I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story.

Cover image: Gustave Courbet (1819-1877), "Sea Coast In Normandy"

"Mind if I walk you home, Miss Monet?"

With something like a jolt, Tiger came back to earth. She glanced at the young man who had just spoken, then looked skyward again. The plane had already passed overhead, and was droning its way towards the Channel, and no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't will herself aboard.

I should be there, she thought.

"Miss…?" said Lieutenant Greenwood.

Tiger sighed softly. "Nobody calls me Miss Monet."

"Mademoiselle, then," he responded, his cheerful humour undented. He knew exactly what she meant. She hadn't been Marie-Louise Monet since France had fallen. Sometimes she didn't even remember what kind of a girl Marie-Louise was.

She turned a steady gaze on him. "When we first met, you were not so formal."

"Aye, well, that were different, weren't it?" he said innocently, though his North Yorkshire pattern of speech had broadened considerably. "When a man's hiding out from t' Gestapo in a cellar in Düsseldorf with a bullet hole in his leg, he's bound to forget t'social niceties. Nowt wrong wi' it, is there?"

The grin gave him away; that absurdly asymmetrical smile which Tiger, thinking in French rather than the dull English equivalent, always defined in her own mind as de guingois. It drew a reluctant twinkle from her.

"We were meant to fly out tonight, you and I," she said.

"I know. Bit of a letdown, in't it?" He looked up, as another plane approached. "Still, it's only a few days' delay, and all things considered…" He trailed off. No explanation had been given for their mission being postponed, but they both knew the reason why they were not, even now, parachuting into Germany. A larger event had taken precedence, an operation which wasn't to be mentioned by name. Not yet.

"I'll see you back to your billet," he went on, after a pause.

"You need not. It is not far."

"I know, but the pubs have closed, and there's some rough customers out and about. It wouldn't do if you ran into trouble."

She drew a short, impatient breath. "Because I could not be expected to take care of it myself. Charlie, mon vieux, do you have any idea what I have been doing for the last four years?"

"Aye, I do. It's not you I'm worried about," Greenwood chuckled. "After seeing how you sorted out those two German soldiers in Düsseldorf, I'm worried about what you'll do to any drunken Englishman unlucky enough to cross your path."

Tiger bit her lips together, unsure whether he was joking or not. She stole a quick look at him. "If that is true, perhaps it should be me who sees you safely home."

"Oh, Mademoiselle, that's sweet of you, but what would my old mum say?"

Somewhere in the distance a further flight could be heard. Tiger narrowed her eyes, searching above the rooftops. She knew by the pitch of the engines, they were not bombers. "Pathfinders?"

"No, they'll be well on their way by now. If I had to guess, I'd say paratroopers."

It was definite, then. She hadn't quite believed it until now. A fierce anger rose in her heart: at herself, at the friends who had sent her to England just at this time, and even at Charlie Greenwood. He had no right to take it so calmly. But mostly at herself.

"I should be there." She couldn't help it, the words had to find voice.

He took her arm, and started walking. "I know. You want to do your bit, now the big day's arrived. I'm not best pleased meself at being out of it, as it happens. But it's no good getting aeriated about it. Even if we had made it onto the pitch before the kick-off, we'd be at the wrong end of the field. We're supposed to be on our way to Hammelburg, which is a long way from the coast."

"If I had stayed …"

"Don't be daft. You'd have been no use to anyone if you were dead, which you would have been. Don't forget what Shakespeare said – she who is in battle slain, or summat like that."

"Oh, I know," said Tiger. "But we have waited so long for this. Charlie, I would give my life, and die joyfully, if I could just do one thing, one little thing…"

They walked in silence for a while. The sound of the planes was almost continuous now, though distant, and the weight of it lay heavy on Tiger's heart. Men going to die, she thought, and I should be there...

"It's not such a little thing, when you think about it," said Greenwood at last. "I mean, this is just the start of it. There's a long way to go yet, lass. Trust me, you'll have plenty of work to do, without having to storm the beaches. Any road, it's the way it is, and we can't do owt except the best we know how."

Up ahead the street curved to the left. Tiger's eyes followed the line of lamp-posts, standing like ghostly sentries, dark silhouettes in the light of the full moon. The indistinct shape of a man could be seen, leaning against one of them, swaying slightly back and forth as he gazed at the sky. Getting closer, she realised he was singing. She couldn't make out the words, slurred as they were by alcohol and emotion and an accent from further north than her companion had ever set foot; but the melody, delivered on pitch even though the voice was hoarse and rough around the edges, caught her where she least expected it. She didn't know the song, and yet it felt familiar, like a childhood memory.

"Now, that's one I've not heard for a while," murmured Greenwood. "Me granddad used to sing it when he'd had a few. Never yet heard it sung sober." He approached the singer: "You all right there, mate?"

The man reeked of beer and cigarettes. He had the crumpled, unkempt look of one who had been drinking steadily for far too long. He peered vaguely at them, then hiccoughed, and waved one hand towards the sky. "...to memory now I can't recall," he crooned softly.

"You want to get yourself home," said Charlie. "It's late to be out on the street. Off you go, and watch out crossing the roads."

The singer straightened up, gave an elaborate bow, almost pitched over, then recovered. "Good night," he pronounced; then slipping into song again: "...and joy be with you all…"

He staggered off, still singing. Greenwood took Tiger's arm again. "Well, he's twigged it, hasn't he? I wonder how many people all over England are looking at the sky tonight."

They went a little further, both lost in their own thoughts. Tiger, by force of habit, kept hers to herself, but after a little while she heard Charlie's voice, soft and low-pitched: But since it falls unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not… I'll gently rise, and softly call…

"Don't." Just for a moment, she couldn't bear to hear it.

He didn't say a word, but his hand closed over hers. He, too, wanted to rise; perhaps not with the same deep, compelling need which had driven her on through these four long years, but enough. Tiger blinked back the tears which had risen to her eyes, and looked to the sky.

"You are right, Charlie," she said softly. "It is the way it is. But my turn to rise, and yours, will come soon. And when it does…"

"Then joy be with us all."

Tiger gave him a smile; and overhead, the planes flew on.

Notes:

The song is "The Parting Glass", traditional Irish or Scottish, nobody seems sure. If you want to listen to a particularly beautiful version, try the Spooky Men's Chorale on YouTube.

This story assumes that "Operation Tiger" took place not long before D-Day.

Greenwood is mistaken. It's not Shakespeare, it's Oliver Goldsmith.