March 5, 1943 Late evening, Stalag 13, Germany
"Colonel," Sergeant Kinch quietly knocked on his commander's door. "Got a message from London." He was a patient man, and waited silently for the door to open. Peter Newkirk, the shifty-eyed, nimble-fingered Englishman, stayed curled up in his bed, seemingly asleep. The brilliant, but sometimes slow Sergeant Andrew Carter threw down his cards on the table and moved closer. Louis Lebeau, a very small, passionate, and feisty Frenchman, stopped stirring his soup to listen in. Half a dozen others were in the room, and they gathered at a respectful distance. Colonel Hogan, Kinch, Newkirk, Carter, and Lebeau were the main operatives in their underground business. They did most of the work, carried out the more dangerous missions. Subsequently, the other men in the camp had dubbed them Hogan's Heroes.
"Colonel Hogan," Kinch knocked a little louder, and finally their suave, raven-haired leader appeared, rubbing the weariness from his bleary eyes.
"What?" he asked, yawning. "Can't a guy get any sleep? I had a long day with the Underground, and I'm just beat." He scratched his head and moved lethargically towards the table, sank into the chair with a tired sigh.
"Funny," Carter said, completely clueless. "But Lisa said the same thing this morning, when I met her out setting charges." It was then that he spotted the smudged lipstick on Hogan's face, and blushed furiously. "Oh, I get it… How come you get to have all the fun?"
"Cause I'm the officer," Hogan was waking up quickly, wiped the makeup from his cheek.
"Oh…"
"Mon Colonel," Lebeau plunked his cooking pot down on the table and leaned into the conversation. He sent Hogan a bright and mischievous smile. "Request permission to perform the next mission with the Underground."
"Me too," Carter grinned. A snort floated up from the Englishman's bunk.
"Denied." Hogan said it flatly, then smiled to show he wasn't displeased. "Newkirk gets to make the next rounds, remember?" They had been drawing straws of late to see who got each assignment. Lebeau and Carter were disappointed, but Kinch waved the paper in his hand.
"The message, Colonel?" He quietly prompted his friend.
"Oh yeah. What's London got to say this week?"
"They sent us a newly coded script. I can't make it out, it's kinda kooky…" He handed the notebook to Hogan, who read it once, twice, and frowned.
"Listen here, fellas," he told his men. "Ahem, it says here, 'Dear Papa Bear, it's hard to capture the beauty of this day here in Europe, perfect for fox-hunting. The sun is shining as brightly here as in the desert, but not as hot. Hope you chaps are enjoying yourselves. Your mutual friend, Big Brother. P.S. I shot a lion on my last trip to Afrika." Hogan knew the others were stumped. He tossed the pad on the table and sat back in his chair. "Well…"
Newkirk now made no attempt to act asleep, rolled out of bed. He joined the other Heroes at the table. "What's that supposed to mean, guv'nor?"
"They said we could have unfriendly ears on our line, thus the different code," Kinch explained. "London has good cause to believe there's a rat in the works."
"They're gonna have to set a trap," Hogan stood and paced across the room. "I'm no good at riddles." His men watched silently.
"Ya get better with practice, Colonel," Carter finally encouraged. "I used to be terrible at chemistry, and now look." He beamed proudly at the others, until Newkirk poked him in the arm. "Hey! That hurts!"
"A bruised arm; yer lucky you didn't lose it on that last experiment. One of these days, yer gonna blow us all up." Newkirk looked pleadingly at Hogan. " 'E really will, guv'nor. I felt that explosion a hundred feet away, above ground." Carter scowled at him.
"Trial and error, it might work for chemistry, but not in this job," Kinch agreed. "We don't have time to make an error, of any magnitude."
"Right." The senior prisoner of war eyed the code as if it were an enemy soldier he'd like to shoot. "We'll try to decode it. We can't take too long. If we don't get it, we'll radio Mama Bear and get the message from her, rats or no rats. Gonna have to take that chance." Hogan hugged himself tightly. "Concentrate on this, boys." He returned to his seat.
They all sat in gloomy silence.
"Does this mean the Friday night Jitterbug Dance is canceled?" Carter asked sadly. If looks could kill, he would have expected an electric chair for Christmas.