Papa Bear
Awards 2011
A Mission
Briefing Gone Awry
“Boy, I'm so excited!”
Carter's eyes beamed in his soot black face. “How many stories did London again
say we'd get?”
“Two hundred and six,” Kinch
whispered back. “And keep your voice down, will you? We don't want to alert the
Krauts!”
“Sorry. But two hundred and
six! London'd better not give us any missions these weeks, or we'll never get
through them.”
“Ssh! Quiet now!” Hogan
hissed up front. He squatted down behind an evergreen bush, and his four men
followed his example.
“How long till the plane gets
here?” Newkirk whispered.
Hogan glanced at his watch.
“A few minutes. LeBeau, you got the flashlight ready?”
“Oui, Colonel.”
“Good. Then everybody quiet
now. Especially you, Carter!”
“Aye, sir.”
They crouched down behind the
bushes, eagerly looking up at the sky. The night was dark; the moon wouldn't go
up until later. A little animal rustled the dead leaves as it scurried past,
and a cold, soft drizzle began to fall.
“Hurry up, you stupid plane.
I'm freezing,” Newkirk muttered.
“I believe I hear something.”
They all pricked their ears
at Kinch's quiet announcement. And yes, there it was: the unmistakable soft
rumbling sound of an approaching Allied plane.
“LeBeau?”
“Ready, Colonel.”
Hogan peered up at the
nightsky through his binoculars. “Here it comes. LeBeau?”
Three short flashes of light
beamed up at the black sky.
“Yep. Package thrown out,”
Hogan reported.
Soon they could all
distinguish the black parachute floating down against the dark of night.
“It's going to come down
right over there,” Carter pointed.
“Yes. But you know
procedures: we wait till it's hit the ground. No use giving ourselves away when
we can't even reach the package yet,” Hogan warned.
Nobody replied to that – they
were all well aware that the woods bordering this little patch of heath could
be crawling with Kraut patrols at any time.
And it was a good thing that
they stayed put, for suddenly, a powerful light beam from the woods beyond
captured the parachute and its precious load.
“Jürgens! Köhler!” a command
sounded. In a nasty, all too familiar voice...
Hogan and his men didn't move
a muscle – they barely dared to take a breath as they lay there behind their
bush. But their thoughts were running rampant.
Hochstetter? Hochstetter who got hold of the stories
for the Papa Bear Awards? Oh my... Not only would that mean the uncovering of
their entire organization and the death of a lot of their allies, but it would
most likely leave the hated major in a terrible mood as well. If the authors
had been ridiculing him as badly as last year, with infamous stories along the
lines of The Many Deaths of Wolfgang
Hochstetter...
“Na, what do we have here?”
they heard Hochstetter demand. “A large package. A heavy package thrown out of an Allied plane. No doubt it contains
knick-knacks to aid that horrible Hogan in his pointless little crusade against
our glorious Third Reich.” A pause in which they heard cords snap, and the
breaking of wood. “Aha! Some kind of secret files! Jürgens, Köhler, search the
area. They must be around here somewhere to pick up this package. And I will
finally, finally have my proof!”
“Better get out of here,”
Hogan breathed. And stealthily, quiet but fast, the five black shadows got up
and disappeared into the night without a sound.
Back in his office at Gestapo
headquarters in Hamelburg, Major Hochstetter dumped the crate filled with
documents on his desk. He smiled – a cold-hearted, satisfied little smile.
“This will be the end of your annoying capers, Colonel Hogan. Just let me get a
cup of coffee to celebrate your inevitable downfall!”
He put away his overcoat, got
a cup of Ersatz coffee from the canteen, and sat himself behind his desk. “Well
now, let's see what we have here.” He took the top paper from the pile, and
read:
TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP
SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET
And sniggered. Top secret
alright, oh yeah. And then another line got his attention: PAPA BEAR AWARDS.
Papa Bear! These top secret
documents were intended for the infamous Papa Bear! And here he was, Wolfgang
Hochstetter, having confiscated the entire pile before that monster could lay
his hands on them! If this wasn't
going to hand him Hogan's head on a plate, nothing ever would!
So he quickly read on...
The barracks door swung open
and slammed into Newkirk and Carter's bunk.
"Hey Schultzie...!"
Newkirk started to complain, but Schultz didn't hear him.
"Where are the
stories?" He looked around, beaming with eager anticipation – much like a
child at Christmas Eve.
"What stories?"
LeBeau feigned ignorance and yawned loudly as he swung his short legs out of
bed.
"Cockroach, do not play
games with me. I saw you guys slip out last night, with my own eyes! All five
of you! But since it is the time of year for the Papa Bear Awards again, I
wisely decided that I had better see nothing. But now...!" He
looked under the table, opened a foot locker here and there, lifted up Carter's
blanket, Newkirk's blanket... "Where are they? I want to read and nominate
and vote, too! I love the Papa Bear Awards!"
"Well, we don't have
them." Newkirk scowled and pulled his blanket a little tighter around him.
Schultz gave him a
disapproving shake of the head. "Jolly joker. I know they must be here.
Where have you hidden them?"
"We haven't hidden them
anywhere, Schultz." Carter gave him a sad puppy look. "We don't have
them. Really!"
"You are bad boys; you
are only teasing me! Has your mother not taught you to share?"
"Sure." Kinch
jumped off his bunk. "But when there is nothing to share, then we all get
nothing."
"You didn't store them
in a place I'm not supposed to know about?"
Kinch raised his eyebrows.
"And what place would that be?"
Schultz stomped his foot.
"How should I know if I'm not supposed to know about it?" He glared
at every one of them in turn. "You are all mocking me! That is not nice!
Wait till the Kommandant hears about this!" He threw back his head and
bellowed, "Colonel Hogan!"
"Hey, is Colonel Hogan
the Kommandant of Stalag 13 now?" Carter's eyes shone at the possibilities
this opened up.
But there was Hogan, dressed
and all. "Schultz! What's with the yelling so early in the morning?"
"Colonel Hogan, the men
won't share the stories with their poor old Sergeant Schultz! Now why would
they be so mean? Am I not your best friend in all of Germany?"
Hogan sighed. "Because,
Schultz, we didn't get the stories."
Schultz's expression was one
big question mark. "Why not? Did they not arrive yet? I thought..."
"Oh, they did come
alright. We saw them – from a distance. But someone else got their hands on
them first."
"Who?"
"Major
Hochstetter."
Schultz's eyes slowly widened
as realization set in. "Major... Hochstetter...? Colonel Hogan, you are in
trouble! I am in trouble! If Major Hochstetter reads about
everything that I know nothing about, he will kill you all! And Colonel Klink
and I..." He faltered.
"Sent to the Russian
front probably," Newkirk completed for him as he peeled his first
cigarette of the day out of its pack.
Schultz whimpered and whined.
"Don't say that, Newkirk! Please!" He turned back to his
senior POW. "Colonel Hogan, what are you going to do?"
"Uh-oh..." Carter
already backed away from his lookout post at the door.
"What?" Newkirk
asked.
"There's major
Hochstetter..."
"About time,"
LeBeau muttered. "He's had those stories for weeks now."
"I bet he's been reading
them all. We haven't seen him for all those weeks either," Kinch commented
as Hogan got up to leave.
"I'd better go
straighten this out." Hogan zipped up his jacket. "And you guys, get
ready to evacuate. We might have to move quickly." And with that, he
quickly left the barracks for the Kommandant's office.
"Kommandant, can I... Oh, hi major! Haven't seen you around
for a while. Everything okay?"
"Everything is not
okay," major Hochstetter snarled at him. "What do you have to say
about this?"
Hogan took the paper
Hochstetter thrusted at him. "'What is this man doing here?´" he
read. And chuckled. "What – are you investigating a case of plagiarism?
That is your line after all."
"Or this."
"'Oh Major...´ Ha! Has
someone written a poem about you? I sure hope it was a love poem?"
"It was not a love
poem," Hochstetter growled. "And look at this. And this. And this.
And this one! And this!" He thrusted more and more papers at Hogan, who
had to juggle quite a bit to catch them all. "I am being ridiculed, Hogan,
and I promise you: heads will roll for this! Me being pictured as Scrooge, as
being devoured by a monster, being turned into a ghost, lying in a drunk stupor
outside the church, having trouble with a wife, having my mouth washed out with
soap... And worst of all..." He couldn't quite repress a shudder.
"Being pictured as an Allied agent..."
Klink's jaw dropped.
"You, major Hochstetter? An Allied agent?" He cackled a nervous
laugh. "Who would believe it?"
"You certainly have the
perfect cover for it," Hogan agreed with a clear hint of admiration.
"Playing the heartless Gestapo monster we know, you could have fooled us
easily."
Hochstetter positively
seethed. "I am a loyal German citizen, dedicated to uphold the ideals of
the glorious Third Reich! I am not – I repeat: not! – an Allied agent!"
Hogan shrugged.
"Whatever you say."
"But that is not
all." Hochstetter stroked the tender spot of his ulcer. Soon it would not
be bothering him anymore. "As I have always suspected and even known,
these documents contain positive and irrefutable proof that you, Colonel Hogan,
are indeed the menacing sabotage leader called Papa Bear. Now what do you have
to say to that, huh?"
"Impossible!" Klink
blustered out before Hogan could even open his mouth. "He is a prisoner!
In the toughest POW camp in Germany no less! There has never been an escape
from Stalag 13 – so how could Colonel Hogan commit sabotage on bridges and
tunnels and military depots and railroads, and all those other things you're
always ranting about? Impossible. Ridiculous!"
"He's right, you
know," Hogan chimed in. "Kommandant Klink has us completely cowed. We
can only dream of attempting such heroics. But since we can't even get out of
camp..."
"Paah! Your smooth
tongue will not save you now, Hogan. These stories give a detailed account of
all the crimes you and your men have been committed this past year. Written
documentation. If I can't get eye-witnesses, then written documentation will do
just as nicely to finally get my hands on you!"
"Major." Hogan
calmly shook his head. "You're not being logical about this."
"The Gestapo is not
known for being logical, Hogan."
"I agree. But since you
deny everything that's written about you in these documents, why should you
believe anything that's written in there about me?"
Hochstetter snorted.
"Because I want to. That's reason enough."
Hogan sighed. "Major
Hochstetter, shall I tell you what this really is?"
"No." A glare.
"Yes. Please do!"
Klink ventured.
"These are stories
written by the prisoners' grannies and greataunts. And a few of their mothers
and sisters. They are well aware that our spirits are thoroughly broken, and
that we'll never be able to get out of here. So to help us keep up our morale,
they write stories about us in which we perform all kind of heroics to thwart
our enemy. Just to let us escape into fiction when real life is so dull and
dreary. And hopeless."
"Exactly." Klink's
head bobbed up and down in eager agreement. "Totally hopeless. No one has
ever escaped from Stalag 13."
Hochstetter just looked very
unconvinced.
"Every once in a while
they send us those stories," Hogan continued. "We read them, and
decide which ones we think are the best. That's what we call the Papa Bear Awards
– after one of our dearest fancies…" He looked down and added in a
dejected tone, "That if I only had the guts, I could have been the
notorious underground leader Papa Bear."
Hochstetter fidgeted.
"But you are Papa Bear!"
"No, I'm not." A
sigh. "I wish I were."
"No, he's not,"
Klink threw in for good measure. "For goodness sake, major, he's a
prisoner! In the toughest POW camp in Germany! He couldn't possibly be Papa
Bear!"
Hochstetter scowled. "I
still think these stories are a threat to the Third Reich. The prisoners might
get ideas from them."
Another nervous cackle from
Klink. "Major Hochstetter, really! A network of tunnels under the camp?
Prisoners getting out of camp every night, and then back in again of their own
free will? A radio to contact London whenever they want to? Prisoners
impersonating German officers? Major, the next thing you'll be telling me is
that Colonel Hogan is occasionally picked up by an Allied airplane at night,
flown to London for a top meeting, and brought back in time for roll call! Now
do you expect me to believe that?"
"Besides," Hogan
added. "The Kommandant has us so cowed that we only get ideas that he
would approve of. Never, ever would it enter our minds to dig tunnels under the
camp. The mere idea is… well, shocking!"
Hochstetter snorted.
"I'll believe it when I see it." He turned to Klink. "Klink, I
will surround this camp with a ring of steel. Nobody gets to go in to this
camp, and nobody gets to go out – not until I have gotten to the bottom of
this."
"Good." Hogan
hoisted the crate full of stories under his arm. "That'll give us the
peace and quiet we need to read all this in only a week's time. The votes have
to be in by Saturday, you see." He prepared to leave, but Hochstetter's
screeching voice called him to a halt.
"Klink! Are you letting
him get away with this?"
"Of course not, major.
Of course not. Colonel Hogan, aren't you forgetting something?"
Hogan looked puzzled.
"What am I forgetting?"
A quick smile. "To leave
a handful of stories with me. I, too, like the Papa Bear Awards,
remember?"
Major Hochstetter practically
spat fire, but Hogan gamely handed the Kommandant a pile of papers. "Here
you go, Kommandant. Enjoy your reading. Oh, and major Hochstetter?"
"What!"
"Tell Hitler to put the
war on hold for a week, will you? We've got more important things on our mind
now."
"Exactly. First things
first, my mother always said," Klink mumbled as he leafed through his pile
of stories. Suddenly he chuckled. "This looks like a good one, Hogan. If
it's really good, I'll let you have it after me."
"Thank you, Kommandant.
And auf Wiedersehen, major."
And all that was left for
Hochstetter to do was to spat an angry, "Paah!" before he stomped out
of the office to start preparing his ring of steel.
"You get
it," Kinch mumbled, not taking his eyes from the paper.
"No, you get
it," was Baker´s muffled reply, since he rested his chin in his hand.
"No, you. I outrank you,
remember?"
"Only by time in rank.
Besides, you read faster. You´ll catch up quicker." Baker pulled the story
they were both engrossed in out of Kinch´s hand and continued reading by the
unstable light of the oil lamp.
And Kinch sighed. The buzz
alerting them to the incoming message grew more insistent by the second. Better
answer it.
He put on the headset and
took the mike. First this week's security recognition code, and then...
"Papa Bear, this is
Goldilocks. What took you so long?"
"We're busy," Kinch
replied evenly.
"Well, get Papa Bear for
me, will you?"
"I'll try." Kinch
nudged Baker. "Go get the Colonel."
"You go."
Kinch stretched his back.
"Rank has its privileges, remember? You go get the Colonel."
If looks could kill...
Baker pushed the story back
in Kinch's hands, and quickly jumped up the ladder. "Colonel!"
"Ssh!" came it from
several sides. Everybody was reading like crazy.
"Where's the
Colonel?" Baker whispered to Lebeau.
Lebeau wiped away a stray
tear. "Mort..." came the barely audible reply.
Baker raised his eyebrows,
and turned to Newkirk. "Newkirk?"
"Sod off. I'm having a
good time for a change: I'm playing a werewolf!" He bared his fangs and
growled.
Carter snickered. "I
love stories with animals. I've had one with an ostrich, and one with a
cockatoo. And this one's about a giant spider. Would you like to have it
next?"
"Maybe later. Kinch and
I are in the middle of a hairraising mission with some weird greenish guy with
pointy ears. Now where's the Colonel?
Carter pointed with his
thumb. "In his office, I believe. Hey!" He raised his voice.
"Anyone want to read this? It's nice and short. And funny! I'll trade it
for another comedy."
"I will!" Hammond
quickly took the paper from him and tossed him the story he had been reading.
"Hey, I've already read
that one! That's not fair!" Baker heard Carter protest as he made his way
over to the office.
A knock, a "Come",
and in he went. "Colonel, London is on the radio."
Hogan waved him away.
"Take a message."
"But they specifically
asked for you."
"Then they'll have to
wait. I'm in the middle of getting married."
Baker looked rather dumbfounded,
and Hogan heaved a sigh. "Tell them to call back on Sunday. Or at least after
tomorrow. Once we get our votes in, we'll go back to fighting the Nazis."
So quiet and desolated it was
inside the camp, so noisy and busy was it outside the perimeter. Dozens of
workers were putting up a solid iron fence of four meters high and ten
centimeters thick. Under the supervision of the Gestapo, the men welded the
heavy, unbreakable iron plates together to form a veritable 'ring of steel'
around the now quiet Luftstalag.
Hochstetter paced back and
forth between the workers, regularly getting terribly in the way, but nobody
had the guts to ask him to step aside.
"Schnell! Schnell! This
ring of steel must be in place before nightfall! And if there is any sign of
sabotage activity in the area tonight, I will shoot you all together with the
saboteurs!"
So the workers hurried, and
hurried, until...
"Major
Hochstetter?" their foreman ventured.
"What!"
"I'm afraid we have a
little problem."
"What!" Hochstetter
yelled again.
The man blinked.
"Look," he pointed.
Hochstetter marched over,
took in the situation before him, and shrieked at the top of his lungs,
"What is this treestump doing here?"
"Um... it's in the way,
sir."
Hochstetter kicked the
offending stump. Hard. "I can see it's in the way. You imbecile!
Now get some axes and shovels, and get it out! Now!"
With a heavenly sigh, LeBeau
sank down on one of the stools by the table. "C'est magnifique!" he
whispered in adoration, and held one of the stories close to his chest.
Carter looked up. "What
have you got there?"
A swooning glance in his
direction. "The most beautiful poem in the world..."
"Oh." Carter turned
back to his own scrap of paper with a frown.
"Aren't you going to ask
me to read it to you?" LeBeau huffed.
"What? Oh. Gee, maybe
later, LeBeau. It's only ten minutes till the PBA deadline, and I still haven't
made up my mind. I've only read through three categories – boy, there are so
many good ones! I just can't choose! I've got enough trouble picking my
favourites here; I don't need yet another category to worry about."
"Then promise me you'll
just vote for it, oui?" LeBeau pleaded.
"Oh blimey,"
Newkirk grunted from the top bunk. "Why would the guy want to vote for
your poem if he hasn't even read the bloody thing?"
LeBeau looked a little hurt.
"Because my girl-friend wrote it of course."
"Which one?"
"Christine."
"So why would Andrew
here want to vote for your girl-friend's poem?"
"Because she's beautiful.
And because she has never won anything in her life. I would like her to win at
least something this year."
"Then she'll simply have
to write a very good story. Or poem," Newkirk pointed out.
"But it is!" LeBeau
exclaimed. He jumped up and started pacing to emphasize his words. "Her
choice of words is exquisite! And rhyme and rhythm... perfect harmony! Your own
Shakespeare couldn't do better himself!"
Carter frowned in confusion.
"If it's that good, why would she need my ignorant vote to help her poem
win? Don't you trust the guys who've read all the poems to see how good
it is?"
"Exactly." Newkirk
chuckled. "You're cheating, Louis! Naughty, naughty!"
LeBeau gave them both a glare
and stomped away - his dear little poem pressed to his heart. "I'll get
back at you two – I promise! Tonight I'm going to make a special French
delicacy: escargots in octopus sauce!"
"Yuck!" Newkirk
screwed up his face in disgust.
But Carter heaved a sigh of
relief. "Finally. I've got it. These three are really, really the
best." He glanced at his watch. "Oops... Kinch! Hey Kinch! Wait for
me! I mean: wait for my votes!"
Outside the perimeter, a
fuming Hochstetter was overseeing the progress of the removal of that
treestump. With axes, shovels and a small handsaw, the workers were attacking
the offending stump. But with so many people working on it (Hochstetter's
orders), nobody had enough room to do a proper job, and so progress was slow.
After an hour of virtually
fruitless work, the foreman once again approached the Gestapo major.
"Major Hochstetter, with your permission..."
"What!"
"Um... would it not be
better to adjust the position of the iron plates, and set them up in an angle
to go around that treestump? If you want to have your ring of steel in
place by nightfall, we really can't afford to spend much more time on that
treestump."
Major Hochstetter scowled.
"Alright, go around that stupid stump then."
Relieved, the workers dropped
their tools and got back to welding the iron plates together. They worked as
fast as they could – it was less than an hour till sunset, and on a gloomy day
like this, dusk would set in soon. And nobody felt like getting shot together
with some infamous saboteurs tonight.
And they managed indeed. Just
as the last glimpse of sunlight disappeared behind the trees, the workers put
the final plate in place and welded it to its neighbours, thus closing
Hochstetter's ring of steel around the camp.
Hochstetter rubbed his hands
together in satisfaction. "Good. Excellent. That will be the end of
Hogan's escapades." He turned to the fence, where he sensed that his
archenemy was watching him. "Well, Hogan, what do you say now about my
ring of steel?"
Hogan cocked his head and
folded his arms across his chest. "Very efficient."
"Exactly. Nobody
will get out of this camp – ever again!"
Hogan nodded cheerfully.
"Including you, major. Welcome to Stalag 13. For you, the war is
over."
By the time major Hochstetter
was finally too much out of breath to further continue his rant, the entire
camp population had gathered at the fence to make fun of him.
"Well, what do you
suggest?" Hogan taunted. "We don't want you here any more than you
want to be here, so we'd be happy to help you escape, if you like."
"Uh-oh! Nobody escapes
from Stalag 13!" Klink chided him.
"Not even major
Hochstetter?" Newkirk inquired archly.
"Not even... Well, he's
not a prisoner."
"He is in my book,"
Hogan refuted. "He's locked up in a place where he doesn't want to be.
Doesn't that equal being a prisoner?"
Hochstetter fumed again.
"Hogan, you will pay for this!"
Hogan was the very picture of
innocence. "Why, what did I do?"
"I don't know yet, but
I'm sure it's all your fault!"
Hogan shrugged. "You're
the one who painted yourself into a corner – not me."
Hochstetter gave him one of
his glares. "Well, I may go easy on you if you help me get out of
here."
"Despite the no escape
record?"
"Despite the no escape
record."
"Alright." Hogan
looked around. "Anyone have any ideas?"
"I do," Carter
spoke up. "Why don't we chop down a tree, and then we have like twenty
prisoners hold it, and then we ram that wall? Ram right through it?"
"Out of the
question!" Hochstetter shrieked. "My ring of steel will not
come down!"
"Okay, so you'll have to
go over it. How about we tie a long rope around your waist, and throw the other
end over a sturdy branch near the wall. We pull you up, and you lower yourself
on the other side."
"We'd need a good strong
pulley for that, Colonel," Kinch pointed out. "He's too heavy to pull
up with our bare hands."
"There are some old
pulleys in the storage hut," Schultz volunteered.
"Good. Schultz, go get
one. And a long rope – some ten meters in length at least."
"I will tell Schultz
what to do, if you don't mind," Klink interrupted. "Schultz, go get
one of those pulleys. And a long rope – some ten meters in length at
least."
"Jawohl, Herr
Kommandant."
When Schultz returned, they
had already picked out a strong beech, with its lowest side branch as thick as
Kinch's muscular thigh. It stretched out over Hochstetter's infamous ring of
steel.
As usual, Hogan took charge.
"First we have to get that rope over the branch."
"I can do that."
Carter took the rope out of Schultz's hands. "Back when I was a kid, I was
a real pro at throwing the lasso. Once I even caught the..."
"Save your stories for
later, Carter. Just get that rope up there."
"Yes sir."
The first try missed. The
second didn't even reach as high as the branch. The third...
"Too bad you're not a
kid anymore," Newkirk sneered.
But at that moment the rope
went over the right branch, leaving Carter beaming.
Under Hochstetter's watchful
eye, Hogan brought the pulley in place, and finally, major Hochstetter tied one
end of the long rope around his waist.
"Okay guys. Ready,
major? And pull! Pull! Pull!"
Half a dozen prisoners pulled
up the hated Gestapo man until he dangled high above the ground, just out of
reach of his ring of steel.
A sudden gust of wind made
the flying major swing on his rope – no one had noticed that the wind had
picked up.
"Colonel Hogan!"
Hochstetter shrieked. "I do not like this swinging! Stop it at once!"
But before anyone could do
anything, another gust of wind took hold of the poor major. Only this time, he
swung out so far that the pulley entangled itself in the nearby branches...
The guys pulled as hard as
they could. The branches creaked ominously, but the pulley didn't move an inch.
"It's no use,
Colonel," Kinch reported. "It's stuck. We'll have to climb up the
tree to get it operational again."
"Really?" Hogan
smirked. "Well, no one can expect us to climb up a tree in the dark, can
they? Far too dangerous – someone might get hurt! I'm afraid we're going to
have to let the major dangling there for the night."
"What!" Hochstetter
was beside himself – his irate movements causing him to swing back and forth
even more. "Hogan, if you do not get me down this instant, I will
personally take you to Berlin for intensive questioning. Very intensive
questioning! Now get me down!"
Hogan shrugged. "Sorry.
Too high. But if you have a pocket knife, perhaps you can cut yourself
down?"
Hochstetter's eyes bulged.
"And fall what... five, six meters?"
Another shrug. "Your
choice. Meanwhile, while you're up there, could you perhaps serve as a lookout?
We're expecting a special air-drop tonight: a specially printed edition of the
Stalag 13 Gazette. If you're a good boy and stop your whining, we'll read it to
you for a bedtime story, okay?"
"Paah!"
"Enjoy your flight,
major!"
It was dark. The wind was
really picking up now, howling around the barracks, and making the barbed wire
sing. And way up high in the beech tree, poor major Hochstetter was swinging
back and forth, back and forth, on his rope.
He'd given up ranting. Nobody
was listening anyway, and what good is a performance if you have no audience?
Until he heard a roar over
the howling of the wind. From his high position, he saw the door of barracks 2
– Hogan's barracks of course – being opened wide, and several men skirting out
in the middle of the compound. And as the roar subsided (a plane?), the
adventure began all over again: with a large package on a parachute.
Quickly, Hogan's men freed
the bulk from the parachute, and pulled out the papers. He could hear their
cries of, "Yessss! That was my favourite, too!" and, "Hey, why
didn't my favourite win?"
Klink came out of the
Kommandantur and swaggered over to the enthusiastic group, ready to chide them
about being outside after roll call. Until he saw what they were so excited
about. The foolish Kommandant confiscated one of the papers, and eagerly leafed
through it, with that bumblehead Schultz looking over his shoulder.
And then one man separated
himself from the group, making his way to the now useless gate (who needed a
gate when the camp was surrounded by a ring of steel?). Apparently, that had
gone up for the guards, too, for they let the hated American pass without
question.
And of course, Hogan came
straight towards his tree.
"Hogan, get me
down!" Hochstetter ordered.
"Sorry, can't do."
Hogan smirked. " Too dangerous. In the dark, and with that storm? No
way!" He had to speak up real loud to make himself heard over the storm.
"But I'm here to help you pass the time till daylight. We've got in the
paper with the results of the Papa Bear awards. You want to hear which stories
won?"
Hochstetter gave him a sour
look. "No."
"Pity. I'm going to tell
you anyway." And Hogan folded out his paper and boomed:
The Stalag 13 Gazette
Special Edition!
Chosen as the best story of
2010:
RENDEZVOUS
by dust on the wind
the runners-up:
Reflections
by Limmet
&
The Short Fuse
by dust on the wind
and 3rd place:
The Man who Shot Anton Havel
by Sierra Sutherwinds
Our special congratulations to
these winners!
"When the storm
subsides," Hogan had said. But here he was – major Hochstetter – swinging
from a rope some six meters above the ground, and the storm seemed to have
little inclination to subside soon.
As a matter of fact, he was
getting seasick. Can one get seasick so far from the sea?
If only he would be a little
taller – if only he could reach his infamous ring of steel with his feet! Then
he'd just untie the rope around his waist and slide-jump down. And he'd be
free, and that nefarious Hogan would safely stay locked up.
But no matter how he tried to
aid the storm to swing him back and forth, the ring of steel he had erected
earlier today remained just out of his reach...
And that's when the idea
struck him. Only some twenty, thirty centimeters he needed, ja? So if he'd hold
himself with one hand higher up on the rope, he could untie the rope around his
middle with the other, and then let himself down on the rope till his feet
reached the ring of steel!
It was as desperate a plan as
any other. And as good a one – in fact, it was his first that did not involve
that hateful Hogan to 'help' him down. So he reached out and grabbed the rope
that hung down slack from the pulley. With a twist of his wrist he threw it
around his arm for extra grip, and once he felt secure he could hold himself,
he began to pull at the rope around his waist.
Untying a coarse rope with
one hand isn't easy. Especially not if you had put half a dozen knots on top of
each other to make sure it would hold on your trip across the ring of steel by
way of a high branch. And even more especially not if you've been impatient to
get out of your predicament for many hours.
But in the end, Hochstetter
succeeded, and immediately felt himself gliding down.
A startled, "Aah!"
escaped his lips, but his reflexes were good – he managed to grab the rope with
his free hand as well, and stop the sliding down.
Hanging down from two ends of
the same rope, Hochstetter first needed to assess his situation. He was still
high above the ground – too high to simply let go of the ropes. No. He needed
to get onto the top of his ring of steel, and from there...
The stormy wind that had
originally caused his exile up in the tree now came to his rescue. Swinging and
twirling in the wind as a dead leaf, Hochstetter was blown back and forth and –
after a few last minute chickening-outs, he dared to make the jump.
He shouldn't. He really
shouldn't have.
The hurried erection of his
infamous ring of steel, combined with the storm beating on it all night... and
now the sudden added force of major Hochstetter himself landing on its top...
It was too much. With a frightful clang, his ring of steel collapsed in a
simultaneous gust of wind. And with it all being welded together, the plates
fell one after another after another after another... until the entire ring of
steel lay flat on the ground, crushing leaves and branches under its weight.
The noise of its falling down
even beat the sounds of the howling wind, and immediately, the only two guards
of Stalag 13 left on duty rushed out of the open gate.
"The ring of steel – it
has come down!" Langenscheidt observed nervously. "What is major
Hochstetter going to say?"
Schultz sighed. "I don't
know." He thought for a moment. "Probably that Colonel Hogan is
responsible for it."
Langenscheidt followed the
dented iron plates, while Schultz took a breather on a treestump. But not for
long.
"Sergeant! Sergeant
Schultz!"
Schultz moaned. "What is
it?"
"Look at major
Hochstetter!"
Schultz cringed. But he did
get up to do his duty and see what Langenscheidt was talking about. What was
that awful major up to this time?
He didn't have to go far – he
found Langenscheidt hovering over a moaning, unconscious body lying on top of
the flattened ring of steel.
Langenscheidt gave Schultz a
nervous glance. "What is this man doing here?"
Schultz looked up the tree,
and saw the pulley and the ropes still swinging there in the wind.
And he turned his back on the
scene, and began to walk back to camp's perimeter. "I know nothing –
nothing!"
The
End
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦