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gravelgirty · 7 years

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There is No Quiet Night in the Rainy Season: A Hogan’s Heroes fanfic

Part 1 of Tape and Needle and Scissors and String And...

Part 2: Irish Rejected Potatoes...

Part 3: Above My Pay Grade...

Part 4:

Deep in the Germans’ mess hall—a place LeBeau was grudgingly willing to consign as one of the less-well-thought-out circles of hell—there was a lot of noise. You could almost hear it over the artillery-grade raindrops smashing into the galvanized tin roof.

Banging. Rattling. Thumping. Muffled cursing.

“Every time we let those prisoners into the kitchen, this happens. Every time!”

The grumbler was the cook—He was from a very poor part of Germany. So poor, in fact, that he owned the dubious ability of being able to identify every form of edible vegetation in the forest. He’d grown up next to one of the more pretentious parks under the Kaiser, and the Kaiser had a habit of throwing entire families in prison if a single member trespassed on his territory.

(And as Hans knew, urinating across the fenceline into the hunting preserve counted as an encroachment. He still missed the Donners…even if they had been an indispensable part of WWI’s civil engineering projects…)

Hans was treasured and feared in equal measure. There was always a ratio of soldiers that didn’t know which part of the potato plant to peel. But Hans’ skills with meat were between ‘doesn’t bear thinking about’ and ‘unmitigated disaster’.

He grumbled in his drafty old kitchen. He puffed and muttered and banged things back and forth. That little Frenchman and his foreign ways! How dare he touch his tools of trade? Was there no respect in the profession between equals? For Hans considered LeBeau his counterpart to the prisoners—forced to make do with the miserable ingredients, and serve them up to a sourly ungrateful populace.

“Unbelievable!” He swore as he found another exhibit for offense—the Frenchman had sharpened all of his knives! They hung gleaming on their bar—and sorted according to size! How hard could it be to put things back exactly as they had been?

There was nothing for it. Hans wearily sat down and started on the largest cleaver—it was an excellent beast for skinning vegetable marrows or taking the rinds of very tough turnips. But too sharp by half. With his lips set, he started a long, boring campaign of running the bladed edge across the cutting board.

- - -

The remainder of the day—if “day” meant weather that the Black Forest would call unfit for mushrooms—was spent with the Stalag in a consensual state of misery.

Hogan split his men and put them in short teams—half to transfer the latrine to a spot that was far too close to Barracks noses for comfort—and the other half underground hastily shoring up, blocking up, and doing whatever they could to fill up what had once been a comfortable and useful section of tunnel. When it looked like it was time for a break, he made them switch.

It was back-breaking, grueling work but no-one complained. They all sensed urgency if not impending disaster.

Anyway, some idiot pointed out, it was at least quieter outside than it was inside. The newer prisoners were starting to show signs of psychological breakdown--weeks of heavy cold raindrops on the roof could do that to anybody, but especially to men who had been three feet from the front lines less than two months ago.

The only exceptions to the workplan besides Hogan:

Baker, who had shaken off Klink’s hooch in record time and was now sleeping it off to a three-octave, one-man chorus with his uvula and soft palate. Wilson had the throat-drops waiting for when he woke up.

LeBeau, a man under fire, working frantically to produce enough hot caffeine to get the men through this dire period.

And Newkirk. The Brit hunkered dangerously close to LeBeau’s stirring-elbow, whip-stitching up a contraption at record speed. His earlier depression was gone as if it never existed; he was on a man with a mission, and he was cheerful. This would worry Schultz to see it, even if he wanted Newkirk to snap out of his mood as much as anyone else.

A happy, cheerful Newkirk was a Newkirk presented with a solvable challenge that would discomfit Germans. Even Cpl Fritz, the only man in the Stalag dumber than Klink, knew this.

Ill-feelings were running amuck and morale was AWOL for guards and prisoners alike.

The guards were sopping wet because ‘sideways’ was a perfectly normal direction for winter rains. They thought longingly of LeBeau’s patented, secret, imitation coffee and wondered if their lot would improve if they just took off their uniforms the second they returned to their own dank barracks and stood naked by the stove. They envied the wretched POWs, who hadn’t any reason to be outside other than roll call and latrine-digging, and they knew from long, long experience that the mud cladding the POWs was a wonderful insulation.

“Lucky swine.” Wolfe shouted over the rain.

“What??” Langenscheidt yelled.

“I said, Lucky swine!”

“I know you’re Langenscheidt!”

“That is not what I said!”

“What??”

“The swine! The swine!” Wolfe had no choice but to carry on--he was committed. “They’re no wetter than we are, and they don’t have rain falling on metal hats!”

“Eh?” Langensheidt looked over the edge to the prisoners below. “Hah! You know, they look like swine! At least they don’t have a tin roof on their head!” He laughed and rapped his sodden knuckles on his own helmet.

Wolfe gave up. he just wanted to live. He wasn’t sure what he had to live for, but anything was worth avoiding Hell, which might be what he was seeing in the mud right now.

---

The POWs were achy, sniffly, and sweating under their layer of this mud because this natural insulation wasn’t letting an atom of respiration out of their pores. They collectively wondered if a few well-placed holes drilled into their shoes would let the sop out from between their toes. They envied the bloody Germans, who could at least breathe inside their wool uniforms.

---

In the Kommandant’s office, Klink was writing a very stern note to his cigar-supplier. Contrary to all claims and the expensive installment, the humidor was worthless. He now needed a dehumidifier. This was the third in a series of such letters, which boiled down to the company thinking Klink was insane because everybody knew, Germany didn’t get that wet—where did he think he was, Podgorica? But Klink’s clerical talents had risen to the challenge--he couldn’t do anything about Hogan stealing his Cubans, but the complete lack of any decent tobacco could get him sent to the Russian Front if the wrong official came by.

Or Hochstetter. He didn’t need cigars--real or withheld--to send him to the Russian Front.

- - -

Hogan was in his office and trying to think of the fastest journey to Stage II of his plans. If he could get the latrine moved, it would be an effective if smelly temporary blind for their attempts to build a new tunnel. The guards had their own latrine—and loathed theirs.

And with good reason, he thought glumly. Rats loved the POW latrines—it was a straight shot between the back of the soldiers’ mess, and on the other side, a thick bramble thicket. The brush was only waist-high and not worth the effort of trying to escape through the cover—there was no human-worthy cover with that vegetable barbed wire.

That was alright for the non-human--or should we say, inhuman, infernal things that did use the brambles for camouflage and hideaways.

Like the creepy, pallid, humpbacked crickets that lurked in the dark and crawled at you with terrifying purpose when you weren’t looking. Or the toads, which looked like clods of earth with eyeballs. Nobody knew what those things were, but the guards and guard-dogs were terrified of them. Carter said they looked like the ‘lil’ hoppers’ back in Bullfrog, and if you ate one you’d be talking to gigantic furry lemon-yellow polka dots that whistled show tunes. Hogan had made it very clear that he was not allowed to test for comparison, and no, Newkirk, we aren’t putting it in the guards’ soup-pot. Yes, I am a spoil-sport. Part of the privilege of command.

The rats reigned over all these beasts, and ate them with relish. Perhaps a daily diet of poisonous toads explained their behavior--they didn’t act like the rattus of Hogan’s tough childhood. They didn’t act like any rats he’d ever heard of.

The latrines were horrible but they were the perfect place to hide and chew on one’s ill-gotten contraband or secret stash of chocolate, gum, and the home-made raisin moonshine that nobody would ever admit to making but somehow, the stuff just kept…happening. And since the brambles still had tons of weathered fruit still hanging on to the vine from summer, the damned vermin had the best living arrangements of every living thing in the Stalag—possible exception being Oscar and Heidi’s dogs, who had the closest thing to red carpet treatment.

It was very ironic that the superior supply lines of Stalag XIII was nurturing these foul creatures. Klink had his excellent black market-skimming campaign going on that shorted everybody but himself (and Hogan would give one of Klink’s stolen cigars to learn his secret), but Hogan also had his Top-Notch smuggling and supply lines over and under the Stalag thanks to willing POWs and good old Oscar and Heidi. Between all these avenues sang opportunity for the bold rodent that saw anything unguarded and un-poisoned. There was also the third underground grocery store on part of the guards--willing to sell out either Klink or Hogan’s pass of chocolate or cheese if they got their own cut.

The guards’ latrines weren’t all that charming, but they were well-built and clean and built over one of the original concrete foundations. The POWs had a packed-earth foundation topped with old pallets. It was leaky and drafty and cold even in the dead of summer. In the drought season they had to hose it down in case it would burst into flames. It was the best place to go for contraband deals because the roof was airtight. The rats found easier pickings with the POWs than the guards. At least, Newkirk said snidely, the rats the POWs caught had more meat on their bones.

Hogan sipped his coffee and continued to think. Outside LeBeau was struggling to wring another miracle out of rations, potable water, and if you believed his rants, cinnamon-sprinkled sawdust. For some reason he was angry that he couldn’t get all of Carter’s hot peppers.

Hogan was also getting down because the men were supplying him with increasingly dismaying reports on the soil. Who would have thought any amount of rainfall would get through that brick-hard dirt? They needed dry earth to dig if they all didn’t want to die, and dry earth was so far as concept as realistic as glass slippers and talking wolves.

And…Germany was the country for both…

He glared at the tiny bookshelf nailed to the wall. GRIMM’S FAIRY TALES sat next to his mothy reading collection—a surprise birthday present from Schultz. The sergeant had made a comment about idle time was better spent reading than ‘naughty doings’. Hogan still didn’t know what to give him back for thoughtful revenge.

BANG-BANG.

Hogan jumped slightly and beat Carter to the door before the young man could filthy up his doorknob. The pyrotech was a walking lump of mud but at least one could see his eyes and mouth.

“What is it, Carter?”

“Aw, how’d you know it was me?” Carter pouted. Behind him Newkirk and LeBeau were snickering in that fond, cruel way good mates had, even as they hovered protectively over the stove and stitching.

“You left your hat on, Carter.” Hogan pointed out the obvious. “That makes the shape of your head a little distinctive.”

“Oh. Aw, shoot. Well, at least it kept me from hearin’ the rain. Honestly, its a lot quieter outside--”

“What is it?”

“Oh. The boys wanted you to know we’ve got as far as we can for the day. The walls of the pit are startin’ to, uh…jellify.”

“’Jellify?’” Hogan repeated. Behind Carter, Newkirk and LeBeau imitated this, and both looked as confused as Hogan felt.

“Yeah, they jiggle when you slap ‘em.” Carter nodded, which sent a good chunk of the Stalag’s terra firma hit the ground with a splat-splat. “Like pipeclay.”

“Pipeclay?”

Newkirk sucked in his breath with the force of his mother’s Electrolux vacuum. “Gov! Get ‘em out if that’s the case! Pipeclay’s not stable! The walls’ll be falling in and they’ll be in the bottom--!”

“You heard him, move!” Hogan barked.

Shaken, Newkirk watched them vanish into thin air. Only Hogan’s missing jacket and a trail of mud proved they ever existed. He risked looking at LeBeau. He was willing to bet they were both the same shade of pale. Over their heads, the relentless rain hammered and hammered and hammered...

“Mon d--.” LeBeau murmured. “Now what will we do? The Colonel needs this dug out.”

“Oh, uh…he’ll think of summat.” Newkirk rucked in as much optimism as he could manage, consider the circumstances. “The lads’ll need a lot of something hot to drink. Do you think you have enough?”

LeBeau grimaced. “Perhaps. I could do miracles with another pot, but I don’t think that old mushroom in the mess hall will let me borrow one for a while.”

“Did you sharpen his knives again? Shame on you.”

“The greater shame is to Krupp Steel!”

“Well, don’t worry. I’ll get you one. I’ll just pop--“ Newkirk realized what he was saying and closed his eyes. “Bloody ‘ell. We’re all gunna go stir-crazy, aren’t we? What’s that word Carter uses…cabin fever?”

“Yes.” LeBeau assured him with deadly calm. “And this fever, I do not have soup for.”

#Tape and Needle and Scissors and String And...#Hogan's Heroes #There is No Quiet Night

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