Thank you Abracadebra for your assistance with this chapter (and keen eye as well). It is hard editing a decade-old story, especially when yours truly is having issues with typing at the moment!
RAMPS
Chapter Three
April 21, 1945
17:30 hours
Carter, Wilson, and Kinch left the hospital and headed towards the area housing the brass from Allied headquarters in London. As they turned a corner, they spotted a group of high-ranking American and British officers headed their way.
"That must be General Butler," Carter said as he pointed towards an older man in his 50s. The three sped up and presented themselves to the officers.
"General, colonel. I'm Sergeant Carter and this is Sergeant Kinchloe," Carter said, presenting himself to the man with the most stars. "We're from Colonel Hogan's staff. And this is Sergeant Wilson, our medic."
"General Butler," the older man said, returning the salutes.
"Sergeant Kinchloe?" A man with a British accent stepped forward and held out his hand. "It's good to meet the man behind the voice."
Kinch smiled. "Thank you, Colonel Wembley." Kinch finally felt some relief. Although he knew everyone had his back, and that Colonel Hogan was in good hands, he felt out of his element. Here was someone familiar. A man he felt he could count on and who had some understanding of the unique circumstances of their work behind enemy lines. The overwhelming responsibility of this next phase of the war was keeping the radioman and Hogan's second in command up at night.
"Where's Colonel Hogan?" Butler asked.
"He's in the hospital," Kinch said.
"Medical exam." Wembley turned to Butler. "They all had to be checked out. Regulations."
"No, sir." Wilson stepped forward. "He's actually in the hospital." The brass didn't faze Wilson. He was too old, too tired, and too experienced to let worries get the best of him. His nerves hardened during his time as a combat medic and after he landed in 13, when he had to worry about the men being injured while on missions outside the wire. The medic had a good relationship with Hogan and was on polite terms with the Kommandant-when necessary. But he also wasn't afraid to use his status, challenging authority as only a medic could.
"You mean he's still sick?" Butler asked.
"Yes, sir." Carter answered. "The doctor says he might have pneumonia. We were on our way to see you, General, and then we were going to head over to the hangars to brief everyone. Colonel Hogan asked us to handle that for now." Carter was nervous, and he took a deep breath to calm himself down. He was out of his element. Back in camp, there was always a new mission to complete, German officers to impersonate, explosives to design, and the danger of discovery always lurking around every corner. It was hard to overthink things, because there just wasn't time. And they certainly couldn't dwell too much on their precarious position. That was asking for trouble. Now that they were safe and had some time on their hands, Carter felt he was thinking too much, and rehashing some of their escapades. His stomach was fluttering. Dealing with these officers without the colonel by his side was scary.
"Wembley, why don't you go with the sergeants here, and we'll see if we can speak with Colonel Hogan inside." Butler looked concerned.
"Very well." Wembley took off with Kinch and Carter.
Kinch commented, "The doctor won't let them within five feet of the colonel. I'd bet on it."
Wembley chuckled. "The debriefing can wait." He turned serious. "How bad is he? He didn't sound too awful the last time we spoke."
"Better than he was. But he needs some sense knocked into him. Don't take that the wrong way, Colonel."
"I know what you mean, Sergeant Kinchloe. Let's get this show on the road, as they say."
General Butler stood in the reception area of the infirmary, trying but failing to impress his authority on the doctor in charge. When it came to medical decisions, an M.D. outranked even three stars. Peering through the doorway, Butler could see Hogan in a bed at the end of a row, there among a dozen sick enlisted men from Luft Stalag 13. He was not surprised to see that Hogan and his men were in the same hospital. Admitting the colonel to an office-only infirmary was not the right call given the circumstances. After all, he had initiated the orders requiring the quarantine of all POW's from Hogan's camp. (1)
"I'm sorry, General. Colonel Hogan is resting, and it hasn't been easy to get him to do that." The doctor, a major, stood his ground. "I understand your desire to speak with him, but I have to insist that you come back tomorrow."
"Very well." Butler turned to the others. "Might as well start the paperwork."
"I think the major just expelled some generals, Colonel Hogan," a corporal with a better view of the door, said from a few beds away.
"Oh, that's just great," Hogan grunted. Perking up as a young nurse approached, he decided to turn on the charm and smiled. "Can you do me a favor and run after the general? He just left? I'll…"
"Very funny, sir," the nurse said agreeably. Then, more firmly, she added, "No visitors. Doctor's orders. You were told that." Hogan, who was on top of the covers, legs and arms crossed, was clearly frustrated."Yes, but it…"
"First, get under the covers," the nurse interrupted. Hogan obeyed. "How do you feel?" she asked, as she brought over a cart.
"Fine." Hogan eyed her suspiciously then tried to stifle a cough.
"Uh huh. May I see your arm? I see you ate a bit."
"Hospital food," Hogan complained.
"Better than the camp, I'm sure," the nurse replied, tucking a dark strand of her hair behind an ear, and then wrapping a rubber tourniquet around the Colonel's arm.
"Well, actually most of the time our food… What are you doing?"
"Oh, come now, colonel. A pilot scared of a needle?" The nurse smiled again.
"I had control of my own plane," Hogan shot back; but he smiled as well.
A sergeant a few beds down was watching with amusement. "Anyone want to take bets on who wins?" he quipped.
"She will. His charm won't work," whispered the corporal who had seen the general leave.
The men in the hospital were scared and ill. But once their C.O. arrived, safe and sound, they relaxed. They seemed to coalesce into a form of a group mind, watching over the colonel from their beds, and asking for updates from the nurses and orderlies.
Glassman, who was now up and about for the first time in over a month, walked towards the group of prisoners watching what transpired. Most were sitting on their beds and a few were just standing around. "What's going on?"
"Colonel Hogan versus the nursing staff," answered one.
"He'll lose," Glassman predicted. They couldn't see what was happening, as the nurse had pulled a curtain around Hogan's bed.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I didn't catch your name," asked Hogan.
"Lieutenant Gage, Colonel. So Dr. Maddox explained the results of your x-ray?"
"Yes," Hogan sighed. "It explains why I feel like..." He thought for a moment. Need to watch my language. "Why I don't feel very well," he muttered.
"That's better. Now you're being honest. I heard you pushed yourself a bit too much." The nurse smiled and picked up a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. "Your pressure is good," she said a few moments later. "All right. Just a few more shots and then I am done."
"In here?" Hogan held out his right arm.
"No, they go right in the tubing. You won't feel a thing. Penicillin." She held out the vial. "We believe you have bacterial pneumonia. It won't work if it's viral."
"We could have used that," Hogan told her. "We almost lost some men." He laid his head back on the pillow as he recalled the last drop of the miracle drug. Obviously, he could not admit to the nurse they had the drug, which Wilson swore saved the sickest patients in the infirmary.
The nurse paused. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. "But they all made it. You saw for yourself."
"You know Glassman?" Hogan asked in a lower voice.
"He's not my patient, but I know who he is."
"What's he saying?" The men closest to Hogan's bed were straining to hear the conversation. Bit by bit, the men from the other end walked over and joined them.
"I can't make it out."
"Small talk."
"Ten bucks on the colonel."
"You're on," Glassman whispered.
"He almost died. 21 years old. Of a stinking germ. Right in front of me." Hogan said very quietly as he thought back to that afternoon. At one point Glassman suffered a seizure, but he miraculously recovered.
Glassman thought he heard his name and paled. He instinctively stepped back.
The nurse noted something down in Hogan's chart and then stepped back from the bed. "Colonel Hogan. We've seen thousands of very sick young men coming through here. The men in your camp are very fortunate, and they're lucky to have you as their commanding officer."
"Thank you. But, I still need to see those generals."
"You don't give up," Gage laughed. "I want to prop you up. It will help your breathing. Two more shots. Vitamins. I'll be back later to check on you."
"I'm counting on it," Hogan flashed another smile, and then fell asleep within minutes.
The nurse sensed the men were listening in on the other side of the curtain. "Back to bed; every single one of you. Shame on all of you. And you…" She pointed at Glassman. "You should know better."
Glassman grinned sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Is Colonel Hogan all right?"
"Yes. He should be fine," she assured him.
"Can I have your attention?" Kinch had to stand on a chair to be heard. Close to 900 men were being housed in three separate hangars, and he, Wembley, and Carter were in the first hangar, attempting to bring the large, raucous group of soldiers up to date.
"Colonel Hogan has to spend the night in the hospital, so he can't be here. He'll be all right, it's just a precaution," Kinch explained. "But we're still moving ahead on schedule. This is Colonel Wembley from our section in London." The men cheered and whistled.
"Thank you, Gentlemen," Wembley said. "Starting tomorrow, we will begin processing all of you, so we can get you home."
There were more cheers.
"You'll all have to go through a short debriefing," Wembley continued. "You'll have papers to sign and statements to review. A group of you will be held over for a short time." Wembley glanced at a list. "All barracks chiefs and department heads. A list will be posted and distributed. That's it. Oh, and I hear they will be bringing in some films tonight." The men cheered again.
"Next!" Carter said with enthusiasm. Now that Wembley was in charge, he could relax.
While Kinch and Carter spoke to the rank and file, Newkirk, Olsen, LeBeau and Baker were in their quarters, separating paperwork and sorting classified material from personal items.
"Glad we don't have to catalog this stuff," Baker groaned as he plopped a large stack on a table. A small cloth pouch given to him when he checked in fell, spilling some of its contents onto the floor. "Oops." Baker bent down and picked up the shaving materials and put them back. The toothpaste rolled over to where LeBeau was standing. He picked it up and handed it to Baker, who stuffed it in the pouch, which he tied around his waist. (2)
"How did we end up hauling so much paper all the way to France?" Olsen lamented. "I thought we burned most of it."
"Beats me," Baker replied, shaking his head as he concentrated on the task. His eyes gradually drifted to LeBeau, who was frowning as he plowed through papers. They were just 100 miles from Paris.
"This must be hard for you, Louis, being in your own country, so close, but still not really home."
"I've waited this long," LeBeau said with a Gallic shrug. Then he dipped his head down, and a moment later looked back up at Baker. "Non, you are correct, mon ami. It is hard," he said with a laugh that didn't quite travel to his eyes.
"You'll be home before us." Baker gave him a friendly slap.
"I'm staying," Olsen mentioned.
"Staying where?" Newkirk asked the sergeant.
"In Europe. Until the war is over. If I can, anyway. I'm going back for Heidi," Olsen explained.
"Don't blame you mate."
"That's sweet. Does she know?" LeBeau asked.
"I talked to her about it the last time I saw her."
"When was that?" Baker asked.
"The week in March when I left camp to scout for supplies."
March 15, 1945
Despite the cold and the danger from fighting, Olsen volunteered to leave camp and make a last desperate attempt to head into town to scrounge up any food or medicine.
Hogan was reluctant to let the sergeant go, but his fear of losing men to illness was so great at this point, that he agreed. "Stay clear of the Gestapo and the SS. They are rounding up civilians to fight."
"Don't want that, sir."
"Any sign of the SS, come right back." Hogan handled Olsen a pistol. "Check in on the radio." The radio was now being monitored 24/7. "Two days max," he ordered. "And give Heidi my regards." Hogan winked. Olsen and Heidi, who was Oscar's niece, had been dating for a few years; it was no secret that the two had postwar plans. (3)
"Thank you, sir." Olsen headed up the ladder left the tunnel and met Schnitzer and his truck in the usual spot.
"This is probably the last time," he told the vet.
"I know. A division moved through town yesterday."
"We heard."
"You've got to stay out of sight." Schnitzer warned. "They'll grab a young man like you."
"I'll be careful."
"Heidi has moved in with us. It's safer that way."
"That's good."
Olsen and Schnitzer made small talk on the way back to his farm, the vet taking a roundabout route to avoid checkpoints and other hazards. Olsen was greeted warmly at the door by Greta, the vet's wife. As soon as he entered the home, he and Heidi embraced.
"I've been so worried about you," she told him after they separated. "And everyone in camp."
"We're holding down the fort." Olsen gave Heidi a reassuring smile and then followed the family into the kitchen. After a small meal, he brought everyone up on conditions at the camp and war news, and then went to bed.
Both Schnitzer and Olsen woke up before dawn. "I don't know what you hope to find," Schnitzer told Olsen. "The townspeople are down to nothing. The officers, the police—they've taken everything. I can't wait to for this to be over. You can have this box of medicine." Schnitzer pointed to a small cardboard container he had set out on the kitchen counter. "I have nothing for infections, but there are items that may help with digestive ailments."
"Thanks." Olsen peeked in the box. He drained the cup of tea he was drinking, set down the cup and then picked up his pistol. "I'm leaving," he told Oscar. "Tell Greta and Heidi I'll be back." The women were sleeping.
"But at this hour? It's almost dawn," Oscar protested.
"I'm meeting with… Well, never mind," Olsen said. "If I'm successful, I'll need an unmarked truck."
"Our truck is by the side of the barn. You'll have to siphon some gasoline out of the dog truck. Brian, wait." Oscar stopped Olsen. "Be careful."
"I will." Olsen nodded at Oscar and then departed through the back door.
Thirty minutes later, Olsen had navigated a series of roadblocks and stashed his truck in the back alley behind the Hofbrau. He was walking down a Hammelburg street…trying to avoid the gaze of any civilian walking by, and he steered clear of the occasional soldier and Gestapo agent. The town now looked shabby, and had an air of resignation about it. The population had grown however, as refugees from areas east continued to stream west. There were also refugees from bombed out areas in Dusseldorf, its suburbs and from the pockets to the west where fighting was taking place. Mercifully, the town center had not been bombed, and Olsen prayed it would be spared. He reached his destination, a basement entrance of a dingy building, waited for the appointed time, and knocked.
The door swung open a notch. "Yes? What do you want?"
"You may have something I need," Olsen responded. He took out some cash, and displayed the top of the wad.
The door opened further, revealing a scruffy-looking man his 40s who was sporting a few days' stubble. His gun was pointed squarely at Olsen's chest. "How do I know you're not Gestapo?" He looked down. Olsen's weapon was clearly visible and the German held out his hand. "Your weapon," the man demanded.
Olsen reluctantly handed it over. "There's no one else here," Olsen said. "I'm alone."
"That's stupid," the man replied. Olsen just shrugged. "Either that, or you are desperate."
"If I'm Gestapo, you'll kill me. If not, well. I have something you can use in exchange. Dollars or marks. Your choice." Olsen was used to appearing nonchalant. He had learned a lot about acting since arriving at the POW camp.
The man opened the door and led Olsen down the stairs and into a back room, which was not visible from the street. Boxes were spread haphazardly over the floor and tables. Two more men were seated at a table by a side wall. "Start talking," one said.
"Only if you promise to return my pistol."
"After we deal."
Olsen thought for a moment. "Fair enough. I'm looking for food and medicine."
"Everyone is. Let me see the cash."
Olsen held out some of the money. "This isn't all of it. Show me the stuff first."
One man, who appeared to be the leader, nodded to the man who let Olsen inside. He picked up a box and placed it on the table.
Olsen looked in and saw that it was packed with cans of food. "Medicine?" He asked.
"Not a chance," the man replied. "The last batch went last week. We'll take all of your dollars. We'll give you six boxes. Take it or leave it."
"It's a deal." Olsen took back the money, which had been placed on the table. "I'll be back with a truck. Tonight."
"Eleven," the man responded. "Alone." He handed the pistol back. "Plus I want a deposit."
Olsen gave in and counted out some bills.
"Good. You know a young guy like you? You're taking a huge chance being out. You could get recruited, if you know what I mean. See him out, Jurgen."
"I've done my time," Olsen responded as he left.
Olsen waited several minutes, then leaned up against the side of the building. His stomach was in knots and his hands were shaking. This was not his first time dealing with the black market, but it was a situation Hogan normally tried to avoid. (4) Things had deteriorated so much that any dealings could be fatal. After calming down, Olsen made his way down the street in the shadows of the buildings to get his truck, then headed back to Schnitzer's farm. It was just past dawn and Heidi and Greta, along with Oscar, were all waiting for Olsen's return.
"I guess you can say mission successful," he said quietly as he hung up his coat. He gave Greta a hug and Heidi a kiss, and then collapsed in a chair. "I have to go back at eleven tonight."
"But the curfew."Heidi began to rub Olsen's shoulders. "There will be a lot of police out there. It's been getting worse."
"I can handle it," he answered as he squeezed her hand.
"Have some breakfast," Greta urged.
"No," Olsen refused. "Save the food."
"You're no good to anyone hungry or sick. Take it."
"Listen to her," Oscar chided him.
"We still have jars in the basement," Greta explained. Olsen ate and then crashed to sleep right there in the deep chair where he had just devoured his toast and coffee. The stress of dealing with the dark underbelly of wartime commerce had caught up with him.
"He went to the black market, didn't he?" Heidi asked her uncle.
"Desperate times. Some of the boys in the camp could die without food and supplies."
"I wish he would stay in the camp. It's safer." Heidi began to remove the dishes.
"You worry about him; he worries about you. Have faith. I think it's almost over."
That evening after supper, as artillery could be heard in the distance, Olsen asked to speak with Heidi alone. "I don't think I'll be back in after this."
"I understand." Heidi began to tear up.
"Your uncle will still be coming to camp. I guess for the dogs. So we can pass notes."
"I'll write," Heidi promised.
"Um." Olsen reached into his pocket. "I have something for you." He handed her a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with some string.
She eagerly opened it. "Oh my." Heidi stared at what appeared to be an engagement ring.(5)
"It's not real. We had some extra fake diamonds lying around, and the guys in the metal shop made the base. I'll replace it after the war," Olsen explained.
"Are you asking me to marry you?" Heidi was crying tears of joy.
"Yes." Olsen wiped a tear off his cheek. "After this is over. We can stay here if you want. But I can try to get permission to bring you back to the states."
"Yes, the answer is yes."
Olsen successfully completed the black market exchange and brought back six cartons of food. Not much, but more than they had. LeBeau and Wilson carefully rationed out the items to the sickest soldiers, while everyone prayed that all the men would survive.
(1) Trying to determine if enlisted and officers had separate hospitals/wards in Camp Lucky Strike. I don't recall reading anything to that effect, but I'm going to research this further as my beta seems to recall seeing this in a schematic. In any event, due to the special circumstances surrounding these POWs, they would keep them together. I also can't see Hogan agreeing to any separation at any rate.
(2) Pete House memoir www . indianamilitary German % 20PW % 20Camps / Transit % 20Camps / Lucky % 20Strike . htm
(3) See my story "The Outside Man." I also gave Olsen a German background. His mother was German and his father was American. Heidi (Oscar's niece) appeared in one episode.
(4) Clearance Sale at the Black Market (season 4, episode 1) is one example.
(5) It was pointed out to me that engagement rings are more of an American custom. There were obviously fake diamonds leftover from the escapades during the Diamonds in the Rough episode.