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 is just a little speculation of mine, based on an incident from "Operation Briefcase" (Season 2).
Cover image: Koloman Moser (1868-1918), from "Picture book for the niece of Ditha Mautner von Markhof".
"Request permission to speak, sir."
Colonel Hogan, standing at the window of his office, gazing out towards the woods outside the barbed wire, looked over his shoulder. "That's a pretty formal-sounding request, Carter. You got something on your mind?"
"Yes, sir. It's about the plan for tonight, sir," said Carter, standing very correctly at attention. He'd adopted what he hoped was a convincing military bearing, to hide the real reason for the anxiety which was simmering in the pit of his stomach; but the colonel wasn't easy to fool.
"Okay, let's hear it." Hogan sat down on the stool in front of the desk, with the air of a man prepared to hear out a case before comprehensively demolishing it.
Carter cleared his throat. "Well, sir, I know this is a very important assignment. I mean, helping the guys who are trying to knock off Hitler, that's about as big as it gets. And I've given your plan a lot of thought, and I gotta say, for the most part, it's pretty clever."
"I'm glad you approve," observed Hogan. "So what's the part you don't like?"
The amused undertone in his voice and the hint of laughter in his eyes were just enough to throw Carter off balance, and he immediately abandoned his carefully rehearsed script: "Oh, no, sir, I like the whole plan. I think it's great. It's just – well, you know the bit where I have to keep the goon out front of Klink's quarters busy, while Kinch and LeBeau are up on the roof?" He paused, but received no response other than a slight elevation of the colonel's eyebrows; so he stumbled on: "Well, I was wondering if maybe it would work better if me and LeBeau switched jobs."
"Why do you think that would be a good idea?" asked Hogan.
"W-well... because... well, because what happens if LeBeau falls off the roof?
"Pretty much the same as what would happen if you did. Only worse, because you're bigger and heavier than he is. Which also makes it more likely that Kinch wouldn't be able to hold on to you, or that he'd do himself an injury trying. I don't really want to risk that, do you?"
"Yes...I mean – no, I don't mean...well..."
Hogan was still smiling, but his eyes had narrowed slightly. "Is there anything else you want to talk about?"
"N-no, sir." Carter could fee his face burning. He could put one over on almost anyone, but never on Colonel Hogan. Hastily, he stumbled into speech: "Well, I better go and... I mean, there's some things I gotta... well, you know, sir..."
He trailed off, miserably aware of how dumb he sounded, and Hogan took pity on him: "Dismissed, Carter."
No need to tell him twice. Carter gave a fast half-salute and got out of there.
"What's up, Andrew?" Newkirk, lounging on his bunk, propped himself up on his elbow and turned a severe eye on his mate. "It's not like you to come out of a talking-to from the colonel looking like you've been dropped on from a great height. What kind of mischief have you been getting into?"
"And why weren't we invited?" added LeBeau. He kept his eyes on the shirt he was mending, but his apparent gravity was betrayed by the flickering of his dimples.
"Nothing," Carter snapped back. "At least, nothing as bad as some of you guys have done."
He bolted from the barracks, ignoring the laughter. Just before the door slammed behind him, he heard a chortle from Newkirk: "Blimey, he's in a real mood, isn't he?"
There weren't many places in Stalag 13 where a guy could hope to be left alone. Carter made a beeline for the laundry area behind Barracks 6, and found it deserted. He sat down on one of the benches, landing hard enough to make it creak; slouched back against the wall, stretched out his legs and scowled at the nearest washtub.
I can't do it, he thought. But it looked like he didn't have a choice.
If only he could have explained what the real problem was. Why couldn't he just spill the beans and be done with it?
Well, he knew the answer to that one. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the look on Colonel Hogan's face, the raised eyebrow and lurking grin; let alone the fun LeBeau and Newkirk would get out of it if they ever found out.
"Hey, Carter."
Carter's eyes flew open. "Hi, Jacobs. Boy, I didn't even notice you were here."
"You look like you've got worries." Jacobs was sitting on the other end of the bench. He had a smile on his face, but somehow Carter didn't mind that. He and Jacobs were buddies, even though they weren't in the same barracks.
"Yeah, you could say that."
"Anything I can help with?"
"Uh... " Carter hesitated. He wasn't supposed to discuss assignments with outsiders. But he had to talk to someone, and if there was a safe pair of ears, it had to be Jacobs. "I can't tell you the whole deal. But I gotta distract one of the guards tonight, and Colonel Hogan says I gotta pretend to be looking for my... my pet... my pet m-mouse." He finished in a rush.
"What's so bad about that?" asked Jacobs after a few seconds. "You've had worse jobs than that."
"The thing is..." Once again, Carter wavered. He glanced through his eyelashes at Jacobs. "The thing is... I don't like mice."
He saw no signs of amusement on Jacobs' face, and drew a deep breath. "I mean, I really don't like mice. See, when I was a kid, we used to go stay on my grandpa's farm in the summer. And there was this one time, they had what I guess you'd call a plague. There were millions of them. Every time you went outside, they'd be running round all over the yard, and if you went into the barn, boy, it was like the whole floor was moving."
"That sounds pretty bad," observed Jacobs.
"It got even worse than that. They got in the house, and that just drove my grandma crazy, 'cause she was really house proud. A couple of times, when I went to bed, the mice had gotten there first. So we'd sleep on the couch, all in one room, with one eye open in case... well, I guess I ended up with a kind of hang-up about it."
"I bet you did," murmured Jacobs. "Anyone would." He paused for a moment, considering. "Why don't you just tell Colonel Hogan?"
"I can't. What's he gonna think? What kind of a goof is scared of mice?"
"Lots of folk are, and it sounds like you've got a real good reason."
"Anyway," Carter went on, "he's depending on me. All the other guys have their own stuff to do, so there ain't nobody else who can do it. If I let him down… well, I just can't. Not this time."
Jacobs didn't ask why this time mattered so much. That was the good thing about him. He never asked. After a brief pause, however, he asked something else: "So, when you were a kid, what kind of pets did you have?"
"Oh, you know, all the usual ones – dogs, cats, tadpoles, stick insects… We used to bring all kinds of stray animals home. My mom used to get so mad at us. She said four kids was enough of a zoo for anyone. But she always came round."
"What was your favourite?"
"Gosh, I don't know, they were all – you know what? One time, when I was on my way home from school, I found a tiny little black kitten, stuck up a tree. Well, I couldn't leave him there, could I? So I got him down, and brought him home. I thought my mom was going to have a conniption. But she let me keep him. She got real fond of him after a bit. He's still going strong, although he's getting old."
"What's his name?" asked Jacobs. "No, don't tell me. Black kitten – you called him Felix, right?"
"How'd you know that?"
"Lucky guess." Jacobs' eyes were gleaming. "I've got an idea. Instead of a mouse, you could pretend you were looking for Felix."
"That won't work. All the guards know we're not supposed to keep pets. I can get away with a – a mouse, but no way could I say I had a cat or a dog.
"No, but you could say mouse, but think Felix." Jacobs leaned forward. "That would make it easier, wouldn't it?"
Carter opened his mouth to reject the suggestion, then closed it again. His mind was full of memories of Felix; a tiny dot of a black kitten, sitting in the fork of a tree wailing at the top of a surprisingly strong voice, and batting ferociously at his rescuer's hand with all his claws out; later, half-grown and lanky, stirring up the neighbour's Dobermann before racing to the safety of Andrew's shoulder; then, years afterwards, a determined black shadow, a little slower and stiffer than in younger days, following Andrew's every step as if he knew that his best pal was about to leave for basic training.
I couldn't ever be scared of Felix, thought Carter.
He turned to thank Jacobs; but Jacobs, having completed his own, self-appointed mission, had slipped away.
The camp lay in darkness, although a few streaks of light could be seen between the poorly fitted boards of the various barracks, where the prisoners were making the most of the remaining time before lights out. From Barracks 2 came a clamour of voices, the most prominent being those of the English corporal, who seemed to be running some kind of game, and Sergeant Schultz, who was obviously losing. This was usual, and the other guards, scattered across the compound, didn't pay any attention. Nor did they notice when the door of that barracks opened, and three figures slipped out. Two of them raced across to the Kommandantur; the third ambled out into the middle of the yard, where he stood peering around, just as if he had every right to be there at this time of night.
"Felix," he called softly. "Hey, Felix, where are you, boy?"
The next moment, his arm was seized in a strong grip. "What are you doing?"
Instantly, Carter slipped into the persona best suited to this situation; friendly, well-meaning, not too bright. "Guten Abend."
"What are you doing out of the barracks?" growled the guard. It was Harz, one of the newer goons; the prisoners hadn't had much to do with him yet.
"I'm looking for Felix." Carter crouched low to the ground, ignoring the rifle which was uncomfortably close to his right ear.
Harz uttered an interrogative grunt.
"Felix. My pet mouse." There, he'd gotten it out. Now all he had to do was stick to what Jacobs had suggested – forget about mice, and just think about Felix, back home. "Everybody knows Felix. He's about this big... he has a nice little smile..."
Harz wasn't having any of it. "Get back into the barracks," he snapped, "or I will report you."
Out of the corner of his eye, Carter could see Kinch and LeBeau sneaking along the wall towards the Kommandant's quarters. Whatever it took, he had to keep Harz from noticing them.
"And leave Felix out here alone? There are dogs roaming around - "
Even as he said it, he knew he'd slipped up. He'd been thinking too much about Felix; the real, live Felix, who was too old now to run away from the dogs and scramble up to the safe haven of Andrew's shoulder. But he managed to recover, without missing a beat: " - and they double as cats in wartime."
"Into the barracks," said Harz again; but he sounded more exasperated than threatening. Some of the goons would have run Carter in by now. Maybe Harz had a heart, after all; and if he had such a thing, Carter knew how to get to it.
"Are you married?" he asked. "Got any children? Then you know how I feel."
It was too dark to see Harz's expression, but the grip on Carter's arm loosened.
Kinch and LeBeau must be on the roof by now; but the danger wasn't over. Harz might still see them, if he returned to his beat. Carter had to keep him distracted a bit longer. His voice took on a pleading note: "Be a pal, let me use your flashlight for a minute."
Harz glanced from side to side to make sure nobody was watching; then drew the big flashlight from his belt and handed it over.
"Thanks," said Carter, sounding almost as surprised as he felt. He crouched again, turning the light on. "Here, Felix... here, fella... boy, isn't it just like a mouse?" It was getting easier. "Do your kids come when you call them?"
Harz gave a soft grunt. "Sometimes they want to stay outside and play. You know what children are like."
"I don't have any children of my own, only Felix... is that him? No, I guess it's just a piece of paper. I wonder where he's got to? He's always getting into things."
"Ah, like my boy, Emil." To Carter's astonishment, Harz had got down on his hands and knees to help with the search. "He likes to go in search of – of – Wie sagt man Abenteuer?"
"Adventures. Yep, that's just like Felix." Carter let the flashlight beam rest on Harz's face for a moment. "How old is Emil?"
"He is almost ten. I have requested a pass to be there for his birthday. Last year I was at the front, so I missed it..." Harz's voice faltered a little, then he pulled himself together. "And my little girl, Johanna, she's already seven years old."
Carter felt the stirrings of sympathy, which he tried to suppress. It was always uncomfortable whenever he realised that the Krauts had lives and families outside of Stalag 13. "That's nice," he murmured. "I don't know how old Felix is. Come to think of it..."
He kept talking, without really listening to himself, taking a surreptitious look over his shoulder towards the roof of the Kommandantur. How much longer were those guys going to be up there? If any of the other guards caught the pair of them, crawling around in the dust in the middle of camp, it would mean the cooler for Carter, and at the very least Harz would lose his precious leave, and miss another birthday with his boy. At the worst, it would be back to combat service for him.
With that thought, Carter made up his mind. He got to his feet. "Well, I give up. It looks like Felix just doesn't want to come in."
"Maybe we should keep looking," suggested Harz, sitting back on his heels.
"We could keep looking all night, but it's a big camp, and he's only a mouse. And I don't want you to get into trouble. It was real nice of you to help, but I guess he'll show up when he feels like it. At least – say, that ain't him, is it?"
He quickly pointed away from the Kommandantur. He'd just spotted Kinch lurking in the shadows, waiting for a chance to sprint back to the barracks. LeBeau was probably right behind him.
Harz gazed in the direction Carter had indicated. "I don't see anything."
"Are you sure? Just over there, under the water tower... No, I guess not. Must have been another scrap of paper. We really ought to clean up around here." Carter turned back, just in time to see the barracks door close behind his buddies. "Well, I guess I'd better get back inside. Thanks for everything, and say happy birthday to Emil for me."
Trying not to look like he was running away, he went back to the barracks, leaving the guard staring after him.
By the following evening, Carter had almost forgotten all about it.
To be fair, it had been a really busy day. Hogan and his men had been feeling pretty relaxed at morning roll call; after all, their role in this operation was over. But that had changed as soon as they'd realised that the German general who had just left camp to carry out his part wasn't going to get very far before meeting a sudden, explosive end. It had taken some quick thinking, and a hastily devised escape and recapture, to prevent the disaster. So it was no surprise that Carter's conversation with Harz had receded in his mind. That was just what happened, once a mission was complete. They put it aside and moved on to the next thing.
All the same, there was one thing about this operation that had the prisoners on tenterhooks. Every man in Barracks 2, involved or otherwise, wanted to know whether General Stauffen had succeeded in the mission which they'd helped him to set up. So when the Kommandant called an evening assembly, for once they paid attention.
"Prisoners of Stalag 13," he began, "some of you may be aware that earlier today there was an attempt on the Führer's life." Of course they were. Even if they hadn't had a hand in it, Klink himself had let it slip when he heard of it.
"I am happy to tell you," Klink went on, "that our glorious leader escaped injury."
"Can't win 'em all."
The response came from the back row, but the man's heart wasn't in it. Klink chose to ignore it, and continued his address. "As for the traitors responsible, you can rest assured they will be rounded up and dealt with. Dismissed!"
He turned on his heel, and strode back to his office, while an excited hubbub broke out amongst the prisoners.
"Well, for Pete's sakes, what a let-down!" Carter exploded. "After all we did - !"
"Keep it down, dummy," Kinch growled. "You want the guards to hear?"
"Okay, men, settle down," said Hogan. "Yeah, I know, it's disappointing, but better luck next time. Assuming Stauffen and his pals survive, that is."
The men sobered at his tone, and started drifting off back to the barracks, still discussing but in more subdued tones. But as Carter tailed onto the back of the group, a surreptitious whisper reached him: "He! warte mal!"
He turned around. For a few panicky seconds he wondered why one of the guards had stopped him. Then he realised it wasn't just any old goon.
"Hi, Harz," he said, trying to sound casual. "How's it going?"
He sensed that Hogan had stopped in the doorway of the barracks, and was watching him. Harz glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure nobody else was listening, before putting his hand carefully in his pocket and drawing something out. Something small, grey and furry, with whiskers and bright black eyes.
"I found Felix for you," he said.
His face was beaming with friendly benevolence, as he held out his tiny surprise.
Oh, boy, thought Carter. What am I gonna do now?
Notes:
You can make up your own minds as to what Carter is actually going to do.
The July 20 assassination attempt, on which this episode is based, did indeed end very badly, for a lot of people.
