SS or Gestapo spies(7)," Klink said in an equally sober voice. "That coupled with the attack by the Germans and London's disavowal of the mission — "

"You thought we were spies," Halsey said in a flat voice.

Klink nodded.

"But we killed some of those men," Johns protested.

"The SS cares little about the lives of others, including their own men. The mission is all that many of them care about."

"Now what, sirs?" Sands asked.

"Kommandant?" Hogan said.

"You gentlemen are our guests, quite likely for the rest of the war, which we all pray will end soon. As for the people who sent you, everyone who knows about the mission from supply clerks to radio technicians to your Colonel Lewis to his superiors will shortly be finding MPs at their sides and taken into custody."

"Couldn't it all be a mistake?" Doc said with some bewilderment.

"You were given Colonel Hogan's name and his radio frequency," Mitchell said. "And they knew that the area is under his control, not Colonel Klink's. We're not talking about a downed flyer or an escapee, not at this point in the war."

"In other words," Witton said, "someone deliberately gave highly classified information to people who had no right to know it."

"It could still be a mistake," Halsey said.

"Mistakes like this can cost lives," Hogan said. "Ours." He drained his glass and stood. "Security's been doubled?" he asked Mitchell.

"Tripled with men sent to the various points that can possibly be accessed or that look out over the Ruhr River and the roads. One whisper of trouble, we arm the camp and send the healthy men out to surround the area."

Hogan turned. "Kommandant?"

"Outside Resistance units were told to keep their eyes open also," Klink said.

A deep breath. "I guess we've done what we can tonight. Red Hand, take our guests to barracks 2, and show them," a faint smile, "the hotel we used for escapees for tonight."

Red Hand smiled faintly. "Yes, sir. If you'll follow me, gentlemen."

"Can I go too, Colonel?" Miles asked. "I always wanted to see the tunnels."

Brows lifted among the American squad.

Hogan looked pointedly at Miles' missing foot.

"I can handle it, sir, with," he had to add, "a little help."

An amused smile from Hogan. "Granted. Good night, gentlemen. See you at six for breakfast — tomorrow's going to be a long day."

With murmured goodbyes, Red Hand, the squad and Miles left, followed by Witton, Mitchell and the guards.

As soon as the door closed, Hogan sank into the chair, and took the brandy Klink proffered. He gulped it down instead of sipping it. "What a day!" A look at Klink who was sitting down at the table instead of the couch. "And I thought life was going to get simpler!"

A flicker of a smile. "Why should it change now?"

"Maybe because the war's ending." A serious look at Klink. "It is ending, right."

"Yes."

"Soon."

A hesitation. "We can hope. That depends on events we have no control of. And people we have no control over."

An annoyed grunt. And Hogan stood. "I'd better get some sleep. You too."

Klink nodded. "After I finalize the personnel list."

"It can wait."

"No. After the meeting with the townspeople, the men who are leaving need to be told."

"How many?"

"At least seventy."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. Besides Gruber, Schultz and Langenscheidt, the corporals are staying, as are the kitchen staff and a few others."

"How many don't you and Schultz trust?"

A hesitation. "At most, a dozen."

Hogan nodded. "At least, we'll have a place to put our surprise Wehrmacht visitors; we can convert one of the guards' barracks into a jail. And once that EAB repairs the airfield, I'm hoping we can get rid of them!"

"The wounded, possibly. I don't think England would take too kindly to accepting our prisoners."

"Maybe not. But do we want them out in a general POW population? After all, they did see you kill those SS men."

"Yes, they did. Another problem to worry about."

"Yeah . . . You really think heads will roll over that unexpected mission?"

"It depends on whose heads, and what they really know. At a minimum, someone had — what is on your propaganda posters? — 'loose lips'(8)? At worst, someone wanted to cause us trouble."

"Just curious, but what would you do?"

"The ones following orders, clerks, technicians and the like, I would send them to the States, after reading them a riot."

A grin. "You mean reading them the riot act."

"Didn't I say that?"

"No, you didn't say that. Others?"

"Worst case — court martial, discharge, prison possibly. Would depend on who and why."

"Yeah." Hogan stood. "I'll get out of your hair, so to speak. Need anything? For your back?"

"Sgt. Wilson reapplied the ointment. I will be fine."

"Then I'll say good night, Wilhelm."

"Good night, Robert."

A grin, and Hogan left, leaving Klink staring at his personnel roster.

ENDNOTES

(1) First US AF raid was 8/17/42 to France; first raid to Germany was 1/27/43, unescorted as fighters couldn't reach Germany and return. The AF overrated the bombers' ability to down German fighters and underestimated the Luftwaffe and flak guarding Germany. Losses on unescorted raids grew so high that the US ended all long-range missions to Germany 10/43. They resumed 2/44 when P-51D fighters, which could fly to Germany, arrived. The first US raid on Berlin was 3/44. And total combat sorties in the ETO went from 63,929 in '43 to 655,289 in '44. (Bowman USAAF Handbook 1939 — 1945 and Hansen Fire and Fury, The Allied Bombing of Germany 1942 – 1945.)

(2) Act Four

(3) Act One, Scene Three: the cave-in.

(4) Act Three

(5) "Operation Briefcase"

(6) Act Four. Mel Hughes: Dress Rehearsal Encore.

(7) "Eight O'Clock and All Is Well" for one.

(8) "Loose lips sink ships!" And were considered very serious. Before D-Day, a general had a too good a time at a restaurant and talked about a big operation. General Eisenhower had him shipped back to the states. He lost his stars and was retired out. It could have been much worse.