Thank you, Marilyn!
Chapter 33
Hogan prepared for the mission, something he had done hundreds of times before. He changed clothes; taking time to neatly hang his uniform in his locker, then went to one of the cupboards and pulled out a tin of grease. Looking into the mirror hung on his locker door, he carefully smeared the grease over his face. The butterflies in his stomach gradually stopped their fluttering. Face sufficiently darkened, he capped the grease and put it on the table for the others to use.
He took his gloves out, considered them a moment, then put them back. It was a fairly warm night. He retrieved the grease, blackened the back of his hands, then recapped the tin.
He reached for the gun and holster next, movements slower than normal. Carefully lifting them from the hook in his locker, he carried them to the table and sat. He was back on his feet a moment later, returning to his locker for several boxes of shells.
Loading the gun took several minutes. He let memory and training take over, carefully keeping his mind blank as he chambered each round. To his relief, his hands did not shake and the butterflies stayed quiet. The relief was tempered, though. Loading a weapon was entirely different from shooting it.
He paused, turning the handgun over in his hands, examining every inch from sight to grip and back, then holstered it and buckled the belt on.
Keeping his mind resolutely focused upon the task at hand, Hogan got his rifle and carried it back to the table. The loading process was repeated, the rifle double-checked and then placed upon the table. Several boxes of ammunition went into his pockets and after a moment's thought, he gathered several more boxes and set them on the table, too.
He eyed the items on the table, then spun on his heel and sat on the bench in front of his locker. The butterflies had changed to heavy, lead shot in the pit of his stomach. The tension was creeping back, gripping muscles in his neck, shoulders and arms. His hands clenched into fists on his thighs.
Drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out again, he relaxed the fingers of one hand and rubbed it over his face, grappling for something else to occupy his mind. Inspiration struck and he yanked the locker door open again, reached inside and brought out a small wood box. Memories flying through his mind like leaves on the wind, he gently placed the box on his lap, raised the lid and took out a single, precious item.
The photo was old, one corner slightly dog-eared. Two people stood at the center, the United States flag flying proudly from a flagpole in the background. It had been a sunny day, beautiful weather. But it could have been twenty degrees and blowing a blizzard and he would not have cared.
His hand rested upon his youngest brother's shoulder. Chris was looking up at him rather than at their mother's camera, blatant adoration for his eldest brother on his face. Hogan was smiling down at him, returning every bit of the love being directed at him from a pair of emerald green eyes. Moments after the camera had captured the moment, the rest of the Hogan family had swarmed them and the celebration marking his gradation from West Point had got off to a rousing start.
Surrounded by his family's love, flush with accomplishment and a deep sense of duty to his country, he had believed nothing was impossible.
Hogan stared at the photo, trying to recapture those feelings, needing them now.
HH HH HH HH HH HH
Hogan was standing before the wall map when Kinch entered the room at a fast clip, already stripping off his jacket. Acknowledging his CO's nod with a smile, Kinch tossed his jacket onto the bench and opened his locker. The group that had piled into the room after him was large. Benson, Maddux and Braveheart went directly to their lockers to change, while the rest of the men scattered about the room, searching for places to sit or stand. With a fond shake of his head, Hogan went back to studying the map. Once he had the best route to the tower memorized, he turned his attention to the next item on his mental list.
"Benson. Maddux."
The two men paused, turned from their lockers. Hogan pointed to the boxes of ammunition he had laid out earlier.
"Extra ammo. Each of you take a box."
Maddux's eyebrows shot up. "On top of what we usually carry?"
Benson scowled, reached around his locker's open door and punched Maddux's bicep. Maddux jumped, narrowed his eyes at Benson, but tossed out a belated, "Sir?" to Hogan.
Hogan's eyes glinted. "The extra weight going to bother you?"
Maddux shook his head. "No. Sir."
"Glad to hear it." Hogan peered between Broughton and Jones to the other side of the room. Kinch and Braveheart were already changed and just pulling their boots on. Kinch stomped his foot home in its boot, then did the same with the left.
"We didn't wear your arm out this afternoon, did we Kinch?"
Kinch looked up, flashed a grin. "Not a chance."
Hogan's gaze shifted to Braveheart, who was wrapping his laces around the top of his boot, face set in concentration.
"How about you, Braveheart? You good to go?"
"All set in a second, Colonel." Braveheart tied off the laces in a tight bow, then gave them an experimental tug. Tripping over a loose lace could have deadly consequences in their line of work.
Hogan brought up an important detail that had occurred to him after leaving his quarters. "Use grease tonight, fellas. Soot will wash off if Schultz's forecast comes true."
"Kinch," Carter called. He waited until his fellow sergeant looked his way, then tossed a small tin. Kinch snatched it out of the air, his features crinkling into a mock scowl.
"Funny, Carter." Laughter broke out as he flipped the can of grease to Braveheart.
Hogan caught himself smiling. Leave it to his men.
Benson looked for a particular face in the crowd and was surprised and somewhat disappointed when he did not find it. Brushing past Maddux, he reached out and snagged Broughton by the sleeve.
"Where's Tivoli?"
Broughton shrugged. "Flat on his back in Barracks Nine. Said to tell you 'good luck', and that he wasn't coming down because he'd be tempted to sneak out behind you."
Benson balled his hands on his hips. "You mean that crazy Italian is actually showing some sense for once?"
"Hey, miracles do happen!" Olsen laughed, arms spread wide, palms up.
Amen to that, Hogan thought, knowing Tivoli's irritating habit of disobeying orders.
LeBeau shouldered between Lyons and Olsen and came to stand before him. "Colonel. You are certain that you won't change your mind?"
Carter stepped toward them, eagerness and hope brightening his expression. "There's still time for us to get changed."
"Thanks, fellas, but you're staying here," Hogan said firmly, but not without compassion for their feelings. He slid an arm around LeBeau's shoulders, saying what they all – including he - needed to hear.
"We'll be fine."
HH HH HH HH HH HH
Hogan and his men traveled steadily, making good time despite the rough ground, dense vegetation and constant threat of patrols. Halfway to their target, a distant grumble of thunder brought them to a standstill.
Hogan jogged to a large break in the trees and looked up. A scowl settled over his face.
"Schultz's knee needs fine-tuning."
Thunderheads were building on the horizon, towering masses that flashed with sporadic lightning. Hogan suddenly realized how humid it had gotten, how ominously still the air had grown ahead of the storm front.
Benson eyed the ugly clouds with trepidation, remembering a cousin who had died after being struck by lightning.
"That's it. No more strudel for Schultz."
Hogan sighed, reflexively gripped the rifle's strap when it shifted lower on his shoulder. Wispy ribbons of clouds, forerunners of the storm, stretched across the quarter moon like gray, skeletal fingers. His gaze snapped back to the horizon when the entire length of the cloudbank flashed, briefly bathing everything with flickering, unearthly light.
Kinch quietly counted off seconds until a low rumble of thunder broke the silence. Uneasy glances passed around the group. The lightning would expose their movements as they broke cover to throw their grenades over the fence. But it was too late to cancel the mission. The squadron was already on its way.
HH HH HH HH HH HH
"I bloody hate being left behind on these sorts of missions," Newkirk growled around his cigarette. Plucking it from his lips, he threw it to the floor and stamped it out in the dirt beneath his heel. The room was hazy with smoke, testament to the number of cigarettes he had smoked so far. "Absobloomin'lutely hate it. Would much rather be in the thick of it."
"Handling dynamite is easier than this." Carter drummed his fingers on the table, missing the evil eye Paxton was giving him from the other side of the table.
Hands shoved deep in his pockets, LeBeau studied the ground at his feet. "I wish Colonel Hogan would have changed his mind and let us go along."
O'Malley stopped pacing around the table, glanced between Carter's bowed head and LeBeau's stony expression. "Aye, save your breath, you two. Your case was dismissed and the judge has left the building."
Carter's drumming sped up, gaining volume. Paxton's hand shot out and slammed down on his fingers, flattening them on the table.
"Thank you!" Jones sighed with feeling from near the door. "Much more of that and I would have run screaming into the night."
Sorry, Carter mouthed.
"There's a storm coming," Olsen quietly announced, returning from a trip to the barracks. "It looks like a big one. Fourth of July big."
Concern puckered Paxton's brow. "How soon until it hits?"
Olsen plopped onto a chair and leaned it back onto two legs. "Soon."
"Marvelous," Newkirk grumbled, glowering at Olsen. "What a harbinger of good news you are!"
"Harbinger?" Jones stared at Newkirk. "What the heck is that? Some kind of bird?"
Carter grinned, surprised yet again by his friend's choice of words. "Where'd you learn a word like that?"
Newkirk's expression turned smug.
"It's a messenger, Jones," Lyons explained in a bored tone. "As in 'don't shoot the messenger' even though you really feel like it."
Jones turned back to Newkirk, his tone dripping with disgust. "Why didn't you just—"
"Hey!" Wild-eyed, O'Malley turned in place, checking everyone present. "If we're all down here, who's keeping watch in our barracks?"
"Oh, crap!" Olsen yelped, only then remembering he had drawn guard duty for the night. He jumped out of the chair so fast he stumbled over his feet. Catching his balance, he shoved Broughton and Jones out of the way and took off at a dead run for Barracks Two.
"Give a yell if Klink wakes up and decides to head our way!" Newkirk called after him.
HH HH HH HH HH HH
By the time Hogan and his men reached the tower, the storm front had completely blacked out the stars and quarter moon. Lightning slashed the sky; the air trembled with deep, rolling peals of thunder. A high wind pummeled the trees, shaking them to their roots and whipping their leaves into a frenzy. The temperature was dropping quickly, the scent of rain strong on the wind. The full fury of the storm would soon be upon them.
Hogan motioned the group to join him at the very edge of the trees, where they had an unobstructed view of the tower and outlying defenses. They crouched low to the ground, blending into the shadows, blanking their minds to the danger of lightning strikes.
Hogan got Kinch's attention and tapped his watch. Unless the storm had proved too much for them, the bombers were due to arrive within fifteen minutes.
Kinch looked his CO in the eye. Hogan stared back, expression tight and controlled, eyes hard and glittering with reflected lightning. A second ticked off, the dark eyes softened, crinkling at the corners, and a twitch of Hogan's lips signaled it was okay. He was okay.
Hogan patted Kinch on the chest, a silent 'good luck', then pivoted and within moments, was lost in the darkness. He would find a position nearby, one that offered a better angle on all four guard towers.
Benson and Maddux drew their weapons and took their positions. Braveheart and Kinch pulled grenades from the pouches hanging from their belts. Kinch watched the two silhouettes walking the fence line, his free hand at shoulder height, ready to give the signal. Braveheart gathered himself, grenade cradled carefully in one hand.
The silhouettes made another slow pass along the fence from corners to midpoint, paused, turned and began to retrace their steps.
The wind rose to a roar, the full intensity of the storm unleashing upon them. Lightning flared and the sky opened as thunder crashed directly overhead. Wind-driven sheets of rain streamed from the sky, drenching everything within seconds.
Kinch blinked away the after-image of the bolt. The guards' silhouettes were bent against the onslaught of wind and rain, but still doggedly moving along the fence. Approximately five feet separated them. Then ten. Eyes squinted against the rain's sting, Kinch slashed his hand downward.
Braveheart and Kinch left the woods, moving fast and low, partially concealed by wildly whipping tall grass and heavy rain. When they were close enough, they jerked the firing pins, stood and threw the grenades with all their might. The explosives arced through the rain, on a path to clear the fence and hit the fuel barrels on the other side. Kinch and Braveheart reversed, caught their balance on the wet ground, and raced back to the trees.
A strong gust caught the grenades and batted them aside. They hit the ground just short of the fence and exploded.
The shockwave knocked the guards off their feet. They rolled and tumbled across the grass, their weapons flying from their hands. Shouts went up inside the perimeter fence, and the lights in the four guard towers switched on. Rifle shots rang out in quick succession, and one by one, the searchlights blew up in showers of glass and sparks.
Benson peered through the gray curtain of water. The guards outside the fence had regained their feet and were searching for their guns. Gritting his teeth at shooting an unarmed man, he took one down, while Maddux took care of the other.
Lightning sizzled across the sky, split and arced to earth. A nearby tree split down the middle with a deafening boom of thunder, the ground shuddering from the force of the strike. Benson and Maddux ducked, letting out dual yelps of alarm. Quickly shaking off their fright, ears ringing from the blast, they focused upon laying down cover fire for Kinch and Braveheart.
Braveheart and Kinch scrambled to their feet, arming themselves with more grenades.
Another bolt cut a jagged path overheard. A guard in one of the towers spotted them in the flash of light, whipped his rifle up to his shoulder and took aim. A rifle shot split the air, and the guard toppled from the tower, dead from a bullet to the heart. The rifle spoke again and again, picking off Germans at every opportunity.
Kinch and Braveheart sprinted toward the fence, breathing hard and eyes slitted against the pounding rain. Heaving the grenades into the teeth of the wind, they reversed course and ran for cover. The grenades sailed cleanly over the fence this time, splashed down in the mud next to the fuel barrels.
Kinch and Braveheart dove headlong into the trees, hit the ground and wrapped their arms about their heads. Benson and Maddux threw themselves down, buried their faces and covered their ears.
The explosion tossed the barrels skyward in gouts of flaming fuel and shrapnel, blasting the nearby fence into splintered bits of wood and tangled wire.
Kinch raised his head from his arms, bolted to his feet and tugged Braveheart off the ground. Maddux and Benson stumbled over, wide-eyed and splotched with mud and leaves.
More rifle shots cracked through the air. They whirled and looked back at the destruction. Lightning and the fire's glow revealed the crumpled bodies of two Germans lying between them and the burning camp.
A fierce grin spread across Maddux's face. "That's our guardian angel!"
"We're all going to be angels if we don't get the hell out of here!" Benson shouted above the howling wind and rain.
They turned and ran; desperate to get a safe distance from the 'bulls-eye' they had created for the bombers that were even now swooping out of the sky.
The telltale high-pitched whistle of falling bombs pierced the storm's din. The surviving Germans yelled and scattered, running for their lives.
The ground rocked under the bombs' impact, dirt blasting into the air. The tower blew apart, the framework bending and twisting into mangled ribbons of steel. The outlying buildings disintegrated, their remnants bursting into flame that not even the downpour could immediately quench. The screams of dying men filled the air, then faded, lost under the crackle of fire and booming thunder.
HH HH HH HH HH HH
Whipping the rifle back toward what was left of the fenced enclosure, Hogan double-checked that no one else was going after his men. Through the heavy rain, he saw a few survivors climbing out of the wreckage, but they looked in no shape to do anything. As he watched, they collapsed to the ground and did not get up again. He swung the rifle toward the craters that marked where the tower had stood. Twisted metal and slag were all that remained, completely unsalvageable.
Thumbing the rifle's safety on, Hogan slid his arm through the strap and with a shrug and twist of his upper body, slung the weapon onto his back. He threw another squinted glance at the ruins left by the bombers, then jogged deeper into the woods to rejoin his men, lightning and flickering flames showing the way.
HH HH HH HH HH HH
"You feel that?" Carter's eyes were wide with hope, his body stiff with tension. "That had to be it, right?"
"Could have been more thunder," Paxton murmured, brushing dirt from his shoulders. "A strike nearby."
Newkirk, Olsen and LeBeau's eyes were locked on the dirt sifting down from the tunnel's ceiling, brought on by what they hoped was the faint vibration of a distant explosion. A grin slowly spread across Newkirk's face. "My bets are on our mates."
Carter beamed. "Mine, too."
LeBeau gave him a sideways glance, his eyes alight with amusement. "If anyone knows explosions, it would be you."
O'Malley sat down hard at the table, dropped his forehead into his palm, and said a few silent prayers. The tower was likely gone. He just hoped none of their friends were, too.
HH HH HH HH HH HH
"Herr Kommandant?" Schultz's call and light tap to Klink's shoulder got no response. The loud, buzzing snores went on without pause, Klink's blanket stayed pulled to his chin. Schultz bit his lip, hesitantly reached out, and before he could change his mind, shook Klink hard by the shoulder.
"Herr Kommandant?"
Klink's snores broke off with a snuffle-snort and a faint crease furrowed his brow. "Heil Hitler," he murmured, flailing his right hand off the bed in what Schultz assumed was a salute.
Schultz rolled his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he leaned down right next to Klink's ear and bellowed, "HERR KOMMANDANT KLINK!"
"WHAT?!" Klink yelped, snapping upright and smacking foreheads with Schultz.
Both men reeled, clamped hands to their ringing heads. Uncrossing his eyes, Klink glared up at two Schultzes from beneath the hand still clutched to his forehead. "What do want, Schultz?!"
"Herr Kommandant," Schultz gulped, wishing the room would stop spinning. "There has been an explosion."
Klink balled his fists in his lap, voice lowering to a growl. "It's only the storm."
Schultz gulped again, this time in relief, when the three Klinks merged into one. "Nein, Herr Kommandant. It was definitely an explosion." He turned aside, unclasped one hand from his head and pointed to the window. Gaze gone flinty hard, lips pressed tightly together, Klink threw his legs over the side of the bed and stomped to the window, not bothering with slippers or robe. He glanced outside, started to look back at Schultz to give him a piece of his mind, then did a double take out the window.
An undulating orange glow lit the horizon, overcast by billows of smoke that were visible in each flash of lightning. Klink racked his aching head for what lay in that direction, but could not come up with anything. That did not mean that nothing was there, since something obviously was, because it was on fire.
Klink's gaze cut to Barracks Two. It was dark, as it should be at this time of night. But he wondered if he went there now, would he find Hogan asleep in his quarters?
Or gone?
TBC. Thank you for reading. Please take a moment to review.