"Truth is Stranger than Fiction"

Chapter 2

The Pentagon

"Declassified?" General Robert Hogan would have lost his lunch if he wasn't so disciplined. As it was, he almost choked on his coffee. "Way to just let it all out at once."

General Butler grinned. "There's no easier way to let it out."

"I don't know." Hogan was still reluctant to let the cat out of the bag. He was not only concerned about the effect of the publicity on the men under his command, but also the safety and effect on those members of the Underground that had worked on the operation.

"You don't have a choice in the matter," Butler said. "It seems like people with more medals than you and I combined, and politicians who don't know any better, think this is a good time to spotlight wartime cooperation between the Brits and the Yanks. That, and show up the Russians and Chinese, and so on and so forth. Oh, and get people's minds off Korea. You knew that it was going to come to this sooner or later."

Frankly, Hogan was relieved to be home in one piece, as were those men under his command. They all wanted to get back to their pre-war lives and most of them had. He sighed, "I understand, but can I ask one favor?"

"Name it."

"I want everyone we can reach notified by phone call or telegram before word gets out."

Butler nodded, "I figured you would ask that. We are already gathering the records. I assume you want to make some of these calls personally?"

Olsen almost dropped the phone. He cleared his throat, and absentmindedly stood at attention as he addressed his former commander. "But, General. I just spent an entire day with Hochstetter, trying to convince him that he was crazy. I think I deserve extra combat pay for that. Or at least a medal. Did you know he's a friendly drunk? Who would have thought?"

"Um, Olsen. What are you talking about?"

"Well, it was quite a coincidence. Remember those two German spies who kidnapped Boswell and Garrett in London?"

"Sure do."

"Well, the brother tracked Hochstetter down. Seems Hochstetter had sent those drawings to that lady spy's handler, and her brother blamed Hochstetter for everything. He wanted revenge, I guess. Hochstetter took off for Stalag 13. Our agents in Essen gave me a head's up."

Hogan ran his fingers through his hair. "Hang tight, Olsen. I'm heading over to Europe before this comes out in the press."

"Yes, sir." After hanging up the phone, Olsen turned to his wife. "Sweetheart, I think we're going to have to move back to the states."

Olsen's wife and in-laws knew about his work in Stalag 13. His wife, Heidi Schnitzer, was Oskar Schnitzer's niece, Her entire family worked with the German underground. Olsen's immediate family, as well as the families of the other men in camp, were totally oblivious to the danger their brothers, fathers, sons and uncles faced while imprisoned in Germany. Olsen, preferred to tell his parents and sister in person. Preferably after treating them to a very nice dinner at an expensive restaurant.

This was the situation Andrew Carter faced after receiving a phone call from General Hogan. Carter had an easy time transitioning to civilian life. He had returned home to a hero's welcome, and quickly took advantage of all the GI bill had to offer. After finishing college with a degree in chemistry, he was offered a position with the DuPont Chemical Company in Delaware. While there, he met the girl of his dreams and settled down. His wife, Ann, took the news better than he had hoped.

"I always knew there was more to your time in that camp, darling." Ann gave her husband a hug. "You talk during your sleep. And you have nightmares. I'm so proud of you."

"I killed a lot of people, Ann." Tears began forming in Carter's eyes. "All those explosions I set."

"I know. So did your colonel. He dropped bombs. You were fighting for something. And people die." She began stroking his hair. "I think you had better tell your family in person."

"I'll ask for a leave of absence. You'll come with?" Andrew was afraid to be there alone with his family. He had no idea how they would react. "I could use the back-up."

"Of course," Ann answered. "Besides, if you don't show up with their grandchild, your parents will have your hide."

Newkirk didn't have to travel far to tell his folks the truth about his wartime experiences. After the war, he had considered moving to the United States, when Colonel Hogan had offered to sponsor him and his family. The British economy was in ruins, and prospects weren't good. However, his parents and sister refused to leave their home, and he refused to leave them behind. He stuck it out, and after several long and hard years of scrimping and saving, he and some old friends opened up a pub in the East End. His friends and girlfriends would have to wait to hear the news right before it was made public, but he was allowed to spill the beans, as Hogan put it, to his parents, sister and brother-in-law.

His mother slapped him across the face.

"Mum, what did you do that for?" Newkirk said, rubbing his cheek.

"You 'ad me believe you were out of the war til the end. And all that time, you could 'ave been killed!"

"You never lie to your mother, son," his father added for good measure.

"This was a secret operation," John, Mavis' husband, added, trying to be helpful, as his wife stood by, rendered speechless by the news.

"I have a mind to slap that colonel of yours as well."

"Mum, he's a general now. And we were all volunteers."

His mother sat down on the couch and began to cry. "All those years, and you could 'ave been sent home." She sniffed, reached for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Her daughter sat next to her, and tried to console her mother.

"It wasn't that simple." Newkirk looked at John, who shook his head and offered a smile and a shrug.

Newkirk's father looked at his wife, and then said quietly. "I'm sorry. Give her some time. It's a shock, that's all." He grasped his son's arms. "I'm real proud of you, Peter. Real proud."

When the phone rang in his radio and television repair shop, Kinch was up to his elbows in a busted picture tube. "Can you get that?" Kinch's younger brother and co-worker, Daniel, was at the front of the store, working on some minor bookkeeping. He put down the ledger and turned to the phone hanging from the wall. "Kinchloe's. No, this is his brother. I see. It's good to hear from you. Everything all right? That's good. Hang on, sir. I'll get him for you." Daniel placed the receiver down and poked his head in the back. "Got a minute to speak to General Hogan, bro?"

Kinch smiled, and wiped off his hands. "I'm coming." He had heard his brother's end of the conversation, and figured that this was just a friendly, thought I would pick up the phone and see how you were doing call. "Hey, General. How's the family?"

"Fine. Just calling to let you know that you know what is going to hit the fan." Hogan said.

Kinch knew exactly what the general was referring to, as they had discussed the scenario many times since the end of the war. He sighed. "How far are they going?" Kinch was worried about the reaction if the entire operation was spilled. It wouldn't look too good to have a Negro as a second in command, although he was reluctant to say so.

"I'm trying to keep the lid on the chain of command, if that's what you're worried about, Kinch. But you should get full credit." Hogan silently cursed the state of race relations in the country, but it was his friend's choice, and he would abide by his wishes.

"I think I'd rather keep it between us, sir."

"All right. You've got a couple of weeks. For now you can tell your family and no one else, got it?"

"Yes, sir." Kinch handed the phone back to his brother, who raised his eyebrows. "Sit down, Dan. I have something to tell you."

Twenty minutes later, the picture tube forgotten, Daniel and Kinch closed the store, and headed back to their neighborhood, where their families and parents all lived within several blocks of one another. Fortunately, Kinch's mother did not see the need to slap her son. Instead, she picked up a photo of Kinch in his dress uniform. He was smiling, the medals telling a story that up until this moment, she and her husband never knew. That evening, after dinner, Kinch filled in the missing pieces.

Twiddling his thumbs, LeBeau sat a bit impatiently in an outer office of the American embassy in Paris. He stared placidly at the paintings of the wall, and watched the secretary file papers in the filing cabinet located by the door of the inner office. The sign on the door said cultural attaché, but LeBeau knew better. The occupant was not a cultural attaché, but an intelligence agent assigned to Paris, and LeBeau was asked to inform this agent of some interesting news.

"Louis!" Mitch Garrett enthusiastically shook the Frenchman's hand and ushered him into his office. "Hold my calls," he told his secretary before he shut the door. "Have a seat. Coffee?"

LeBeau shook his head, knowing that Garrett's version of coffee was comparable to drinking burnt rubber, although he had to admit, it wasn't as bad as the coffee they had at Stalag 13. After being back in France, he was spoiled.

"Hey, guess who's in town?" Garrett asked as he poured himself a cup.

"Boswell." Seeing the look on Garrett's face, Louis chuckled. "I have my sources."

"He needed a break."

"Well, this is the place," Louis replied, understanding. "I hope he'll be by the restaurant."

"He did mention that he would make the time," Garrett said. "So, you aren't here for a social call. Planning on leaving for the states and looking for a reference?"

"No." This had been an ongoing joke between the two men since they were reacquainted several years after the war when Garrett was assigned to France. He had made an effort to find LeBeau, to see how the former POW was making out. "Just yesterday I received a call from General Hogan."

"Aha. How is the old devil?"

LeBeau grinned. "A bit, how do you say it? Fachatted." (1)

"Really? I haven't seen him like that since I had him tied up in my safe house in Germany." (2)

"And for that, monsieur, he still holds a grudge."

Garrett laughed. "Let me guess. He called you to tell you that the operation will be made public in the near future." Seeing the look on LeBeau's face, he said, "I have my sources. It's funny; Todd and I were just discussing this over a beer yesterday."

LeBeau was a bit disappointed. "I was hoping to break the news. Oh well."

"One thing I don't know is how much are they going to make public?"

"I don't know that either," LeBeau said. "But they are notifying everyone who was a prisoner at the camp, plus some crucial people in France and Germany. That way we can tell our families beforehand. I'm afraid once the faucet is turned on, there will be a flood."

"Nice analogy. How did your family take it?"

"At first they were angry that I didn't escape and come home; but after a while, they were intrigued and very proud. Especially when I spoke of some of the French people that helped get downed fliers to Allied lines. I left out some trips to Paris of course."

"Wise. So tell me, Louis. Do you think I can include some of this in my book? Or no?"

"And out yourself?"

"Well, I eventually want to go back to Florida and retire."

"I think that chapter will have to wait," Louis said in all seriousness.

"You're probably correct."

"Write it down, put it somewhere safe, and maybe in twenty or thirty years, after you retire, you can publish a sequel." Louis stood up. "I must be going. Come by the restaurant tonight. I've got ratatouille."

Garrett perked up. "I'll grab Todd and come by."

Louis began to open the door, but quickly turned. "I can't believe it slipped my mind. Wolfgang Hochstetter was poking around the camp. Olsen got the word and headed him off. Seems George Shamsky is out of prison and tracked Hochstetter down."

"Oh, that's just great." Garrett made a mental note to follow-up on this not so welcome news. "So Olsen tracked down Hochstetter and …

"Got him drunk." LeBeau shuddered at the image. "Now what will happen when he finds out? Who knows? Colonel, I mean General Hogan is coming over."

"Oh, if you talk to Hogan, tell him to stop off here. We can discuss old times."

"Bien sur."

After Louis left, Garrett picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Todd, get on over here. There's something I have to tell you."

(1) Yiddish. Means, well, fachatted. Overwhelmed. Messed-up. Kind of what happens when you find your in-laws are heading over with no warning, and the house is a mess. Or when your sister thought she thawed out a huge turkey, and it turns out it was five pounds of ground beef, before she owned a microwave, and no fresh turkeys at Wegmans, because it wasn't Thanksgiving. (yes, the turkey incident happened.)

(2) "SNAFU" (the first story to feature Boswell and Garrett, and other assorted characters named after the 1969 Mets.