Hogan's Heroes: Drabbles
Aug. 5th, 2010 08:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
what_we_dreamHogan's Heroes Drabbles Part 1
Pairings: None
Rating: Nothing higher than PG
Hitori wo (Nana)
They all learn very early on how to carve out a tiny piece of solitude for themselves in the middle of crowded rooms. In the camp there is no where someone else isn’t, except the cooler, and a man has to be damned desperate to opt for that.
It’s easier for some than others. Carter, for example, has no trouble at all losing himself in his own world of chemicals and explosives, fenced off from the others by knots of formulas and arithmetic that live only in his head. Kinch, equally, learned long ago to block out the outside world in order to concentrate wholly on making sense of dots and dashes, and it’s a skill that he can easily apply to other thoughts.
LeBeau and Newkirk have never been much good at it. Reading, knitting cooking, they’re all activities to take the mind off the dullness of living in a cage. But they don’t provide any solitude, don’t give that necessary break from their fellow inmates. For them, being sent out on missions is more than a chance to stretch their legs, it’s a chance to clear their heads.
Hold On (BB King and Eric Clapton cover)
Hold on, the colonel tells him. Well he’s bloody well holding on already, isn’t he? One hand holding the colonel’s so tight he thinks he can nearly feel the bones grinding together, the other scraping against the concrete of the building’s façade. Five stories down the street is nothing but a pool of darkness, a pool with a damn hard bottom.
Just hold on, the colonel repeats, catching hold of Newkirk’s jacket with his other hand. The fabric pulls until it’s strangling-tight about his ribcage, until Newkirk can hardly breathe. He scrabbles furiously at the faultless side of the building with his loose hand, trying desperately to find a hold where there isn’t any, feels his fingers begin to slick with blood while his arm twists in its socket.
Hold on, the colonel hisses again, and Newkirk knows the man has nothing else to tell him. Here there’s nothing he can do, no way to spin this reality into a more profitable one, no lies to tell to grease palms, no wool to pull over anyone’s eyes. Just hope, pure and simple.
Christ, it’s not a lot to hold on to. Neither is a slippery palm.
Newkirk’s hand is beginning to slip, vice-grip oiled loose, and his own hope is hot and brittle and snapping inside him.
Behind the colonel, there’s the sound of running footsteps, of something metallic being thrown to the ground. Then a second pair of hands is grasping his arm even as his hand finally slips from the colonel’s.
We’ve got you, says Hogan, and grabs his hand again.
Georgia on my mind (Willie Nelson)
They get a Georgian in once, the result of a bad bailout near the camp itself, brought in for medical treatment in the infirmary. The Americans don’t take much notice of him, but LeBeau likes the long lazy drawl of his accent and brings him home-made soups and stews while he recovers. Newkirk rolls his eyes and tells him he’s going soft on the cowboy, prompting the inevitable correction from Kinch.
What little LeBeau remembers of the man after they help him escape, apart from the warm, sunny tones of his voice, is the tune he whistles while alone in the long infirmary hut. A sweet, sad melody that he says reminds him of home.
Musical Pocket Watch Theme (For a Few Dollars More)
Carter’s never been much good with time limits, but he learns to incorporate them into his way of thinking very quickly once he becomes the camp’s resident detonator expert. Learns to make use of the all-important cut-offs, of the literal deadlines. Sometimes he thinks manipulating time as he does, building, deciding, controlling it, may be a skill that will come in handy in the future.
As Time Goes By (Jimmy Durante) (seriously? SERIOUSLY?)
Hogan doesn’t think about the future when it comes to women. It won’t pay off, won’t come to anything. They understand, Tiger, Rapunzel, even Hilda. Someday there will be love, someday there will be someone he won’t leave behind. But he won’t find her here.
It’s only when he’s had a few drinks that he wonders whether it’s only his stern belief in that fact that makes it true.
Impersonations
The woods are alive with troops, dozens of Wermacht thugs beating the bushes to flush them out like bloody pheasants. Newkirk lopes along with Carter following behind; while the lanky sergeant isn’t much good at quiet he can do fast pretty well, and that’s all that matters now.
The Luftwaffe uniforms on their backs haven’t done them any good at all tonight, their IDs being busted at the first test by some new seal Newkirk’s never heard of having started the whole chase. Almost as bad, the heavy wool coats and the damn knee-high boots are difficult to run in. Their only benefit is to protect against the chill of the thick evening fog rolling between the trees, but he would rather be cold and in his own uniform than dry and shot for a spy.
There’s a dark shape up ahead, something large and regular – a cabin. With the way their luck is going it’s probably full of strong, patriotic Nazis, but they’ve no other choice. He ducks around to the front door and, without bothering to knock, pulls out his pistol and opens it.
The one-room building is empty, from the looks of it long empty. The windows are broken, old lace curtains wafting in the damp breeze, and the furniture is overturned and broken. The dim glow of dusk isn’t enough to see shades by, but it smells of mould and mildew and Newkirk is sure there must be about an inch of dust on the floor. He takes a step forward, sees movement on the other side of the room, and snaps around to aim his gun at it with his finger tightening on the trigger. Carter grabs him from behind and jerks his arm up, whispering voice absurdly loud in the hush of the still cabin, “It’s just a mirror, Newkirk, just a mirror.” He sounds about a thread away from snapping into full panic.
Through the open door and the broken windows, every rustle of branches in the forest sounds like a troop creeping up on them. Newkirk sucks in a hissing breath between his teeth, and tries to think. They have two men, two pistols with one clip each, and the contents of a rotting cabin against at least twenty goons. No way a shoot out will end well. No way any confrontation will end well. But there’s no way they can bluff their way out of here either. Not after they did a bunk at the check-point.
Tendrils of fog are licking in through the broken windowpanes, thicker drifts pouring in through the open door. Newkirk turns back to the mirror, and then to Carter, with an idea in mind. An idea from an entirely different time and place. But still, it could work. More to the point, nothing else will. He sets his jaw, and pulls his thoughts together.
“D’you still have the torch?”
“What? Oh, yeah, got it right here.” He can hear the surprise in Carter’s voice, but he answers promptly enough.
“Good. We need something white. The sheets if we absolutely have to, but clothes would be better. Start checking the wardrobe,” he indicates the toppled piece of furniture. Carter, spurred by the command in the corporal’s voice, does as he’s told. Newkirk leaves him pulling drawers out of the wardrobe and going through the musty contents, and heads for the mirror. It’s a full-length one, resting free against the cabin wall. It’s not too wide but it’ll have to be good enough. He grabs it, finding it heavier than expected, and wrestles it over to the cabin door to rest up against the wooden frame. From the corner of the cabin where he’s standing, it’s reflecting the outside of the cabin to his left.
“I’ve got an old dress, some gloves and a scarf,” reports Carter, kneeling on the floor.
“Big enough to wear?”
“The gloves sure aren’t. The dress… maybe.”
“Put it on, quick as you can. Over your clothes is fine; doesn’t matter ‘ow it looks, just do it.”
“But –”
“Do it, Carter.” He’s losing the tone of command, but it’s being replaced by a brittleness that’s not far from panic, and it gets the same result from the American. Carter shucks off his heavy coat and the jacket beneath it, officer’s cap tumbling to the ground with them. The dress goes over his head with a soft rustle and a flash of brightness in the dim cabin. He pulls it down over his shirt and trousers with some difficulty, back hanging open. The sleeves only fall halfway down his forearms, but the white of his shirt is good enough. The bottom hem falls to his knees, black boots mostly invisible in the darkness. The effect is good, but Carter’s pale face and hair are faintly visible even without the flashlight.
“Something black – did you see anything black? A scarf, a shift…?” Newkirk strides over to the pile of fabric strewn about the open drawers, digs through it hurriedly and comes up with something black and soft – a waistcoat. “Alright. Come ‘ere.” He grabs Carter and pulls him over to stand in the corner of the cabin. “You stand ‘ere.”
He can’t see Carter’s face clearly, but his movements are broadcasting frightened puzzlement loudly enough. They really don’t have time for this. Something in the woods snaps, and Newkirk nearly jumps. Speaks quick and sharp, words tumbling out like stones down a steep slope. “You’re going to be a nice little haunting, Andrew. I’ll shine this light on you, it’ll reflect onto the mirror and project out onto the fog outside. All the goons’ll see is a girl with no ‘ead wandering around – old parlour trick. ‘Ere, put this over your ‘ead. Doesn’t matter if you can’t see.” He hands Carter the waistcoat.
“But I don’t –”
Another snap, too close together to be a coincidence. Carter takes the fabric and drops it over his head, effectively blacking it out. Newkirk takes a few steps back and switches on the flashlight. Prays they’ll notice the projection before the glow in the windows – if only there had been time to cover them. If wishes were fishes, beggars would eat. He smiles grimly, and makes sure he keeps out of the line between Carter and the mirror.
Outside he can hear voices now, and the thump of heavy boots on moist soil. It’s not going to work. The light isn’t strong enough. The fog isn’t thick enough. They aren’t lucky enough. He reaches for his pistol, hopes Carter still has his close to hand, hopes the Yank didn’t abandon it with his coat –
“Mein Gott! Was ist –”
Newkirk’s mind switches over into German, holding tersely still. Carter continues to move, motions slow and wide as if he’s underwater.
“What’s – impossible –”
“It can’t be –”
“It must be the imposters. Shoot it, shoot!”
There’s a moment of silence as if the whole unit is holding its breath, and then automatic gunfire barks through the woods. Cuts straight through the projection of the girl in the white dress, who is completely unaffected by it.
Order shatters like glass, most of the men fleeing on the spot while those who keep their heads are forced to go after them before the troop ends up scattered across miles of unmarked woodland.
Newkirk snaps off the torch and tucks away his pistol. On the other side of the room, Carter’s already pulling the dress over his head. Newkirk steps over to give him a hand.
“Nice work, mate.”
Even in the dim light, Carter’s smile is apparent. “Wow boy! That was the first time I’ve ever played a ghost!”
Hare Hare Yukai Suzumiya Haruhi no Yuutsu
Newkirk sometimes wonders what they’ll all take home with them when – if – they ever get out of this hellhole. Most of it, he thinks, they’ll probably wish they could forget. All the night-time missions running with liquid fear pumping through their veins, all the times they’ve been lined up against the wall and one word away from the firing squad, all the blown bridges and factories that have resulted in innocent deaths. All the comrades they’ve lost. He doubts he’ll ever speak German when he goes home, or run an impersonation scam using uniforms, or wire up timers for anything.
He tries to think on the bright side. He’s learned five different dance routines, how to play baseball, volleyball and football, and is an expert photographer.
He likes to think those are things he’ll be able to take away from this all. But sometimes he wonders whether, anytime he takes a bird out to a swing dance, in his mind he won’t be back here in the Stalag 13 mess hall trying to keep Carter from stepping on his toes.
Goodbye My Master Ghost in the Shell
They go through three different commanders back in London over the course of the war. Their runners try to use the same people, try to make sure they have familiar voices to speak to so that they know there’s stability and reliability in the people giving them the orders.
Still, the voices change for good three times. They’re never told why; after the first time they don’t bother asking. It’s not need to know, it’s not cleared for their channel, it’s not important.
It’s only after the war’s over that they find out just how much of a toll the Blitz took on London.
Killing in the Name Rage Against the Machine (went overtime)
It’s only after he gets back home that Carter realises people stateside have very different ideas about air force men and the infantry. Fly boys are, in the public mind, light-hearted daredevils who protect from far above and walk around on the ground with suave grins and swaggers. Infantrymen troop through mud and blood watching their comrades being picked off, and kill men with their own hands.
There’s no condescension, no lack of gratitude or pride. He’s never greeted with anything but awe and respect when he wears the uniform, which is only when he has to. But he hears the quiet undercurrent all the same: those boys on the ground had a terrible time; just imagine taking those beaches; I’d take air force any day; short missions and just the press of a button.
He never says anything. Never tells them about the cold in the cabin freezing his instruments so he couldn’t read his oxygen gauge, never tells them about having to keep absolutely calm so as not to sweat in his clothes so it wouldn’t freeze on his skin, never tells them about the constant fear that the oxygen would come unhooked without his even noticing it and leave him to pass out and die before he could do anything about it.
Never tells them about the thousands of innocent people the bombs in his plane may have killed, about the kids playing or the mothers cooking or the men working in shoe factories. Never tells them about the crew in the fighters he shot down and watched break apart and burn. Never tells them about his own crew, killed when they crashed before being able to bail out.
They’re right, he never had to see any man’s face while he shot him, never had to watch hundreds of his comrades be picked off on either side of him. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have nightmares just the same.
Perfect World Escaflowne
Hogan tells every new man straight off the day he’s admitted to the big secret of the camp: We’re not here to save the world. We’re not here to right all wrongs and protect all innocents. We’re here to do the jobs we’re given, and only the jobs we’re given, in the knowledge that the part we play will contribute to the world we all want.
They all work with that knowledge stamped firm and deep in their brains. This is not a crusade, this is not a mercy mission, this is not a personal vendetta. Sometimes, bad things happen and you just have to let them. They can request authorization to help those they’re able to, but that’s it. And if the answer comes back no, then answer is no, end of discussion.
It doesn’t really make anything easier. In fact, it makes it a hell of a lot harder.
I Will Survive Gloria Gaynor
Counterintuitive as it sounds, every man in the camp spends two weeks in actual solitary at some point. No visits, no extra food, nothing but what he takes in with him.
A lot of the men think it’s a weeding-out procedure. A test to see who can handle their work, and who can’t. In a small way that’s true – Hogan sees to it that the very few men who break are transferred out.
Really, though, it’s not a test at all. It’s training. It’s something to fall back on if they’re ever captured. A tiny body of experience and strength to allow them to wait out rescue: I survived that, I can survive this.
Hogan has no idea if it works, if it’s at all valuable. But apart from basic interrogation training, it’s quite simply the only thing he can do to proactively help protect his men from that eventuality.
Drunk Again Reel Big Fish
Sometimes, men fall through the cracks.
Hogan blames the situation, blames their mission, blames the wire that traps them here and the monsters out there on the other side who are responsible for its being rolled out. Mostly, though, he blames himself.
Stalag 13 is, as even the Luft Stalags go, an easy life. As regular posts go, it’s hell. They have few diversions, few pleasures, and few escapes – even the great one that gives POWs hope is denied to them, and Hogan thinks that all their little comforts don’t even come close to making up for that denial.
The men aren’t supposed to have drink, but there are ways even in here of getting it. And its always those who shouldn’t have it who are the most desperate to find it, and as in any situation desperation gets results. Sometimes he catches it in time, and gets the men transferred out to a camp where they’ll have a chance of escaping.
Sometimes he doesn’t, and for the good of his own organization he ruins the escape attempts of his own men and turns them over to Klink. If he’s lucky, he twists Klink into assigning them one of the looser camps. He’s not always lucky.
Hallelujah, Rufus Wainright
In his spare time, Klink writes music. Violin sonatas mostly – he doesn’t have the background to add accompaniment, at least not without a piano to work it out on. Sometimes just scraps of solos, sometimes full-blown concertos. He’s always held the dream of escaping from his number-juggling positions to the stage. To someday performing a piece of his own before an admiring audience, maybe even of generals.
After a long day’s work being bullied by Hogan and harried by Shultz, he goes back to his quarters and unlocks his desk, pulls out the sheets of lined paper and uncaps his pen. Holds it, in silence, like a baton for several minutes. And then, with a sharp scribble, begins to write.
Renegade, Styx
Carter hates the cooler. He’s never told any of the others, because he has enough problems and messes up enough missions without the added burden of not being able to stand the cooler. But he can’t.
His last Stalag – Luft Stalag 9 – used the cooler as punishment as well. But there were no tunnels in Stalag 9, no chances to have books or balls or cards passed up for entertainment, and no one stopping by for chats. He spent a month in the cooler upon arrival, as an example to the rest of his group. That month of entirely solitary confinement nearly killed him.
He doesn’t bring it up, and he takes his cooler sentences without complaint, with the knowledge that Colonel Hogan will do his best to have them shortened, and even if he can’t there’s always the tunnel and the guys to keep him from being alone.
He still shudders when he hears the key turn in the lock behind him.
Kiki’s Delivery Service Opening Theme
LeBeau runs a delivery service out of the Stalag for a whole month when they need to bring in some real currency for the forging department. He takes orders through Franz and Hanna at the bakery for a whole range of delicacies – although nothing too delicate to survive transport. Crepes Suzette are his main item, packed carefully in a basket and easily warmed in the oven upon delivery. He even has a bicycle stashed in the woods a mile from the Emergency Tunnel with a basket fixed on for the purpose.
Of course in the end they get all the money they need, and the bicycle is found by a patrol and commandeered by Klink, and constantly cooking on the sly becomes too much trouble anyway.
But it was fun while it lasted.
Push, Moist
Hogan spends three quarters of his time at Stalag 13 pushing the envelope. Sometimes it’s on behalf of London, sometimes his men, sometimes himself. Sometimes, it’s even on behalf of Klink or Shultz or the entire Guard. He pushes Klink until they’re right up against the edge of the cliff, and sometimes he pushes him over and then has to figure out how to reel him back up again.
He hardly notices he’s doing it anymore. His automatic response to any deadline is to shorten it, his automatic response to any statement to argue. Nothing is impossible, nothing is too soon, nothing is too expensive.
Hogan worries he’ll push too far one of these days, and fall right off the cliff himself. Problem is, he doesn’t know how to stop anymore.
Moskau, Moskau Dschinghis Khan
Shultz gets assigned to the Russian Front and actually gets halfway there once, before he’s withdrawn by a mysterious turn-around in orders which no one questions, least of all himself.
He spends the brief days before his reassignment tying up his financial affairs, trying to arrange an allocation funds for his wife and children which will provide them with enough regardless of the outcome of the war. Finishes the toy he was making for his youngest daughter and gives it to her even though it’s not her birthday, and watches with a twisting heart as she gives it a puzzled look and then bursts into tears. Teaches, despite his misgivings, his two sons to fire both a pistol and his rifle and arranges with his neighbour to keep weapons for them in case of the worst. Apologizes to his wife for all the trouble he’s given her, until she chases him out of the kitchen with watery eyes. Says goodbye to the Kommandant, and receives to his shock genuinely kind words from him.
Shultz spends the entire train ride wondering whether he could have done anything to leave his family in a more secure position, could have saved more and spent less, could have taught the children more of what they need to know.
He’s taken off the train at Warsaw and turned around, to his mystification. He spends the entire ride back deciding how to make those changes.
AS FOR ONE DAY, Morning Musume
They talk about it all the time.
“When this is over, I’ll go home and set up my own pharmacy!”
“When this bloody war wraps up, I’m gonna look up every bird I’ve ever known – in the same day!”
“I will set up a restaurant, the very top of haut cuisine, so exclusive the waiters do not even know how to smile!”
“I’ve been thinking of going into radio – you know, legitimate broadcasting instead of all this underground business. There’s a real market for that back home.”
They dream about the meals, the girls, the hot showers, the girls, the changes of clothes, the girls. The dream about no more delousings, about no more barbed wire, about no more roll calls and exercise drills and work details.
Mostly, all any of them really want, is freedom.
Pairings: None
Rating: Nothing higher than PG
Hitori wo (Nana)
They all learn very early on how to carve out a tiny piece of solitude for themselves in the middle of crowded rooms. In the camp there is no where someone else isn’t, except the cooler, and a man has to be damned desperate to opt for that.
It’s easier for some than others. Carter, for example, has no trouble at all losing himself in his own world of chemicals and explosives, fenced off from the others by knots of formulas and arithmetic that live only in his head. Kinch, equally, learned long ago to block out the outside world in order to concentrate wholly on making sense of dots and dashes, and it’s a skill that he can easily apply to other thoughts.
LeBeau and Newkirk have never been much good at it. Reading, knitting cooking, they’re all activities to take the mind off the dullness of living in a cage. But they don’t provide any solitude, don’t give that necessary break from their fellow inmates. For them, being sent out on missions is more than a chance to stretch their legs, it’s a chance to clear their heads.
Hold On (BB King and Eric Clapton cover)
Hold on, the colonel tells him. Well he’s bloody well holding on already, isn’t he? One hand holding the colonel’s so tight he thinks he can nearly feel the bones grinding together, the other scraping against the concrete of the building’s façade. Five stories down the street is nothing but a pool of darkness, a pool with a damn hard bottom.
Just hold on, the colonel repeats, catching hold of Newkirk’s jacket with his other hand. The fabric pulls until it’s strangling-tight about his ribcage, until Newkirk can hardly breathe. He scrabbles furiously at the faultless side of the building with his loose hand, trying desperately to find a hold where there isn’t any, feels his fingers begin to slick with blood while his arm twists in its socket.
Hold on, the colonel hisses again, and Newkirk knows the man has nothing else to tell him. Here there’s nothing he can do, no way to spin this reality into a more profitable one, no lies to tell to grease palms, no wool to pull over anyone’s eyes. Just hope, pure and simple.
Christ, it’s not a lot to hold on to. Neither is a slippery palm.
Newkirk’s hand is beginning to slip, vice-grip oiled loose, and his own hope is hot and brittle and snapping inside him.
Behind the colonel, there’s the sound of running footsteps, of something metallic being thrown to the ground. Then a second pair of hands is grasping his arm even as his hand finally slips from the colonel’s.
We’ve got you, says Hogan, and grabs his hand again.
Georgia on my mind (Willie Nelson)
They get a Georgian in once, the result of a bad bailout near the camp itself, brought in for medical treatment in the infirmary. The Americans don’t take much notice of him, but LeBeau likes the long lazy drawl of his accent and brings him home-made soups and stews while he recovers. Newkirk rolls his eyes and tells him he’s going soft on the cowboy, prompting the inevitable correction from Kinch.
What little LeBeau remembers of the man after they help him escape, apart from the warm, sunny tones of his voice, is the tune he whistles while alone in the long infirmary hut. A sweet, sad melody that he says reminds him of home.
Musical Pocket Watch Theme (For a Few Dollars More)
Carter’s never been much good with time limits, but he learns to incorporate them into his way of thinking very quickly once he becomes the camp’s resident detonator expert. Learns to make use of the all-important cut-offs, of the literal deadlines. Sometimes he thinks manipulating time as he does, building, deciding, controlling it, may be a skill that will come in handy in the future.
As Time Goes By (Jimmy Durante) (seriously? SERIOUSLY?)
Hogan doesn’t think about the future when it comes to women. It won’t pay off, won’t come to anything. They understand, Tiger, Rapunzel, even Hilda. Someday there will be love, someday there will be someone he won’t leave behind. But he won’t find her here.
It’s only when he’s had a few drinks that he wonders whether it’s only his stern belief in that fact that makes it true.
Impersonations
The woods are alive with troops, dozens of Wermacht thugs beating the bushes to flush them out like bloody pheasants. Newkirk lopes along with Carter following behind; while the lanky sergeant isn’t much good at quiet he can do fast pretty well, and that’s all that matters now.
The Luftwaffe uniforms on their backs haven’t done them any good at all tonight, their IDs being busted at the first test by some new seal Newkirk’s never heard of having started the whole chase. Almost as bad, the heavy wool coats and the damn knee-high boots are difficult to run in. Their only benefit is to protect against the chill of the thick evening fog rolling between the trees, but he would rather be cold and in his own uniform than dry and shot for a spy.
There’s a dark shape up ahead, something large and regular – a cabin. With the way their luck is going it’s probably full of strong, patriotic Nazis, but they’ve no other choice. He ducks around to the front door and, without bothering to knock, pulls out his pistol and opens it.
The one-room building is empty, from the looks of it long empty. The windows are broken, old lace curtains wafting in the damp breeze, and the furniture is overturned and broken. The dim glow of dusk isn’t enough to see shades by, but it smells of mould and mildew and Newkirk is sure there must be about an inch of dust on the floor. He takes a step forward, sees movement on the other side of the room, and snaps around to aim his gun at it with his finger tightening on the trigger. Carter grabs him from behind and jerks his arm up, whispering voice absurdly loud in the hush of the still cabin, “It’s just a mirror, Newkirk, just a mirror.” He sounds about a thread away from snapping into full panic.
Through the open door and the broken windows, every rustle of branches in the forest sounds like a troop creeping up on them. Newkirk sucks in a hissing breath between his teeth, and tries to think. They have two men, two pistols with one clip each, and the contents of a rotting cabin against at least twenty goons. No way a shoot out will end well. No way any confrontation will end well. But there’s no way they can bluff their way out of here either. Not after they did a bunk at the check-point.
Tendrils of fog are licking in through the broken windowpanes, thicker drifts pouring in through the open door. Newkirk turns back to the mirror, and then to Carter, with an idea in mind. An idea from an entirely different time and place. But still, it could work. More to the point, nothing else will. He sets his jaw, and pulls his thoughts together.
“D’you still have the torch?”
“What? Oh, yeah, got it right here.” He can hear the surprise in Carter’s voice, but he answers promptly enough.
“Good. We need something white. The sheets if we absolutely have to, but clothes would be better. Start checking the wardrobe,” he indicates the toppled piece of furniture. Carter, spurred by the command in the corporal’s voice, does as he’s told. Newkirk leaves him pulling drawers out of the wardrobe and going through the musty contents, and heads for the mirror. It’s a full-length one, resting free against the cabin wall. It’s not too wide but it’ll have to be good enough. He grabs it, finding it heavier than expected, and wrestles it over to the cabin door to rest up against the wooden frame. From the corner of the cabin where he’s standing, it’s reflecting the outside of the cabin to his left.
“I’ve got an old dress, some gloves and a scarf,” reports Carter, kneeling on the floor.
“Big enough to wear?”
“The gloves sure aren’t. The dress… maybe.”
“Put it on, quick as you can. Over your clothes is fine; doesn’t matter ‘ow it looks, just do it.”
“But –”
“Do it, Carter.” He’s losing the tone of command, but it’s being replaced by a brittleness that’s not far from panic, and it gets the same result from the American. Carter shucks off his heavy coat and the jacket beneath it, officer’s cap tumbling to the ground with them. The dress goes over his head with a soft rustle and a flash of brightness in the dim cabin. He pulls it down over his shirt and trousers with some difficulty, back hanging open. The sleeves only fall halfway down his forearms, but the white of his shirt is good enough. The bottom hem falls to his knees, black boots mostly invisible in the darkness. The effect is good, but Carter’s pale face and hair are faintly visible even without the flashlight.
“Something black – did you see anything black? A scarf, a shift…?” Newkirk strides over to the pile of fabric strewn about the open drawers, digs through it hurriedly and comes up with something black and soft – a waistcoat. “Alright. Come ‘ere.” He grabs Carter and pulls him over to stand in the corner of the cabin. “You stand ‘ere.”
He can’t see Carter’s face clearly, but his movements are broadcasting frightened puzzlement loudly enough. They really don’t have time for this. Something in the woods snaps, and Newkirk nearly jumps. Speaks quick and sharp, words tumbling out like stones down a steep slope. “You’re going to be a nice little haunting, Andrew. I’ll shine this light on you, it’ll reflect onto the mirror and project out onto the fog outside. All the goons’ll see is a girl with no ‘ead wandering around – old parlour trick. ‘Ere, put this over your ‘ead. Doesn’t matter if you can’t see.” He hands Carter the waistcoat.
“But I don’t –”
Another snap, too close together to be a coincidence. Carter takes the fabric and drops it over his head, effectively blacking it out. Newkirk takes a few steps back and switches on the flashlight. Prays they’ll notice the projection before the glow in the windows – if only there had been time to cover them. If wishes were fishes, beggars would eat. He smiles grimly, and makes sure he keeps out of the line between Carter and the mirror.
Outside he can hear voices now, and the thump of heavy boots on moist soil. It’s not going to work. The light isn’t strong enough. The fog isn’t thick enough. They aren’t lucky enough. He reaches for his pistol, hopes Carter still has his close to hand, hopes the Yank didn’t abandon it with his coat –
“Mein Gott! Was ist –”
Newkirk’s mind switches over into German, holding tersely still. Carter continues to move, motions slow and wide as if he’s underwater.
“What’s – impossible –”
“It can’t be –”
“It must be the imposters. Shoot it, shoot!”
There’s a moment of silence as if the whole unit is holding its breath, and then automatic gunfire barks through the woods. Cuts straight through the projection of the girl in the white dress, who is completely unaffected by it.
Order shatters like glass, most of the men fleeing on the spot while those who keep their heads are forced to go after them before the troop ends up scattered across miles of unmarked woodland.
Newkirk snaps off the torch and tucks away his pistol. On the other side of the room, Carter’s already pulling the dress over his head. Newkirk steps over to give him a hand.
“Nice work, mate.”
Even in the dim light, Carter’s smile is apparent. “Wow boy! That was the first time I’ve ever played a ghost!”
Hare Hare Yukai Suzumiya Haruhi no Yuutsu
Newkirk sometimes wonders what they’ll all take home with them when – if – they ever get out of this hellhole. Most of it, he thinks, they’ll probably wish they could forget. All the night-time missions running with liquid fear pumping through their veins, all the times they’ve been lined up against the wall and one word away from the firing squad, all the blown bridges and factories that have resulted in innocent deaths. All the comrades they’ve lost. He doubts he’ll ever speak German when he goes home, or run an impersonation scam using uniforms, or wire up timers for anything.
He tries to think on the bright side. He’s learned five different dance routines, how to play baseball, volleyball and football, and is an expert photographer.
He likes to think those are things he’ll be able to take away from this all. But sometimes he wonders whether, anytime he takes a bird out to a swing dance, in his mind he won’t be back here in the Stalag 13 mess hall trying to keep Carter from stepping on his toes.
Goodbye My Master Ghost in the Shell
They go through three different commanders back in London over the course of the war. Their runners try to use the same people, try to make sure they have familiar voices to speak to so that they know there’s stability and reliability in the people giving them the orders.
Still, the voices change for good three times. They’re never told why; after the first time they don’t bother asking. It’s not need to know, it’s not cleared for their channel, it’s not important.
It’s only after the war’s over that they find out just how much of a toll the Blitz took on London.
Killing in the Name Rage Against the Machine (went overtime)
It’s only after he gets back home that Carter realises people stateside have very different ideas about air force men and the infantry. Fly boys are, in the public mind, light-hearted daredevils who protect from far above and walk around on the ground with suave grins and swaggers. Infantrymen troop through mud and blood watching their comrades being picked off, and kill men with their own hands.
There’s no condescension, no lack of gratitude or pride. He’s never greeted with anything but awe and respect when he wears the uniform, which is only when he has to. But he hears the quiet undercurrent all the same: those boys on the ground had a terrible time; just imagine taking those beaches; I’d take air force any day; short missions and just the press of a button.
He never says anything. Never tells them about the cold in the cabin freezing his instruments so he couldn’t read his oxygen gauge, never tells them about having to keep absolutely calm so as not to sweat in his clothes so it wouldn’t freeze on his skin, never tells them about the constant fear that the oxygen would come unhooked without his even noticing it and leave him to pass out and die before he could do anything about it.
Never tells them about the thousands of innocent people the bombs in his plane may have killed, about the kids playing or the mothers cooking or the men working in shoe factories. Never tells them about the crew in the fighters he shot down and watched break apart and burn. Never tells them about his own crew, killed when they crashed before being able to bail out.
They’re right, he never had to see any man’s face while he shot him, never had to watch hundreds of his comrades be picked off on either side of him. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have nightmares just the same.
Perfect World Escaflowne
Hogan tells every new man straight off the day he’s admitted to the big secret of the camp: We’re not here to save the world. We’re not here to right all wrongs and protect all innocents. We’re here to do the jobs we’re given, and only the jobs we’re given, in the knowledge that the part we play will contribute to the world we all want.
They all work with that knowledge stamped firm and deep in their brains. This is not a crusade, this is not a mercy mission, this is not a personal vendetta. Sometimes, bad things happen and you just have to let them. They can request authorization to help those they’re able to, but that’s it. And if the answer comes back no, then answer is no, end of discussion.
It doesn’t really make anything easier. In fact, it makes it a hell of a lot harder.
I Will Survive Gloria Gaynor
Counterintuitive as it sounds, every man in the camp spends two weeks in actual solitary at some point. No visits, no extra food, nothing but what he takes in with him.
A lot of the men think it’s a weeding-out procedure. A test to see who can handle their work, and who can’t. In a small way that’s true – Hogan sees to it that the very few men who break are transferred out.
Really, though, it’s not a test at all. It’s training. It’s something to fall back on if they’re ever captured. A tiny body of experience and strength to allow them to wait out rescue: I survived that, I can survive this.
Hogan has no idea if it works, if it’s at all valuable. But apart from basic interrogation training, it’s quite simply the only thing he can do to proactively help protect his men from that eventuality.
Drunk Again Reel Big Fish
Sometimes, men fall through the cracks.
Hogan blames the situation, blames their mission, blames the wire that traps them here and the monsters out there on the other side who are responsible for its being rolled out. Mostly, though, he blames himself.
Stalag 13 is, as even the Luft Stalags go, an easy life. As regular posts go, it’s hell. They have few diversions, few pleasures, and few escapes – even the great one that gives POWs hope is denied to them, and Hogan thinks that all their little comforts don’t even come close to making up for that denial.
The men aren’t supposed to have drink, but there are ways even in here of getting it. And its always those who shouldn’t have it who are the most desperate to find it, and as in any situation desperation gets results. Sometimes he catches it in time, and gets the men transferred out to a camp where they’ll have a chance of escaping.
Sometimes he doesn’t, and for the good of his own organization he ruins the escape attempts of his own men and turns them over to Klink. If he’s lucky, he twists Klink into assigning them one of the looser camps. He’s not always lucky.
Hallelujah, Rufus Wainright
In his spare time, Klink writes music. Violin sonatas mostly – he doesn’t have the background to add accompaniment, at least not without a piano to work it out on. Sometimes just scraps of solos, sometimes full-blown concertos. He’s always held the dream of escaping from his number-juggling positions to the stage. To someday performing a piece of his own before an admiring audience, maybe even of generals.
After a long day’s work being bullied by Hogan and harried by Shultz, he goes back to his quarters and unlocks his desk, pulls out the sheets of lined paper and uncaps his pen. Holds it, in silence, like a baton for several minutes. And then, with a sharp scribble, begins to write.
Renegade, Styx
Carter hates the cooler. He’s never told any of the others, because he has enough problems and messes up enough missions without the added burden of not being able to stand the cooler. But he can’t.
His last Stalag – Luft Stalag 9 – used the cooler as punishment as well. But there were no tunnels in Stalag 9, no chances to have books or balls or cards passed up for entertainment, and no one stopping by for chats. He spent a month in the cooler upon arrival, as an example to the rest of his group. That month of entirely solitary confinement nearly killed him.
He doesn’t bring it up, and he takes his cooler sentences without complaint, with the knowledge that Colonel Hogan will do his best to have them shortened, and even if he can’t there’s always the tunnel and the guys to keep him from being alone.
He still shudders when he hears the key turn in the lock behind him.
Kiki’s Delivery Service Opening Theme
LeBeau runs a delivery service out of the Stalag for a whole month when they need to bring in some real currency for the forging department. He takes orders through Franz and Hanna at the bakery for a whole range of delicacies – although nothing too delicate to survive transport. Crepes Suzette are his main item, packed carefully in a basket and easily warmed in the oven upon delivery. He even has a bicycle stashed in the woods a mile from the Emergency Tunnel with a basket fixed on for the purpose.
Of course in the end they get all the money they need, and the bicycle is found by a patrol and commandeered by Klink, and constantly cooking on the sly becomes too much trouble anyway.
But it was fun while it lasted.
Push, Moist
Hogan spends three quarters of his time at Stalag 13 pushing the envelope. Sometimes it’s on behalf of London, sometimes his men, sometimes himself. Sometimes, it’s even on behalf of Klink or Shultz or the entire Guard. He pushes Klink until they’re right up against the edge of the cliff, and sometimes he pushes him over and then has to figure out how to reel him back up again.
He hardly notices he’s doing it anymore. His automatic response to any deadline is to shorten it, his automatic response to any statement to argue. Nothing is impossible, nothing is too soon, nothing is too expensive.
Hogan worries he’ll push too far one of these days, and fall right off the cliff himself. Problem is, he doesn’t know how to stop anymore.
Moskau, Moskau Dschinghis Khan
Shultz gets assigned to the Russian Front and actually gets halfway there once, before he’s withdrawn by a mysterious turn-around in orders which no one questions, least of all himself.
He spends the brief days before his reassignment tying up his financial affairs, trying to arrange an allocation funds for his wife and children which will provide them with enough regardless of the outcome of the war. Finishes the toy he was making for his youngest daughter and gives it to her even though it’s not her birthday, and watches with a twisting heart as she gives it a puzzled look and then bursts into tears. Teaches, despite his misgivings, his two sons to fire both a pistol and his rifle and arranges with his neighbour to keep weapons for them in case of the worst. Apologizes to his wife for all the trouble he’s given her, until she chases him out of the kitchen with watery eyes. Says goodbye to the Kommandant, and receives to his shock genuinely kind words from him.
Shultz spends the entire train ride wondering whether he could have done anything to leave his family in a more secure position, could have saved more and spent less, could have taught the children more of what they need to know.
He’s taken off the train at Warsaw and turned around, to his mystification. He spends the entire ride back deciding how to make those changes.
AS FOR ONE DAY, Morning Musume
They talk about it all the time.
“When this is over, I’ll go home and set up my own pharmacy!”
“When this bloody war wraps up, I’m gonna look up every bird I’ve ever known – in the same day!”
“I will set up a restaurant, the very top of haut cuisine, so exclusive the waiters do not even know how to smile!”
“I’ve been thinking of going into radio – you know, legitimate broadcasting instead of all this underground business. There’s a real market for that back home.”
They dream about the meals, the girls, the hot showers, the girls, the changes of clothes, the girls. The dream about no more delousings, about no more barbed wire, about no more roll calls and exercise drills and work details.
Mostly, all any of them really want, is freedom.
