Papa Bear
Awards 2013
The
Mission Briefing
From Russia, with Love
The wind howled over the
infinite white plain, hurtling the thin snowflakes hither and thither. A
dazzling white from one horizon to another, and in the middle of this too white
landscape, a small dot, struggling against the wind.
His hat pulled down, his
scarf covering everything of his face save for the eyes, he protectively
clutched the heavy bag he was carrying to his chest. He’d been told it was of
truly paramount importance that it would reach its destination. And to
accomplish that, the messenger struggled on, waist-deep in snow.
The temperature was way below
zero. His legs were numb, but go on he must. Up the rise and...
“Oompf!”
Spluttering, the messenger
sat up.
“Was...?” muttered the
snowmound he just tried to climb.
And there, before his very
eyes, rose none other than the feared snow giant from the Siberian tundra: Iwan
the Terrible. Huge, white, rumbling, overpowering, angry, and... shivering?
“Brr, it’s cold, isn’t it? I
must have dozed off for a moment, and look – I’m all snowed in already!”
The messenger scrambled to
his feet. “You’re a guard? Is this perhaps the 13th batallion then?”
“Um, jawohl, um...” The giant
leaned forward and brushed some snow off the visitor’s arm. “Jawohl,
Lieutenant. This is indeed the 13th batallion. Or what’s left of it.
Sergeant Schultz reporting, sir.” Iwan the Terrible saluted and in the process
shook off some of the snow, revealing the very portly figure of the one time
Sergeant of the Guard at Stalag 13.
“Good.” The messenger let out
a sigh of relief. “At least I’ve managed to complete my mission. I was ordered
to deliver this here.” He untangled himself from the bag he was carrying, and
handed it over to the guard.
“What’s this?” Schultz eyed
the bag suspiciously. “It’s heavy. Is it food?”
“It’s the Papa Bear Awards.
Sign here, bitte.”
Schultz’s face lit up as that
of a child on Christmas Eve. “The Papa Bear Awards? Oh! So Colonel Hogan has
not abandoned us – he... Kommandant!” He took off, trashing through the snow on
his snow shoes. “Kommandant Klink! Wake up! The Papa Bear Awards are here!”
“Hey, wait! You haven’t
signed yet!” the messenger cried.
But Schultz had already burst
into one of the little snow humps. “Kommandant! The Papa Bear Awards are here!”
“Schultz!” came a grumbling
voice from inside, followed by a loud sneeze. “What happened to the art of
knocking?”
“Verzeihung, Kommandant, but
knocking on snow doesn’t have the same effect as knocking on a door.”
“I don’t care what effect it
has. Just make sure you knock before you come rushing in.”
“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.”
“Now go outside again and
knock before you enter.”
“But Herr Kommandant...”
“Now!”
“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.”
But before he could wriggle
himself back out of the narrow entrance, somebody else came crawling in.
“Sergeant, you didn’t... Oh, good morning, sir. Lieutenant Schwanzenstolz
reporting.”
“Go back!” Schultz hissed at
him. “We have to knock before entering the Kommandant’s snow hut.”
“Oh, Schultz, don’t be
ridiculous. Come in, Lieutenant. At ease.”
Schultz raised his eyebrows
in surprise. “How come he doesn’t have to knock?”
“Because he’s not you. Now,
Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”
Lieutenant Schwanzenstolz
shrugged. “A hot drink would be nice. But all I really need is for your
Sergeant to sign for the acceptance of the Papa Bear Awards.”
Klink sat up so suddenly that
it looked like a bedspring just pinched him. (Not that they did have bedsprings
at the Russian front of course.) “The Papa Bear Awards?” he stammered. “Did you
say the Papa Bear Awards? Oh, Schultz, Colonel Hogan has not forgotten about us
after all!”
Schwanzenstolz frowned.
“Colonel Hogan? That name sounds awfully English.”
“It is.” Klink beamed. “It’s
American. He’s the Senior Prisoner of War in the prison camp I used to
command... my dear old Stalag 13...”
Schwanzenstolz’s eyes
narrowed. “And you refer to this Amerikaner as a friend who hasn’t forgotten
about you?”
“A friend? Oh, no! No. Not a
friend!” Klink whinnied. “But when I got posted at the Russian front, he
promised he’d send us the stories for the Papa Bear Awards as a comfy reminder
of home. Of my old life as the toughest POW Kommandant in all of Germany.” He
looked around. “So where is it? The package, I mean.”
Schwanzenstolz nodded to
Schultz. “I gave it to the Sergeant. But he still needs to sign for it.”
“I’ll sign for it,” Klink
rushed out. “Now, Schultz, where is the package. Stories, Schultz – from home!”
“Um... it’s outside,
Kommandant. It hasn’t knocked yet, you see, so I thought...”
“Dummkopf! Go get it!”
“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.”
Schultz crawled back outside, and returned with a bulging bag full of papers.
“Here you are, Kommandant.”
“Oh, Schultz...” The
Kommandant had tears in his eyes, which didn’t improve his ability to open the
bag’s clasps. But finally he got them undone, and pulled out a huge stack of
papers. “Look, so many stories! And there’s a little note, too – from Colonel
Hogan. ‘Dear Kommandant and Sergeant
Schultz,’ it says. ‘As promised, one copy
of this year’s stories competing for the Papa Bear Awards. Please let us know
your nominations by Friday, March 1st. The list of categories can be found in the attachment,
and remember, only one (1) nomination per category! Only for the quotes are you
allowed to send in three (3). There’s about 150 stories here, so we hope
they’ll keep you warm through the Russian winter. And as a special treat, we’ve
thrown in a special anniversary category this year, choosing the best of the 10
winners from the past editions. See the attachments for details!
‘Wishing you all the best,
Col. Robert E. Hogan (temp. ret.)’
“A hundred and fifty stories,
Schultz!”
“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.”
“What kind of stories would a
prisoner of war send his former enemy Kommandant?” Schwanzenstolz wanted to
know.
“Very simple, Lieutenant: the
kind of stories in which the prisoners are the heroes, by committing sabotage
and espionage right under the noses of their jailors. Fiction, of course.
Completely harmless. It was one of my schemes to keep the prisoners where they
belong. One they actually enjoyed. It’s no coincidence that no one ever escaped
from Stalag 13, you know!”
“Then what, may I ask, is a
crackerjack prison camp Kommandant doing at the Russian front?”
Klink’s cheeks reddened.
“Yeah, well, that was all a mistake. Let’s not get into that, shall we? We’d
better start reading if we want to read all of this before March 1st!”
He pushed a few stories in Schultz’s eager hands, a few in Schwanzenstolz’s...
“Why me?” the man protested.
“Read it!” the Kommandant
ordered. “If only to learn how to run a prison camp. That could only come in
handy the next time you’re up for a promotion!”
“But...!”
“Read it, I said! Or would
you rather go straight back out there in the freezing cold to return to your
outfit?”
Schwanzenstolz shivered.
“Maybe not.”
“Then read it. Here.”
“But that letter was talking
about categories and nominations and I know not what! I don’t know all these
things!”
“Here.” Schultz handed him a
few loose sheets. “The PBA for Beginners will help you out. And here’s a
description of what’s expected of you. Even a page with Frequently Asked
Questions.”
“Yes,” Klink chimed in. “Now
let us read in peace, will you? We’d like to imagine ourselves back at our cozy
little Stalag 13...”
Schwanzenstolz looked at the
papers in his hands. “Escapists...” he muttered. But his curiosity won out by
far over his wish to brave the icy cold again, and with a fatalistic sigh, he
began to read the instructions for the Papa Bear Awards. Starting with The Papa Bear Awards for Beginners.
"I don't get it,"
Schwanzenstolz muttered. Sure, he was nicely curled up in a blanket, with a
volumous stack of papers in front of him by the light of a paraffin lamp. But
this story he was reading was plain weird!
"Ssh," was all he
got in reply from his snow hut mates.
He rolled his eyes. It sure
beat struggling through the snow and the icy wind to be here with these two
escapists and read stories - but this story just didn't make sense! So many
oddities, and what was the actual point of view? It seemed to be a different
story - albeit along similar lines - with every chapter that he turned!
He sidled up to the big
sergeant. "Serge, just tell me. Are you acquainted with this Fanfic Court
thing?"
"Oh!" Schultz
chuckled. "Well, that's a good one to start with - not! Anyway, the
previous version sure had its funny moments. This one, too?"
Schwanzenstolz sighed.
"I don't know. I can't seem to make heads or tails of it."
"Here. Let me have a
look." Schultz put down his own precious reading material and leafed
through the volumous stack representing Fanfic Court II. "Here - look.
They've included a list who wrote what chapter. It's a group effort, this one.
If you read the story following one author at the time, I'm sure it'll make
more sense."
Schwanzenstolz looked glumly at
the last page. "Boy, this is complicated. But I suppose this'll
help."
He was talking to a warm hat
and a helmet, for Schultz had already returned to his own tale.
And Schwanzenstolz sighed.
"Okay, let's see which author I'm going to follow through this court story
first."
"Ssh!" came the
reaction from his two snow hut mates. "We're reading!"
"Hey Sergeant,"
Schwanzenstolz whispered. "Can I ask you something?"
"Hmm."
"How do we send in our
nominations?"
"By PM of course."
"PM?"
"Yes." Schultz
sighed. "Pigeon Mail. Donnerwetter, these pigeons..."
"Why? What's wrong with
them? Do they get lost? I thought that pigeons were supposed to be able to find
their way home no matter where they are!"
"No. No, it's not that.
They just have a habit of eating the return address off the messages they
carry. No matter how
you tie the message on to them, they seem to know
where the return address is - and just eat it! Makes it a bit difficult, you
know, for the organizers to send a confirmation. And to have the proof that we
are who we say we are."
Schwanzenstolz bit his lip.
"Eerie pigeons if you ask me. I bet they're an Allied invention, aren't
they. How come we don't know anything about such pigeons?"
Schultz shrugged. "I
don't know. I prefer to know nothing."
"So is there anything we
can do to stop them from eating the return address?"
"Yep. Disguise it, so
that it doesn't look like an address anymore. It seems to work so far. They
haven't caught on to us yet. Or else we can send in our nominations directly by
E-mail."
"E-mail? What's
that?"
"Elk Mail. A very
special construction, where you have to set up wires from one elk to another,
all the way to where you want to send your message. And then you send your
message by that wire. A bit like a telegraph. It's safer for one thing: the
elks don't eat the messages. But it'd take an awful lot of elks to get a
message all the way from Russia to Hamelburg..."
Schwanzenstolz looked
doubtful, and Schultz sighed. "I don't know, I've never tried it. But we
know from previous occasions that PM's and E-mail can be used to send in one's
nominations. But back in camp, we always used the radio."
"A radio? But..."
Schultz sighed. "Don't
worry about it, Lieutenant. We'll find a way. For now, just read on, will
you?"
Meanwhile, back at Stalag
13...
"Colonel? Are you down
here?"
"Yes, Carter, come on
down - if no one is watching, that is."
Carter hurried down the
ladder, and quickly pulled the mechanism to close the trap door again.
"How's it going, Colonel?"
Hogan sighed. "Not good.
With that radio truck sitting right outside camp, we can't contact London to
pass on our nominations."
"Boy, that Captain
Gruber really knows how to spoil a fun game, doesn't he..."
"Yeah, we couldn't get
him to read even one
of the stories," Kinch sighed.
"It would have given us
some leeway to get some missions done, if we could get him engrossed in these
stories," Hogan agreed. "Anyway, how are things upstairs? Any new
decisions on nominations yet?"
"Yes, that's why I
wanted to see you. I've got my list ready. But boy, was it difficult to make a
decision!"
"Good, give it to Kinch.
He'll transmit them to London as soon as the aether is free again." He
turned to their radioman. "How many do we have in now, Kinch?"
"With Carter's included
- nine," was Kinch's sober reply.
"Only nine?"
Carter's face opened up. "That's not much, is it? But then, I suppose most
people are still busy reading. It's still awfully quiet upstairs."
"And they still got
another week." Kinch glanced through Carter's list. "Hey, I was going
to nominate that one, too!"
"Well, maybe if everyone
likes it, we can make it win together!" Carter grinned. "By the way,
Colonel, have you heard from the Kommandant yet? And Schultz?"
"Nope. We sent them a
whole cage full of pigeons, but none of them have returned here yet."
"Let's hope the freezing
Russians haven't shot them down and used them for supper," Kinch murmured.
"Or maybe they'll fly
straight to London. Hey!" Carter jumped up. "Why can't we use pigeon mail to send our
nominations to London?"
"Carter..." Hogan
sighed. "In case you hadn't noticed - Kommandant Klink has been replaced,
and we haven't had enough time yet to train his successor to be equally
cooperative for the Allied war effort."
Carter scowled. "Boy,
are you right. This place is almost like a prison nowadays." His face
brightened again. "Well, at least we got a lot of good stories to pass the
time!"
Back in Russia, where (on
February 27th, 2013) it is by now well above freezing during the day...
"Schultz, are you
ready?"
"Almost, Herr
Kommandant." Schultz sighed, and kept glancing back and forth between the
two sets of papers in his hand. "It's just so difficult to make up my
mind."
"But the pigeon really
needs to go now," Schwanzenstolz agreed. "Or it will never make it
back to the Düsseldorf area before midnight on Friday."
"Midnight Hawaii time -
that's practically midday in Hamelburg," Schultz corrected.
"Still, we have to count
with bad weather. There might be another snow front moving in,"
Schwanzenstolz pointed out.
Schultz sighed.
"Alright, alright..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Eenie meenie
minie mo..." He peeked with one eye. "Okay, this one wins. This will
be my nomination for the best story of the year." He gazed at the story
with the pride of a new father. "Yes. It would be a worthy winner."
"It hasn't won yet,
Schultz." The Kommandant sounded irritated. "Now jot down that last
one and let's get that pigeon outside."
Obediently, Schultz did as he
was told. The Kommandant took his list and rolled it into the little cylinder,
and while Schwanzenstolz held the cooing bird, he tied it onto the pigeon's
neck.
"Okay. Ready to go.
Schultz?"
"Yes, Herr
Kommandant?"
"You go out and point
that pigeon in the right direction."
Schultz's eyes grew wide.
"Me, Herr Kommandant? Herr Kommandant, out here in the middle of a snowy
nowhere, I wouldn't know the difference between up and down! And you expect me to...?"
Another exasperated sigh.
"Let's just hope that pigeon has at least the amount of sense God gave the
geese." And to Schultz, "Schultz! Take out that pigeon and set him
free. He'll find his way home to Stalag 13, with or without your help." A
shiver. "He'll have to!"
"Jawohl, Herr
Kommandant." With an unhappy face, Schultz started to do a backwards crawl
out of the snow hut. His teeth immediately started chattering. "Brrr...
I'm not even outside yet and my feet are already frozen again. That poor
pigeon..."
Schwanzenstolz handed it to
him as he was nearly outside. Schultz took it, and petted its pretty silvergrey
head. "Now you go and fly home to Colonel Hogan, right? You be a good
pigeon, and no detours or love escapades until you are..."
"Schultz!"
Schultz sighed. "Jawohl,
Herr Kommandant." With his hands full of pigeon, he began to try and
wriggle the last bit out of the snow hut, until...
"Um... Herr
Kommandant?"
"What!"
"Herr Kommandant... I
think I'm... stuck!"
"Push!" the
Kommandant ordered, as both he and Schwanzenstolz crowded in the narrow
entrance of the snow hut. "Schultz, hold your breath. And maybe... Ouch!
Stupid pigeon!"
Whatever else he wanted to
say as her jerked upright following the pigeon picking him was lost in a sudden
collapse of the snow roof above them.
"Ruckoo! Ruckoo!"
The pigeon was the first to get out of the snowy mess.
"Stop him!" the
Kommandant yelled.
"Um... why,
Kommandant?" Schultz asked as he shook the snow out of his helmet.
"We wanted the pigeon to go free - to go home to Stalag 13, didn't
we?"
"But nobody escapes
from... Oh. Yes. Quite." The Kommandant shook the snow out of his hair.
"But what are we going to do now? You're too fat for the front - I've
always said so!"
Schultz's face fell. "I
couldn't agree more, Kommandant. But maybe..."
"Yes?"
"Maybe we could follow
the pigeon home?"
Klink gasped. "You mean
desert?"
Schultz fumbled a bit.
"Well, not quite. But what good are we doing here? There are no Russians
in sight to fight. We'd be of much more use guarding prisoners in Stalag 13,
wouldn't we?"
A sudden grin spread over the
Kommandant's face. "Schultz, that is an excellent idea. Schwanzenstolz -
you're with us now. As a messenger, you must know the route back home, in case
we lose sight of that pigeon." He halted. "Pigeon? Schultz, we better
get after him quick!"
Back at Stalag 13...
"Colonel! Colonel!
Everyone, gather around!"
Kinch sat down again, pulled
off his headphones and put the radio on speaker.
"What? What's up?"
Carter wanted to know.
"The Papa Bear Awards –
the nominations are in! Quick, get everyone together!"
"But Captain Gruber
is..."
"Who cares about Captain
Gruber?" Newkirk scoffed. "Come on, let's go and get everyone!"
Soon, all the men from
barracks 2 (and from quite a few other barracks) were gathered around the
radio. "Go ahead, Mama Bear," Kinch said. "We're waiting with
baited breath."
And London announced:
THE NOMINATED WORKS
"Kommandant,"
Schultz panted as he struggled to put his snow shoes on. "Perhaps we
should have kept the pigeon on a leash. It's going way too fast for us to keep
up with it."
Schwanzenstolz snorted, and
Klink let out a howl of frustration when the strap of his own snow shoe slipped
out of his half frozen hand. "Schultz! That pigeon needs to get to Stalag
13 pronto prontissimo! We can't keep it on a leash! But you're right in one
thing - we mustn't lose sight of it. Come on, let's go."
"But Herr Kommandant,
your snow shoes aren't tied yet!"
"Never mind about those
snow shoes." Klink thrusted the cumbersome footgear aside. "I'm not
half as heavy as you are - the snow will hold up my weight." He climbed
out of the ruins of the snow hut, tucked his riding crop under his arm, and
with a rallye cry he dashed forward in the direction the pigeon had flown off
to. "For Hogan, Stalag 13 and the Papa Bear Awards!"
And the next moment he sank
into the snow up to his waist...
"Schuuuultz!" he
bellowed, futilely waving his arms and his riding crop around. "Get me out
of here!"
Schultz and Schwanzenstolz
were at his side in a moment, and with combined strength, they pulled their
commanding officer out of his predicament.
"Now, Kommandant,"
Schwanzenstolz began. "If you're going to walk on..."
But Klink ignored him.
"Come on, Schultz - let's go home!" One step and...
"Schuuuultz!"
Again, Schultz and
Schwanzenstolz came to his rescue.
"Careful, Herr
Kommandant," Schultz panted once they got him on top of the snow again.
"The Russian snow is very treacherous."
"But it's not going to
best me!" Klink boasted, and he took yet another step westwards, only
to...
It gets repetitive, but
Schultz and Schwanzenstolz - both prudently wearing their snow shoes - had to
come to the Kommandant's rescue at his every step. And this happened more than
fifty times before the Kommandant finally gave up - we certainly have to give
him credit for his persistence.
"Kommandant,"
Schwanzenstolz said at last. "Let me go back to the snow hut and get you
your snow shoes. Surely you've come to realize by now that we're never going to
make it out of Russia without them."
Klink nodded in defeat as he
hung onto Schultz. He didn't dare to take another step, for justified fear that
he'd sink waist deep into the snow again immediately.
Schwanzenstolz quickly made
for the snow hut again (they had only progressed some fifty meters, thanks to
the Kommandant's continuous snow drownings), and in these wide white
surroundings of the Russian tundra, a shivering Klink suddenly became confident
with his Sergeant.
"Schultz... how do you
think things are going in Stalag 13?"
"I'm sure they are going
fine, Herr Kommandant. Although..." He hesitated, but continued with
pride, "Probably not as good as they did when we were there to keep the
prisoners in line."
Klink scowled. "I'm sure
that toad of a Gruber has already had dozens of prisoners escape. From *my*
escape proof camp, of all things! How dare he!"
"Yes, Kommandant - how
dare he!" Schultz wisely agreed.
"Schultz... do you think
there is a chance I will get my old command back? And you your post as Sergeant
of the Guard?"
Schultz's face turned
thoughtful. "I do not know, Herr Kommandant. That is up to General
Burkhalter. But if I know Colonel Hogan, I'm sure he'd be happy to help us get
back. For I don't think he likes Captain Gruber very much."
Klink's face beamed a little.
"Do you think he likes me more than Captain Gruber?"
Schultz closed his eyes.
"I know nothing, Herr Kommandant. Let us just say - the strawberries are
always bigger on the other side of the fence. I know he was always saying how
much he hated you for being his jailor and a German. But now that he's had to
deal with Captain Gruber for a while, maybe he has come to realize you weren't
so bad after all."
Klink nodded. "War does
strange things to people, Schultz. Who would have thought that I would ever
long for that dreary old Stalag of mine? Or to see that meddlesome American
colonel again who has made my life a misery so many times?"
The wind howled over the
infinite white plain, hurtling the thin snowflakes hither and thither. A
dazzling white from one horizon to another, and in the middle of this too white
landscape, three small dots, struggling against the wind.
"Leutnant
Schwanzenstolz," the biggest of the dots panted. "Ist es noch
weit?"
The man in front of him
turned around, happy to have his face out of the snow for a moment. "Nein,
Sergeant, es ist nicht weit mehr."
The man up front sighed, and
the three men struggled on again in silence.
"Leutnant
Schwanzenstolz," the biggest man panted after a while again. "Ist es
noch weit?"
"Nein, Sergeant, es ist
nicht weit mehr."
He sighed, and the man in
front of him grunted. And on they struggled, through the too white landscape.
It may be late March by now, but the sixty hour snowstorm from last weekend was
nothing one tends to associate with a beginning spring. They'd had to huddle it
out in a deserted farmer's hut - freezing, with teeth chattering, and very
little to eat. But at least they were out of the storm and out of the snow for
a while.
Now they were on their way
again. Hopefully still in the right direction, but with the sun glaring in the
hardblue sky, at least they could orientate themselves reasonably well.
Westwards they wanted - back home, back to Germany!
"Leutnant
Schwanzenstolz?" the fat sergeant interrupted his train of thought again.
"Ist es noch weit?"
He sighed. "Nein, nicht
weit mehr, Sergeant." And the Kommandant in front of him rolled his eyes.
In truth, they had no idea. They could be anywhere between Belorussia, Poland,
the Ukraine - or maybe already in Germany? No... these kind of weather conditions
were extremely rare in their beloved Germany - even in midwinter. Surely sixty
hour blizzards did not occur in Germany this late in the year?
"Leutnant
Schwanzenstolz?" the sergeant began again. "Ist es noch weit?"
Suddenly, the Kommandant up
front snapped. "Ja! Noch sehr
weit!"
With that, he stomped on,
leaving the lieutenant to hide his chuckle, and the sergeant with a sad
puppy-dog look on his face...
"Leutnant
Schwanzenstolz," Schultz began again. "Ist es noch weit?"
Schwanzenstolz sighed, but in
front of him, Kommandant Klink suddenly pointed ahead. "Look! A road
sign!"
"Good!"
Schwanzenstolz said. "I have a feeling we've been going around in circles
lately."
They quickly made their way
to the road sign up ahead, and Klink's face lit up in a bright grin.
"Düsseldorf! That's the direction we need to go. We turn right here!"
"What? It can't
be!" Schwanzenstolz argued. "You said it's Stalag 13, right? That means it must
be in Bayern, for 13 is the military designation for Bayern. So we have to take
the left road!"
"Nonsense." Klink
waved his protests away. "Who's been Kommandant there for years? And I
wouldn't know where my own camp was? Hah! I'll have you know that my Stalag 13
is located near Düsseldorf!"
"But that goes against
all military regulations!"
"I don't care about
military regulations. Schultz!"
"Jawohl, Herr
Kommandant?"
"Tell him where Stalag
13 is. Our Stalag
13."
Schultz looked uncomfortable.
"I know nothing, Herr Kommandant - nothing!"
"Schultz! You
Dummkopf!" Klink stamped his foot in the snow. "Don't you even know
where your own home is?"
"Yes, Herr Kommandant.
In Heidelberg. But we're not going to Heidelberg, are we?"
"It's in Hamelburg, Schultz. Hamelburg,
not Heidelberg! And that's where we are going."
"But Hammelburg is
located near Schweinfurt!" Schwanzenstolz protested. "I've been there
myself once or twice. We really need to go towards Bayern!"
"That's Hammelburg with two M's - ours has only one!
You can see for yourself on the sign at the railway station when we get
there!"
"But Hammelburg with two
M's is the one we
need to go to. That's where the prison camp Stalag 13 is located!"
Klink was ready to explode,
but Schultz cautiously intervened. "Herr Kommandant, I would not want to
offend either of you. After all, you are both officers, and officers can do
very unpleasant things to us non-commissioned soldiers. But why don't you and
Lieutenant Schwanzenstolz compromise?"
Klink glared at him.
"There is no compromise. It's near Düsseldorf. We need to turn
right."
Schwanzenstolz glared at him
from the other side. "It's in Bayern. We need to turn left."
Schultz held up his hands.
"Gentlemen," he said. "If you cannot come to a peaceful
decision, perhaps we should simply go straight ahead?"
The two officers grunted. And
looked at the sign. And at each other. And at Schultz.
"Alright then," the
Kommandant conceded. "But only until we discover we're going wrong!"
"My idea,"
Schwanzenstolz agreed.
And so they went straight
ahead, taking the road to... Paris...
The road was long. Long and
muddy. The now quickly melting snow left small rivers running along the
wayside, and any passing vehicle threw up violent splashes of dirty mud. For
with a war on, who bothered about clearing the roads?
"Herr Kommandant,"
Schultz began, but Klink cut him off.
"I have no idea how much
further it is, Schultz. I would if we had taken the turn-off to Düsseldorf, but
now...!" He glared at Schwanzenstolz, who merely shrugged.
But Schultz shook his head.
"That was not what I wanted to ask, Herr Kommandant. But look, there is a
little Hofbrau down the road. After the trip we've had - couldn't we go there
for some nice Sauerbraten and Sauerkraut and Bratwurst and potato
pancakes..." Schultz practically drooled at the thought, and even the
Kommandant's eyes misted over.
"Or a good glass of
beer," Schwanzenstolz added.
"Apfelstrudel,"
Schultz murmured.
"Let's go in."
Klink swiftly led the way down the side street, and but a minute later they
entered the establishment. Only to run into...
"Hogan!" Klink
immediately walked up to his former prisoner. "What are you doing here, so
far from camp?"
"Kommandant! And
Schultz! Well, that's a nasty surprise! I guess you're going to capture me
right away and take me back to that awful Captain Gruber, eh?"
"Of course!" Klink
beamed at the thought. "Why - without me to keep you in line, the
prisoners would fly out of there like pigeons! Tell me, Hogan - how many
escapes have there been from Stalag 13 since Captain Gruber took over?"
"Eighty-three,
sir," Hogan admitted. "And most of them successful, too. Captain
Gruber really can't live up to your standards, can he."
"Of course he can't. No
one but me is capable of maintaining a perfect no-escape record. Ha!" He
sat down at the table with Hogan, and made an inviting gesture to his two
companions. "I'll just go back there and tell him that I'm taking over
again. I'm a colonel, he's only a captain. I can do that!"
He ordered a glass of wine and
a Schnitzel with an egg on top from the waitress, and then continued, "But
tell me, Hogan - what are you doing on the road to Paris?"
"Well, I have
girl-friend there, you see, and after I escaped..."
Schultz snickered. "Die
Liebe..."
"... I thought I'd hide
out at her place. I met her when we needed to get a copy of that famous
painting, remember?"
Schultz nodded. "Oh ja.
She was verrrry pretty." He tilted his head. "Wasn't she the one who
was my niece?"
"Your niece?" Klink
reacted. "I didn't know you had relations in..."
"Never mind," Hogan
cut in. "Anyway, when I was there, it turned out they had sent the latest
copy of The Stalag 13 Gazette
to Paris for further distribution. And well, I couldn't very well let the guys
go without the results of the Papa Bear Awards, so I decided to head back to
Stalag 13 to deliver the papers."
"That is very kind of
you," Schwanzenstolz observed. "Kind, but not very practical. Why
would you want to go back to your prison camp when you've already made it as
far as Paris?"
Hogan shrugged. "Well, I
have a duty towards my men. I felt I deserted them when I escaped, so..."
Klink nodded. "Colonel
Hogan is very conscientious about his duty towards his men. In fact, he could
be a German officer!"
Hogan grimaced, and leaned
over to Schultz who pulled his sleeve to get his attention.
"Colonel Hogan, did you
say you have the results of the Papa Bear Awards?" the big guard
whispered.
A quick nod. "You want
to see them?"
"Of course!"
Schultz jubilated. "Kommandant, Leutnant Schwanzenstolz... Colonel Hogan
has the results of the Papa Bear Awards!"
Immediately, all three of
them were upon Hogan as he pulled out a newspaper from his inside pocket.
"Here you are, gentlemen. The winners of this year's Papa Bear
Awards."
"Let me see!"
Schultz pleaded as the Kommandant confiscated the paper and unfolded it to
reveal the front page.
The Stalag 13 Gazette
SPECIAL EDITION
Now
announcing the winners of the Papa Bear Awards!
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