Hogan's Heroes
"Bittersuite 1942": Please Have Snow…
by Dash O'Pepper

Author's Notes: The author wishes to thank her German beta, Kirsten.
• 2017 Papa Bear Award (PBA) Winner: Silver (Long General Story). The author gratefully acknowledges her readers, reviewers, and all those who voted for this story in the 2017 PBAs.
• Verbiage is consistent for the time period.
• Originally published under the pseudonym "Cassandra Troy" in October 2003; this version, unlike the previous, is complete.
• This story may also be found on AO3.

Chapter One
Please Have Snow…

"Weihnachtsmann?" the officer's puzzled expression mirrored that of the four men who were gathered with him in their secret tunnel below their barracks at the prison camp.

"Mother Goose, please confirm. You did say Weihnachtsmann?"

The voice on the wireless repeated the name.

He shook his head at the answer. "Roger. Papa Bear over and out."

This wasn't the first time that, after speaking with his superiors in London, Robert Hogan felt that one too many bombs had fallen near Whitehall.

"Were they serious, Colonel?" asked the radioman, as he powered down the transmitter.

Hogan handed the mic to his Staff Sergeant. "Seems like it, Kinch."

"What's it mean, sir?"

He looked at the youngest of his staff. "Just that someone has a strange sense of humour in choosing code names, Carter."

Hogan had given up trying to understand London's system in assigning code names to their operatives: it was an effort in futility. He'd finally gotten used to his present one, which at least was a bit more imposing than the Goldilocks moniker he'd been saddled with in the first month or so of this bizarre assignment.

"So, you're goin' out to meet 'im, Colonel?"

Hogan nodded at the RAF Corporal. "You heard London: he's a valuable agent—Unsung Hero classification."

The coding of the name was familiar to the men. "Unsung Hero" was reserved only for those men and women who had a highly organized operation behind enemy lines.

"If Weihnachtsmann is asking for a meeting with Papa Bear, it must be important."

*.*.*.*.*

Hogan stuck his hands into his flight jacket's pocket in a futile attempt to keep warm, as he followed his escort, Corporal Langenscheidt, across the stalag compound.

The snow that had been threatening for the past day was finally starting. Both RAF reconnaissance and German meteorological reports stated that this storm was expected to be a bad one—a blizzard, likely to ground planes on both sides.

As a boy in Connecticut, he had always loved weather like this, especially this close to Christmas. But here in Germany, snow wasn't friendly: it was an enemy. Too much, and he could be trapped or delayed far from camp; too little, and a clear trail could be laid right to the emergency tunnel entrance, which would reveal his whole underground setup.

Papa Bear was committed to a rendez-vous tonight, but he had an uneasiness about it. That sixth sense that there was more to this meeting than London had told him. Something was gnawing at him, and for good or ill, he'd learned to trust that gut feeling over the last few months since the formation of his escape and sabotage operation at Luftstalag 13.

*.*.*.*.*

"Col. Robert Hogan, senior prisoner of war officer reporting, Kommandant." He came to relaxed attention in front of the officer's desk and made a sloppy salute, refusing to give in to the formality that the German military demanded.

Col. Wilhelm Klink returned the salute, ignoring the attitude behind it. "Col. Hogan, may I present Herr Nikolaus Klaussen and Fräulein Dora Müller of the Ministry of Propaganda."

Hogan nodded his acknowledgement to both visitors, noting the swastika armbands on their civilian clothes. Neither appeared to be the type who would be looking to make certain the POWs had a happy Christmas.

Klaussen was one of those men whose age was impossible to judge. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard might have, at first glance, made him appear to be in his fifties, but his face had nary a line or wrinkle, and his suit did nothing to disguise a powerful physique. His cobalt blue eyes were bright, intelligent and watchful, as though there was very little that escaped his notice.

His companion caught Hogan's eye immediately. She was petite, almost tiny in comparison to Klaussen, with a pixie-like face and blonde hair that might have been soft and radiant, had it not been drawn back into a tight, severe bun. Her suit was unflattering, neutering any trace of a waist curve or bustline. It was almost as though she was trying to disguise the prettiness of her features. There was something about her that was, Hogan thought, curiously enchanting, and he had the feeling that he could gaze upon her all day. His reverie was broken by Klaussen.

"So, this is one of the American swine."

After nearly four months as a POW, Hogan had grown inured to the insults and epithets that Nazi officials hurled at Allied soldiers. To rise to the bait was to give their words power. Instead, he'd learned to watch for opportunities to unnerve them or strike back.

"I see Herr Klaussen was in Dusseldorf last week." Hogan smiled defiantly at the minister. He was well aware of the success of that raid, and it felt good to rub the enemy's nose in it.

"Insolence!" Klink slammed his fist on the desk.

Klaussen raised his hand in a dismissive gesture at the Kommandant's outburst. "Sarcasm is a weapon of the impotent, Oberst."

The venom with which the remark was spoken startled Hogan. He had faced the irrational hatred of all non-Aryans by the SS and Gestapo, but this was something different. There was something in Klaussen's eyes that betrayed his contempt—not for an American soldier—but for Robert Hogan. It was a feeling that made his blood run cold.

The minister turned toward the Kommandant. "You have told me that there has never been a successful escape from this camp, Oberst?"

Klink smiled delightedly. "Jawohl, Herr Klaussen. There have been forty-three attempts since this camp was opened, and not one of them successful. No one has ever escaped from Stalag 13."

"An impressive record."

Klaussen's eyes flashed their loathing at Hogan, making him uneasy. He could feel the sweat beading in his palms, and for the life of him, he didn't know why he was letting this Nazi get to him. Before he could work up an appropriate response, the office door opened, and the Sergeant of the Guard entered.

"Herr Kommandant, Sergeant Schultz reporting as ordered." The portly man saluted his superior and came to attention.

Klink returned the salute.

"Sergeant, Herr Klaussen and Fräulein Müller are here from the Ministry of Propaganda to review conditions in the camp."

In his best Bavarian manner, the Sergeant turned toward the visitors, preparing to give them the formal greeting reserved for honoured guests.

Hogan noticed the look of terror that briefly flashed across Schultz's face when he saw Klaussen. Something unsaid had passed between the two. It was the first time since he'd entered the office that Hogan could discern a chink in the cold, callous armour of the minister.

"Oberst Klink," Klaussen glanced idly at his wristwatch, recovering quickly. "It is getting late. I would be grateful if you would take Fräulein Müller to review your facilities. I would like to remain here and examine the stalag's records."

Another piece for the puzzle, thought Hogan. From the quickly veiled expression on the Fräulein's face, this was something unexpected.

"Perhaps your Sergeant could remain and help me?"

Klink was about to voice a protest, but stopped as the woman spoke directly to him.

"Herr Kommandant, won't you join me?"

Hogan was surprised by her voice. It was melodic, nearly musical in tone and quality, and it appeared to have an immediate effect on Klink. His countenance softened and his mouth spread into a sappy grin.

"Delighted, my dear." Klink pushed his chair from the desk, and came over to join the Fräulein, helping her into her coat. Then shrugging on his own coat, followed by giving her his arm. He looked like a lovesick schoolboy, escorting his first date to the prom. The Kommandant and Müller said nothing as they left the office, seemingly oblivious to the others in the room.

The whole scene made Hogan uneasy. Something was very wrong with this pair; every instinct he had was working overtime trying to make sense of what was happening. And his suspicions were only reinforced by Schultz, who was doing his damnedest to mask his expression over his superior's actions.

"Sergeant, escort…" Klaussen paused as he examined Hogan closely, his mouth tightened, "the American back to his barracks, and then join me here."

"Jawohl, sir." Schultz came to attention. "Col. Hogan, if you would follow me."

Hogan said nothing to the minister. He was actually grateful that Klaussen had dismissed him. It would give him an opportunity to pump the Sergeant for some information about the visitors.

*.*.*.*.*

In the time he'd been in the office, a thin carpet of snow already covered the compound. He'd have a rough time at this evening's meeting.

"So, Schultz, got any plans for Christmas?" asked Hogan, slowing his pace back to the barracks. He wanted to allow as much time as possible to get some answers.

The Sergeant matched the officer's steps, a faraway expression on his face. "Ja, this will be the first time in almost two years that my son will be home."

Hogan could understand the soldier's feelings; he'd already spent too many Christmases away from his own folks. "Looking forward to a nice family reunion?"

He nodded. "It has been too long."

Now was the time to put the question to him. "Think that these ministry people are going to finish here by then? That Klaussen looks to be a real hard—"

Schultz stopped so suddenly that Hogan almost walked into him. He was caught off guard by the man's response.

"Col. Hogan, you must never speak ill of Herr Klaussen!" For Schultz the words were nearly an angry command.

Bingo, he thought. There is a connection between the two.

"Who is he, really, Schultz?"

"You do not know?" An obvious sadness passed across the man's face. "Then, there is nothing more I can tell you. Nothing," he emphasised the last word.

"He's not from the Ministry of Propaganda, is he?"

"If that is what he said, then that is who he is." Schultz was adamant.

"What will happen if he discovers the six pounds of American coffee in your footlocker?"

Intimidation was often an effective weapon against the Sergeant of the Guard. This wasn't one of those times.

"Please, Col. Hogan," began Schultz, "I ask this not as a soldier…do not make an enemy of Nikolaus Klaussen. Those who do, live to regret it."

*.*.*.*.*

"Coffee pot working, Kinch?" Hogan didn't waste time with explanations, as he came through the barracks door and headed toward his quarters. Those could wait until after he got more information.

The Sergeant nodded. "We tested it just yesterday."

"Trouble, sir?" asked Carter, shutting the officer's door behind him and the other three men who made up Hogan's immediate staff.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Two visitors from the Ministry of Propaganda. Schultz is scared of them."

"Who isn't the strudel king afraid of?" the French Corporal's comment elicited a laugh from the other men.

"There's something else. Can't quite put my finger on it. But something about those two just doesn't add up." Hogan refrained from expressing his own discomfiture in Klaussen's presence. That was something he intended to keep to himself.

Kinch removed the small pewter pot from its storage place, and handed it to Hogan.

"You think they're phoneys?" asked Newkirk.

The limey was often the most suspicious of the front-line team. Had his skills at mimicry, forgery and petty theft not been so invaluable to their success, Hogan sometimes wondered if he would have picked him had there been someone else with that same talent available.

"Don't bet against it," he replied, as he set up the disguised listening device.

*.*.*.*.*

Sgt. Hans Schultz shook his head as Col. Hogan closed the door to the barracks.

He doesn't understand the danger he is in.

Walking back to the Kommandant's office, Schultz felt a chill pass through him that had little to do with the weather. There was not much he could hope to do to save Hogan from Nikolaus' wrath, but he would try. In many ways, he admired the American; he was one of that rare breed who had the ability to find a light in whatever darkness existed. And the world had grown very dark these past few years.

*.*.*.*.*

"Hans, it has been far too long, mein Freund." The minister hugged the heavy man.

"Much too long," he smiled. "But what are you doing here, Nikolaus?"

"I could ask the same of you. What are you doing in this," he fumbled for a word, "cesspool?"

Schultz did not meet his friend's eyes. "When the factory was closed…"

"Ja, I'd heard that it was considered vital for the war effort." Klaussen's voice was quiet, "Weapons or toys? Of the two, which has more worth these days."

The Sergeant nodded. "And being a soldier put food on the table." He patted his stomach. It was an old joke between the two.

Klaussen invited Schultz to sit, and offered him one of Col. Klink's cigars from the humidor on the Kommandant's desk.

"Danke." He nodded, as he partook of one of his superior's finest Havanas.

The minister replaced the humidor. "You should have contacted me or one of my agents. You and your family have always been welcome in the North."

"I know. But you know mama—"

"As stubborn at eighty as she was at eight," smiled Klaussen.

Schultz laughed as he thought of his mother and the rest of his family in Heidelberg. "And with Georges in Warsaw with the Wehrmacht…re-locating like that would have been extremely difficult."

"And your pride would not let you, either, no doubt."

The Sergeant feigned his surprise. "Had there been a need, I would have—"

"Do not lie to me, Hans!" he chastised him. "We have been friends too long for that to come between us."

Schultz puffed heavily on the cigar in an attempt to hide his unease. He tried to quickly direct the conversation away from himself, back to a subject he felt was necessary. "I was surprised to see you here, and now of all times." He looked Klaussen directly in the eye. "Nikolaus, what are you doing here?"

"Doing what I must…as all of us must."

"But this close to—"

Klaussen slammed his hand on the desk. "You of all people! I thought you understood the nature of my mission!"

The Sergeant dropped the cigar, stunned by the outburst. "I-I am sorry," he whispered, "I j-just thought…" His words trailed off as he saw his friend smile.

"No. It is I who should apologize." He shook his head. "I am getting too old for all this, and the world is changing far too much for me."

"But your work is so vital."

"Is it?" Klaussen shook his head. "Their radar…their sonar… all their technologies… are making it harder and harder for me to travel—Buenos Aires, Reykjavik, Berlin, Istanbul, Cairo, Delhi, Stalingrad, Kyoto, Manila…it is all the same." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It was so much easier in the old days."

"Ja, many things were."

"But I have teams working on circumventing their detection devices. It appears to have worked. I was in New York City on the 26th of November—my agents in the United States needed my attention. As a race, Amerikaners are very impatient."

*.*.*.*.*

"Vereinigten Staaten," mumbled Carter as he struggled to translate the German he was hearing through the speaker. "This guy was in the States?"

Of the team, the Midwesterner was the only one with a limited familiarity with the language. As Europeans, Newkirk and LeBeau were able to function in several tongues. Kinch had learned German in high school; the Sergeant had hoped to attend Tuskegee for a degree in medicine, but family difficulties had changed his plans. As for Hogan, it had been a love of music and growing up in a German/Irish neighbourhood that had taught him the language. How little he knew then the use he'd be making of it.

"Ja. Ich habe es an den Männern in diesem Stalag beobachtet; vor allem an Oberst Hogan."

Hogan smiled to himself. Schultz was right: he was impatient. He never liked mysteries. Everything had to have an explanation, a solution. No matter how bizarre, he had always been known for coming up with an answer to a crisis or a situation. And right now, Klaussen looked to be a very big problem.

*.*.*.*.*

"This man, Hogan, what do you know of him?"

Schultz felt his heart miss a beat at the question. He had not been mistaken about Nikolaus' dislike of the American Colonel.

"The prisoners are very reticent in talking about themselves, but from what I have seen, he's a good man."

"Good men are worth nothing today, Hans. This one's worth even less than most."

The Sergeant shook his head; he was surprised by his friend's animosity toward Col. Hogan.

"I have a very large file on him. At one time, there were even suggestions made to recruit him."

"What!"

*.*.*.*.*

"Ich habe eine sehr dicke Akte über ihn. Einmal gab es sogar den Vorschlag, ihn zu rekrutieren."

"Was!"

Hogan's men looked at him. They didn't need to say anything; the expressions on their faces betrayed their doubt in the fragile trust that had been built up among all of them these past few months.

Pulling together a multi-national force working behind enemy lines from within a POW camp was the stuff of fiction, but somehow he'd made it work.

I'll be damned if that s.o.b. destroys everything with his lies!

*.*.*.*.*

"When Hogan commanded the 504th Bomb Group, his raids were considered among the most successful. After a bombing in Bremen that destroyed nine U-bootes, the man was labelled an extreme danger to the Reich. A team was assigned to investigate ways to neutralize him—either in London or over Germany."

"Mein Gott."

"That's when he came to my attention."

*.*.*.*.*

"So wurde ich auf ihn aufmerksam."

"Colonel," shouted Corporal Garlotti as he threw open the door to Hogan's office, "red alert. Klink and a woman coming this way!"

Hogan nodded. There was no time for any discussion. That would come later. Right now, they were in a race for their survival.

Kinch grabbed the coffee pot, quickly putting it into its hiding place in the Colonel's desk, and then followed the other four men into the main room of the barracks.

In the few months the fifteen men had been billeted in Barracks 2, they had developed an almost automatic routine for when the guards or Kommandant made an inspection.

Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau, Carter and Kinchloe gathered around the main table, to all outward appearances playing a game of poker. But each held a specific position: Hogan keeping any visitors occupied in a verbal parley as he stood close to the small stove situated near the entrance; Carter in position to slow down anyone; Newkirk, shielded by Carter, able to use his magic fingers to lift any wallets, documents or weapons as needed; LeBeau, who with minimal movement could trigger the opening to their secret tunnel entrance; and Kinch stationed on the far side of the table, able to get off a clear shot, if necessary.

As for Garlotti, Mills, Foster, Greenburg, Hammond, O'Brien, Olsen and the others, all were strategically placed, keeping silent watch, yet prepared for any eventuality.

*.*.*.*.*

"This surprises you, Hans?"

The Sergeant nodded.

"My interest was piqued when I'd read that an astrologer had also been assigned to the investigation. There were thoughts that this Hogan was in league with the devil."

"The devil?" Schultz laughed at the absurdity of such a suggestion. There had been many strange things that happened in the stalag since the American's arrival, but he had no doubt that the man's allegiance would not be found in Hell.

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth," he quoted the Shakespearean verse, then stopped and looked sadly at Schultz, "and Hell.

"This world is engulfed in war, and more than you know hangs in the balance, mein Freund."

"But surely you do not believe that Col. Hogan is in league with—"

"I'd almost wish he was. Then—on our side or not—he'd be a man! Instead, what has he done since being shot down? Nichts!"

*.*.*.*.*

"Achtung!" shouted Cpl. Langenscheidt, as he opened the door to the barracks for Kommandant Klink and the Fräulein.

Hogan and his men stood. It was the nearest to attention that they were likely to give the Germans. He was glad for it. The more obstinate his men remained, the better their resilience as POWs.

"Col. Hogan," began Klink, "Fräulein Müller has asked to speak with some of your men regarding their treatment, camp conditions and such."

"We did try to get reservations at the Berlin Hilton," Hogan held a sarcastic grin, which matched the tone in his voice.

"The Colonel enjoys making jokes," Müller carefully regarded Hogan, a small smile crossing her face. "Much like his sarcasm."

It was a cutting comment and meant to be. Thankfully, his men didn't seem to be aware of the verbal sparring between the two of them. Klaussen and Müller considered him beneath contempt. Based on the conversation the minister was having with Schultz, these two knew far more about him than they should, and it unnerved him.

"Your interest in our well-being is much funnier than anything I've said."

Langenscheidt visibly tensed in preparation for an outburst from the Kommandant.

Hogan expected the comment to get a rise from Klink. He was as surprised as the German Corporal that it hadn't elicited any reaction. The Kommandant still maintained that same curious expression he had earlier. It was as though the man was sleepwalking.

Ignoring Hogan's comment, Müller turned toward Carter to begin her interview.

"Your name?"

Carter looked toward his commanding officer, his face doing a poor job of hiding his questioning of his superior on whether or not he should answer the Nazi.

Hogan nodded imperceptibly toward the Sergeant. They had nothing to lose, and depending on what the woman asked, they might be able to learn something further.

"Carter, Andrew J," said the young man dutifully. "Sergeant. United States—"

"It's quite all right, Sergeant. Your rank and serial number are not necessary. This is an informal visit."

The young man relaxed slightly at her words, although there still remained a tenseness in his stance.

Müller smiled at him. "We are here to see that your incarceration is as comfortable as possible, especially during this season."

The Germans could afford to be generous, thought Hogan. Despite the Allies' best efforts, they were winning. He also noticed that the Fräulein's voice had taken on that same musical quality he heard earlier in Klink's office. Obviously, her venomous attitude was reserved exclusively for him.

*.*.*.*.*

"Nikolaus, you are mistaken about Col. Hogan," whispered Schultz. "Please—I beg you—do not do anything rash." He wanted to say more and felt that he must. Yet, the American, as much as the Sergeant liked him, was still the enemy, and there were things that had happened in the stalag over these past few months that might better remain unsaid.

Klaussen shook his head. "Have no fear, Hans. I have neither the time nor the desire to act against him. Whatever the price of his actions remains between he and his maker.

"You asked earlier why I had come here," the Minister smiled. "I have come to hunt bear."

*.*.*.*.*

Thankfully, Klink and the Minister's visit had been brief, thought Hogan. Overall, the questions had surprised him. They weren't the standard ones he'd heard the Swiss Red Cross visitors ask: Is your treatment decent?…Do you have enough to eat?…Have you been given adequate access to medical care? Instead the Fräulein had asked his men the things they missed of home.

The reminiscences were, in many ways, worse than a full-fledged interrogation would have been. You can guard your words and thoughts about which bomber group you were assigned to or the location of a top-secret airbase. Despite their importance, they're trivialities because they remain outside yourself.

Missing throwing a ball with your kid brother; sitting down for Sunday dinner with the folks; dancing cheek to cheek with your sweetheart; or even drinking an ice-cold 'Gansett at Fenway, these are the little things that become a part of your life and make you who you are. Remove them, or access to them, and you start to feel the emptiness, the ache, the longing for home.

In the nearly four months they'd been in Stalag 13, Hogan had kept the entire prisoner population focused on the present—not the past and definitely not the future—that remained too uncertain. It was much easier for the men in Barracks 2 than the rest of the stalag; they knew of the operation. For the others, it was on a need-to-know basis only.

After this visit, he wondered when the desire for escape would become so great that he wouldn't be able to control some of them. And what would happen then? If he could see the melancholy on his staff's faces, how much worse must it be for the others in the camp?

He fumbled with the pewter coffee pot/listening device, hoping that Schultz and Klaussen were not finished with their discussion. From what was said earlier, the Minister was a very real threat. Any man who could travel between New York and Nazi Germany in the middle of a war, as easily as he apparently could, represented a grave danger.

*.*.*.*.*

"I still do not understand, Nikolaus." Schultz watched his friend carefully. "To jeopardize yourself and your work to hunt bear?"

"I seek a most elusive animal, Hans: Cunning, clever, resourceful…most dangerous in the wrong hands."

The light dawned in the Sergeant's eyes, and his voice reflected his horror. "A man? You are seeking a man?"

"He is already a hunted man. The SS and the Gestapo have placed a 25.000 RM price upon his head."

"So much money for one man," he whispered.

"If I have judged his character correctly from his reputation, they've undervalued his worth. It is not a mistake I intend to make."

"Is it truly worth your risk?"

"Ja," Klaussen's voice was hushed. "For one such as this Papa Bear, I would risk much. That is why I must meet him alone tonight.

"Then I wish you godspeed, mein Freund."

Klaussen looked at his watch and rose. "Come, walk with me to my car. The Fräulein and I must take our leave before dark."

*.*.*.*.*

"Für jemanden wie diesen Papa Bär würde ich viel riskiere. Deshalb muss ich ihm heute Abend allein begegnen."

"It's a bleedin' trap!" shouted Newkirk. His eyes were not looking at the coffee pot's speaker, but were instead fixed directly on Hogan. The Englishman did nothing to hide the unsaid accusation on his face.

"Komm, begleite mich zu meinem Auto. Das Fräulein und ich müssen uns vor Anbruch der Dunkelheit von hier verabschieden."

"They know everything about us," added LeBeau.

Despite the revelation that the mission had been compromised, Hogan felt surprisingly calm. His sixth sense hadn't been wrong. It functioned on a subconscious level, evaluating, judging, and warning him of impending danger. And the more time he spent in Germany, the more he was learning to trust it.

His men, though, were another matter. They had no reason to trust him or an assignment that realistically had no likelihood of success. Yet, they'd been willing in the beginning to continue the Allies' fight behind enemy lines.

"Not everything," he shook his head, unplugging the coffee pot/listening device. "If that was the case, I'd have been arrested—immediately."

"So, they don't know who Papa Bear is," began Kinch, "they sure as hell will if you go." The Sergeant added a hasty sir to his statement.

"I say we pass on this mission." The RAF Corporal's tone was just shy of insubordinate.

Hogan let the infraction pass; now was not the time to pull rank—that could come later, if necessary. He was going to have to bank on his men's loyalty, if not to him, then to the countries they served.

"Pass? This is one mission we can't afford to pass on." His voice was raised in challenge, daring any of them to interrupt. "You heard Klaussen. He's got agents planted around the world. He's got a team working to block our radar and sonar. He got in and out of New York last month—and it's a cinch he wasn't there for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade."

Hogan needed to drive his message home. "Papa Bear received an assignment from London to meet him tonight. If we pass on this," he stressed those words, "we lose a chance to crack their spy network wide open."

"You'd go out there alone to meet him, Colonel?" Carter's voice was hushed.

He nodded. "Yes." Hogan didn't hesitate in answering the young Sergeant. Truth be told, if it came down to it, he would handle the mission single-handedly. Klaussen was a danger, one that needed to be eliminated.