Hogan's Heroes, McHale's Navy, and Hawaii Five-O belong to others. No copyright infringement is intended.

A continuation of sorts to my story "Welcome Aboard, Colonel Hogan" and a bit of backstory for Chin Ho Kelly. The exact locations of Voltafiore and Stalag 13 are never actually specified. I've played around with the geography for the sake of the story.

For Jan, who loves Hogan and McHale as much as I do . . .

CHIN HO'S NAVY

Four-year-old Tilda, Detective Chin Ho Kelly's youngest daughter, fingered the case of medals and service ribbons her dad was studying. She picked up a particularly shiny one and, her curiosity aroused, asked, "What's this one, Daddy? What did you win it for?"

"Yeah," oldest son Tim echoed. "It looks like there are a lot of stories in that box!"

By now, eight Kelly children had gathered around their father, intrigued by the collection the detective had spread out on the kitchen table. One by one, the military decorations were examined and admired. Eight voices chorused, "Tell us!"

Chin smiled at his children and picked up a medal at random. "This is the Purple Heart. I was awarded it when I was wounded in combat in Italy. Afterward, I was assigned as an investigator with a JAG unit . . ."

Voltafiore, Italy, 1944

Newly appointed JAG Special Agent Chin Ho Kelly, USMC, studied the envelope in his hand. PT Base, Voltafiore, Italy, his orders read. He looked at the sign on the somewhat run down building. This must be the place. Better get it over with and report to this Captain Binghamton. Wonder why they need a special JAG agent here when there's an office at the army post just a few miles away.

Limping slightly from an injury sustained during the Italian campaign, Kelly moved toward the entrance as a large man wearing a Lt. Commander's oak leaves came barreling out. The man growled in anger as he muttered, "Blast that Leadbottom. Just got back from patrol and he's sending us right back out. Doesn't even give us time for a decent meal! Maybe we should just take Fuji with us on this patrol!"

The young marine quickly dodged the explosion as the disgruntled officer headed for a jeep parked nearby. Kelly, a survivor of the attack on Pearl Harbor, wondered why someone with that attitude was still in the service—and an officer at that! He pushed open the door and went in search of the base commander.

o-o-o-o-o

An angry Lt. Commander Quinton McHale - the Skip to his men - stormed into the very comfortable converted wine cellar that served as headquarters for the crew of the PT 73. "Another patrol!" he fumed. "We haven't cleaned up after that last one!" He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then bellowed, "All hands on deck! We got a problem!"

"Problem, Skip?" Torpedoman Gruber, the crew's resident con man, questioned. "What's Old Leadbottom up to now?"

"He wants us out on patrol by 0600 tomorrow. No excuses!" McHale growled. "Better load up the old 73 tonight. We don't want to disappoint the 'Commodore of the largest yacht club in San Diego,' do we?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "We'll be out for at least a week - extra food and fuel and Tinker, see if you can talk Mama Rosa out of a few bottles of vino, eh?"

Machinist Mate Tinker Bell grinned. "Will do, Skipper!"

McHale's trademark grin returned. "We'll do our regular patrol and find a nice cove for some fishing. Willy, you can monitor German sub communication from there." He looked around, expecting an answer. "Willy? Where's Willy?"

An out of breath radioman Willy Moss broke in, "We won't have time for any fishing. We're gonna have a big problem. Binghamton's sent for someone from the JAG office to investigate us!"

"And we're gonna have an even bigger problem," he added. "I got a message from the Underground. They need us to pick up a defecting scientist three days from now. The usual rendezvous point. He's coming from Stalag 13 and there's too much action in the area to take their regular route."

"OK, Willy," McHale answered. "Call Papa Bear and let him know we'll pick up and deliver the package. And get info on Gestapo movements in the area while you're at it." He ran his hands over his hair. "I'll check with Major Bonacelli, too."

o-o-o-o-o

Chin wasn't quite sure what to expect of the CO, but it certainly wasn't the self-important, pompous officer seated behind the big desk. He seemed to be involved in an on-going rant against one Quinton McHale. And that other one! Lt. Elroy Carpenter - if the captain said "Jump," Carpenter would answer, "How high?"

"Ah, Sergeant Kelly," the CO introduced himself, "Wallace B. Binghamton. And you, my friend, are here on an important mission - to find the evidence I need to put McHale and his band of pirates away for good!"

Put McHale, whoever he is, away for good? Question after question raced through the JAG agent's head. "Pardon me, sir," he questioned calmly, "what is he supposed to have done?"

"What, what, what!" Binghamton squawked like a deranged duck. "Haven't you been listening? What hasn't he done? Ignored orders, fraternized with the local civilians. I believe he's in cahoots with the Mafia! He's out to discredit me, rob me of my promotion to admiral . . ." The captain ranted on, hardly stopping to take a breath.

If he does that, it will be a service to the Navy, Bruddah! Chin wondered what he'd gotten himself into. "The first thing I'd like to do," he said calmly, "is to meet this McHale. Where can I find him?"

"At his base, McHale's Beach." This from Carpenter. "It's about a mile out of town. Keeps him from contaminating the other PT boat crews."

Chin looked at the floor as he more or less successfully stifled a grin. These two made McHale and his men sound more like an infectious disease than competent Navy men! "Nevertheless," he continued, "I'd like a copy of his records and directions to his quarters. Unless Lt. Carpenter would care to accompany me?" Kelly kept his voice painfully polite.

"We'll both go with you. I want to see the look on his conniving face when he learns I have JAG investigating him." The irate captain turned to his adjunct. "Carpenter, get my jeep!" He rubbed his hands together as he smirked, "This is going to be good. I've been waiting for this ever since I was saddled with those hooligans at Taratupa!"

o-o-o-o-o

Stalag 13

"Message from the Underground, Colonel," Sergeant James Kinchloe, the team's radioman, announced as he came up from the tunnel. "McHale acknowledges your last message and will be waiting to pick up the package. He also wants to know about Gestapo activity around the pickup point."

"Thanks, Kinch," Hogan replied, then added, "Maybe we should give those guys a code name." he thought for a few seconds. "How about 'Captain Hook?'" The team laughed—it was a perfect description for the crew of the 73 boat!

"Yeah, Colonel, but who's gonna tell McHale that?" Carter chimed in, to more laughter.

"Maybe you and Newkirk." Catching the surprised looks on his team's faces, Hogan turned serious as he went on, "Here's what we're gonna do. Dr. Lutz is an important scientist. We can't risk losing him. How about the two of you accompanying him to the rendezvous point? You'll go as farm hands. Major Bonacelli will meet the three of you—he'll provide your cover." He grinned at the two men—we've had enough experience digging potatoes and harvesting cabbage lately, so you'll fit right into the role.

The demolitions expert bubbled with glee. "We can always pick tomatoes or lettuce or beans or . . . ."

"We're not picking up a week's groceries for our little Frenchman here," Newkirk snorted. "I can get started on the identification papers right away. Want to be ready to go when our guest arrives tonight."

"Mon Colonel," LeBeau broke in, "They will be gone for a few days. How are we going to explain it to Klink?"

"Simple," Hogan replied. "We'll just say they're sick and confined to bed. Wilson will back us up and a couple of the guys from one of the other barracks can fill in for them. We'll tell Klink they've got something contagious - say suppurating rhinitis - and threaten the old Bald Eagle with one of your home remedies!"

"Boy, that sounds awful!" Carter interjected.

Kinch laughed "Don't know what sounds worse, that disease or LeBeau's concoctions! Think Klink will believe it?"

"If we make it sound bad enough, he will.," the Colonel grinned, then finished, "Kinch, contact McHale later and tell him that the package will be hand delivered. He'll know the couriers. Bonacelli, too. He'll coordinate with McHale. Then let the Underground know they'll need to meet us on the road to Hammelburg tomorrow night with a car to take you to the next point on the route. We'll keep Lutz out of sight in the tunnels until then and fill him in on the plan. Now get to work, everyone! Oh, and Newkirk, have you checked Klink's mail yet today?"

The Cockney grinned. "Right away, Guv'nor."

o-o-o-o-o

Voltafiore

Chin hung on for dear life as the jeep bumped from pothole to pothole along a badly eroded dirt road. Carpenter had to be one of the worst drivers he'd ever seen! The young marine sighed in relief as they screeched to a halt by a ramshackle collection of tents. A battered PT boat was tied to a nearby dock.

Kelly stared as a disheveled officer greeted them with "Oh, good morning, Captain! What can we do for you this fine day? You know, we're preparing for that long patrol you've assigned us." The JAG agent blinked—this was the same man he'd seen earlier outside Binghamton's office. Could this be the infamous McHale? He certainly didn't look like a conniving crook!

Binghamton's self-satisfied smile gave a hint of his anticipation. "Assemble your men, McHale. I've got a little surprise for you." As the men gathered, he gloated, pointing to Chin. "This is Special Agent Kelly. He's here to investigate you. You'll all be in the brig soon, waiting for your court martial." He signaled Carpenter to drive back to town, leaving a surprised Chin Ho facing an antagonistic PT boat crew - and a worried skipper.

Catching his breath, McHale motioned to Christy, the 73 boat's quartermaster. "Find an empty tent for our guest," he growled. "Let him get settled in." The Skip turned to Chin. "My crew and I have work to do. We'll talk to you later."

Chin looked around the spartan tent he'd been offered: a cot, wash stand, locker, a single overhead light bulb, a table and chair serving as a desk. If this was guest quarters, then what were the crew's accommodations like? Maybe he'd better look around on his own. An old, run down wine cellar at the edge of the camp caught his eye. He started for the building.

o-o-o-o-o

McHale held up a hand in a vain attempt to stop the chorus of voices pounding him:

"JAG agent . . . ;

Damn Leadbottom . . . ;

The mission . . ."

He finally bellowed "Stop!," bringing the cacophony to a halt. "One thing at a time," he snarled. "First, Kelly. We're stuck with him. Can't ditch him or we'll endanger everything. So, we fill him in."

"Fill him in?" Ensign Parker squeaked. "He's reporting to Binghamton! We can't." A series of comments from the rest of the crew indicated agreement with the exec.

McHale's glower silenced the crew. "We fill him in - and we take him with us."

Stunned looks greeted this pronouncement. "We could always send him back to Stalag 13 with the Underground." This from Gruber.

Parker snorted, "Wonder how he'd handle Klink and Schultz? Or Hochstetter!"

The CO joined in the laughter. "If we're gonna head out early tomorrow, we'd better fill our Special Agent in now ."

"Fill me in on what?" a quiet voice demanded from the stairs.

"Better make yourself comfortable," McHale gestured to one of the old wine cellar's easy chairs. "It's gonna be a long story. It all began when Mr. Parker and Binghamton were captured by a German patrol and sent to a Luftstalag near Hammelburg . . . "

As the almost unbelievable story unfolded, Kelly found himself shaking his head in amazement. "You, Christy, and Fuji disguised yourselves as German officers and a Japanese Camp Commander on a fact-finding tour, infiltrated a POW camp, joined with a group of secret operatives, and rescued two of your men? And no one knows about it?"

"We have to keep it top secret, even Captain Binghamton," McHale replied, "or we'd be endangering Hogan and his team. We've been helping them bring escaped flyers out of Germany now and then when their regular routes aren't usable. 'Course, Leadbottom's not aware of this little activity."

"That's where we're heading now," Parker chimed in. "We're picking up a scientist who's defecting to the Allies. We'll be joined by an Italian officer who has contacts with the Underground."

"And maybe we'll even sink another U-boat or two. Wanna use up some of those torpedoes I've got in storage," Gruber finished to the laughter of his crewmates.

Chin joined in the laughter. These men were involved in a secret rescue operation? "Count me in!"

"Ever helped load a small boat?" the big CO questioned. At Chin's nod, McHale went on, "Let's get to work, you guys. It's gonna be a long night."

o-o-o-o-o

Stalag 13

"Dr. Lutz is here, Mon Colonel. He's down in the tunnel. He's pretty nervous. "

"Thanks, LeBeau," the dark-haired officer answered. "Did the Underground confirm that car for tomorrow night?"

"Oui," the little Frenchman responded. "And Kinch is contacting McHale to wrap things up with him."

Hogan turned to Carter and Newkirk. "No roll call for you two tomorrow. You're both really sick. Stay in your bunks and ham it up good. You'll both be busy tomorrow night. I'll fill Lutz in on the escape plans." He slapped the bunk that hid the tunnel entrance and headed below to the underground warren that honeycombed the camp.

o-o-o-o-o

"Raus! Raus! Roll Call!" Schultz' loud bellow was punctuated by banging on the barracks door. The POW's tumbled out into a cold morning and more-or-less stood at attention as the portly Sergeant of the Guard began his regular count.

"Eins, zwei, drei . . . zwolf, dreizehn . . ." he paused, then started again. "Eins, zwei, drei . . . Colonel Hogan, I count only thirteen men. There are supposed to be fifteen. Where are Carter and Newkirk?"

"They had an overnight pass to Hammelburg. They should be back soon." The rest of the men snickered. Schultz looked apoplectic.

"Colonel Hogan, I need to know where they are. I have to tell Kommandant Klink." Schultz' expression reminded the American officer of a lost puppy. "What monkey business are they up to? Please tell me, no monkey business!

"No monkey business, Schultzie," LeBeau broke in. "They're just sleeping in this morning."

The exchange was interrupted by a loud, imperative "Report! Report!" as Klink, riding crop under one, arm exited the Kommandantur to begin his morning harangue of the prisoners.

"Herr Kommandant, I have to report . . ." he began to stammer, "we are missing two prisoners, Carter and Newkirk."

"HOGAN-N-N!" Klink, red in the face, stood nose to nose with the senior POW officer.

"They're sick," Hogan explained. "Sweats, shaking, runny noses, fever, really terrible coughing. Carter feels like throwing up, too. You can check on them if you want. I should warn you, it might be very contagious. LeBeau's gonna cook up one of his home remedies."

Klink backed off in a hurry. "I believe you, Hogan. Have Corporal Wilson examine them and then report to me." He stopped, then changed his mind. "On second thought, have him report to Sergeant Schultz and he can report to me." The Kommandant shuddered at the thought of one of LeBeau's "home remedies" as he headed for the relative safety of his office.

Hogan signaled to the men. "Inside. We've got work to do."

o-o-o-o-o

"Suppurating rhinitis?" Klink gulped. "Are you sure, Corporal Wilson?"

"I'm sure," the medic replied. "Carter and Newkirk show all the symptoms. They'll need to stay in bed for at least five or six days-no roll call. It is contagious. If you haven't had it . . ."

"Contagious?" Klink pushed his desk chair as far from Wilson as he could.

"I'm immune-had it as a child. But I'm quarantining Barracks 2, limited contact only. If you haven't had it, Kommandant . . ." Wilson left the warning hanging in the air.

"Quarantine. Yes. How long?"

"About a week should do it. Remember. Limited contact only. LeBeau's home remedies should help with the symptoms. I recommend chicken soup." Wilson saluted the Kommandant and returned to the infirmary. Klink felt his forehead to determine if he had a fever.

Hogan unplugged the coffee pot in his office and turned to his team. "Klink bought it. Back to work. Carter, Newkirk, you and our guest will go out the emergency tunnel after roll call tonight. And Carter, no explosives. Farmhands don't carry dynamite." He smirked, "We'll leave that to McHale and his depth charges."

o-o-o-o-o

Voltafiore

Chin collapsed in a chair in the old wine cellar. He's never understand how they managed to pack so much stuff into that small boat and still have room for the crew. And not just expected supplies, but the oddest things: German uniforms, civilian clothes, medical supplies, chocolate bars, even a few packages of spices. "For LeBeau," Fuji had explained. "He's a real chef. The chocolate bars are bribes for Sergeant Schultz." From the way the crew talked about the inhabitants of Stalag 13, Chin felt that he knew them already. He'd really like to meet this Colonel Hogan . . . .

"And ya never know when a German uniform or two might come in handy," added Christy. "The Skip speaks the language and he makes a pretty convincing officer."

"Awright, you schlockmeisters!" McHale's bellow was unmistakable. "Get some shut eye and be down at the dock by 5 AM. Major Bonacelli will meet us there. We gotta get underway before Leadbottom comes looking for our JAG officer here."

o-o-o-o-o

Sailboats, troop ships, landing craft, even a destroyer or two - Chin had been on them all. Nothing had prepared him for the bouncing, stomach-churning, roller coaster of a speedboat ride that was a PT boat at full throttle. He was happy he hadn't eaten any breakfast. Now if only they wouldn't make any more sharp turns . . . . he headed for the rail.

"You OK, Kelly?" a concerned Christy asked the slightly green corporal. "It's been a bumpy ride, but we'll be heading inshore soon. We're far enough out from Voltafiore that Binghamton won't send anyone after us."

"Thanks," the slightly seasick JAG officer mumbled. "When do we pick up our 'package?'"

"Day after tomorrow," the quartermaster answered. "We'll hug the coast and reach the rendezvous point late tonight. The delivery will arrive sometime soon after that."

We hope, Chin thought. We hope. He looked out to sea as he considered just how complex this operation was - and how much it depended on precise timing and a lot of luck. And it was all in a day's work for McHale and his crew!

o-o-o-o-o

"Benvenuto! Welcome to la Bella Italia!" The underground guide exuberantly spread his arms wide as he led Carter, Newkirk and Professor Lutz across the border and into the relative safety of northern Italy. "Just a few more miles," he continued, "and we'll reach the safe house for tonight. Then tomorrow . . ."

"Keep it down, Mate," Newkirk broke in. There's still some Kraut troops in this area. The men proceeded quietly down an old footpath as they traversed an area sprinkled with small farms.

Lutz looked around nervously. "I hear something," he began. His comment was cut short by a loud "Achtung! Halt and show your papers!"

"Kraut patrol," Carter muttered under his breath as the three men raised their hands.

"Your papers!" A German corporal waved a rifle in their direction. "Schnell!" The men complied.

"You, you, and you!" The young corporal, already a battle-hardened veteran, motioned to the three men from Stalag 13. "Your papers say you are farm laborers? Then why are you away from your work?"

Carter switched to German, "We had some time off before the harvest starts, so we thought we'd go into town for a beer. We met this man," he indicated the Underground agent, " But all he can talk about is vino."

The German turned his attention to the agent. "You are from around here?"

"Si," the nervous man replied. "I own a small shop in town. I was visiting my cousin . . ."

"Enough!" The impatient soldier cut him short. "Go." He turned to the others. "You three come with me. Since you have nothing better to do today, you can load trucks for us. March! Eins, zwei, drei." He motioned the men into line between two members of his squad and moved at a fast pace towards their camp.

"Sticky wicket," Newkirk hissed, barely loud enough for Carter to hear.

o-o-o-o-o

Stalag 13

"Message from the Underground, Colonel," Kinch addressed his commanding officer. He sounded worried. "It's bad news, sir."

"Give it to me," Hogan responded.

"Underground reported that our guys and Lutz were picked up by a German patrol just over the Italian border. They were taken to a small German base and assigned to a work detail. Seems to be some kind of ammo dump. The camp is located here. It's only been there a few days." He pointed to a spot on the map.

Hogan ran his hand through his dark hair as his voice took on a worried edge. "Contact McHale. Bonacelli's with him. Have them get what info they can from the local Underground. They'll have to stage a rescue. It may be a temporary base, so we'll need to get our guys out of there fast."

"Will do," the tall radioman replied. He hoped McHale was enough of a miracle worker to pull it off.

o-o-o-o-o

Somewhere in Northern Italy

"Skip," a worried Willy reported, "Just got a message from Papa Bear. We got trouble. Carter, Newkirk, and our package were picked up by some Krauts and taken to an ammo dump located at these coordinates." He handed McHale a paper with the information.

The Skip unrolled a map and pinpointed the area. "Looks about two or three hours from here by road." He turned to Major Bonacelli. "You know this area?"

Bonacelli shook his head as he studied the map. "Not well. I'll have to contact some of my Underground friends." He studied the map. ". There are still some German patrols here and here." He pointed to a couple of possible spots.

"I know the area," Chin spoke quietly, his voice thick with the memory of particularly vicious encounter. "My squad and I came through here a few months ago. We cleaned out two or three bases — that's where I got hit — but this could be a new ammo dump."

McHale ran his hands through his hair, then motioned to his crew to gather round. "OK, guys," he began, "we've gotta get them out before the Krauts realize what they have. "We'll need a truck, a couple of uniforms, and some fake orders. We're gonna requisition some of that ammo and some guys to help unload it at our new base. Major—get us a truck. I want it here in an hour. You'll be coming with us. Gruber—get busy forging those orders. Tink, just in case we need it, I'd like a small bomb with a timer." He looked around at his crew. "Christy, you game for another trip inland?" The chorus of "Got it, Skippers" was all the answer he needed.

"I'm coming, too." Chin's voice was resolute. "You'll need a guide who can double as a guard. I'll wear dark glasses and a helmet. That should fool the Germans long enough to get our guys out."

"And if anyone asks you anything," McHale grinned, "you can just tell then you know nothing, N-O-T-H-I-N-G!"

o-o-o-o-o

"Whew!" Carter wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "These boxes are full of explosives! We've got to let the Colonel know."

"How will you do that?" an angry Professor Lutz retorted, bitterness edging his voice. "We are prisoners of the Wehrmacht. When they discover our true identities, we will be shot!"

Newkirk had enough of their companion's complaints. "The Underground knows where we are. They'll get word to Hogan and McHale. Now get back to work and keep your eyes open. The more information we can gather, the more help we'll be to the Allies."

"And maybe I can rig up an explosion or two," Carter added. "With all this stuff around, I'll bet I could . . ."

"Quiet!" the Cockney warned. "Guard's coming."

A loud "Achtung! Back to work, lazy dogs!" was punctuated by a nudge with a rifle. You'll pay for this, Newkirk thought, when the Allies blow this place up.

o-o-o-o-o

"OK, you guys," McHale bellowed. "How do we look?"

"Good enough to shoot," Gruber smirked as he and the crew inspected their shipmates and Kelly.

"Major Haller, Sergeant Christener," he pointed to Christy, "and Corporal Schultz," with a nod in Kelly's direction. "Bonacelli's going as himself. And good work on those papers, Gruber."

"Gee, Chin," Parker laughed, "You don't look anything like the real Schultz. He's a lot taller and rounder and . . ." The ensign suddenly blushed as the men laughed. Another typical Parkerism!

"Skip, the truck's here," Willy interrupted.

"Chin, you drive," McHale ordered. "I'll sit up front with you. Major, you and Christy, in the back. Let me do the talking if we meet any patrols. If you have to get out of the truck, play up that limp. You're a wounded hero, on light duty." He thought a moment. "Gruber, you got any medals in your souvenir locker?"

"How about this one?" the 73 boat's chief con man smirked as he handed the Skip an Iron Cross, second class. Chin blushed as he pinned the ribbon to is uniform - not exactly the award for a US Marine, but it might keep the camp guards from asking too many questions.

Two hours on a bumpy road later, the men pulled into the ammo dump. McHale produced the required papers, noting that he and his squad were here to collect some ammunition and explosives.

The guard directed them to a supply hut. "You will find what you need there, Herr Major. There are also some civilians who can load your truck. They're lazy—make them work," he laughed.

"Maybe we'll take them off your hands, McHale replied. "We can always use extra help at our base. And if they refuse to follow orders, heads will roll!"

o-o-o-o-o

Alerted by the sound of an approaching truck, Newkirk chanced a brief look. "More Krauts," he muttered. He watched as four men climbed out of the vehicle. "One of them's a major. Wonder what they want?"

Carter looked, then jabbed his partner, "That's no Kraut! It's McHale!"

"Blimey! And that's Christy and Bonacelli. Wonder who the fourth guy is?" The three men watched as McHale called their guard over.

"I need some boxes of dynamite, ammo, and rifles." He did his best Hochstetter imitation as he pointed to the three supposed farm laborers. "Have those men load the supplies on this list. I'll take them as well."

"But Herr Major," the surprised guard blurted, "I have no orders . . .."

"Bah! I am giving you orders!" McHale screamed, his voice rising to an almost hysterical pitch of irrational anger. "If you refuse, I will put you on the next transport to the Russian front."

"Jawohl," the now intimidated soldier said. The Russian front was too cold for his liking. He preferred a warmer climate, like Italy. He'd gotten to like the vino and the signorinas.

McHale strutted over to the truck and winked at the three men. "Follow my lead and we'll have you out of here in a few minutes." He motioned to the men and moved behind the truck. Once out of sight of the guard, he handed Carter a small package. "One of Tinker's specials. Set it for three hours from now and hide it in this truck. It should do enough damage to keep these guys busy. Newkirk, you and the professor here load a few bombs and other explosives into my vehicle. Then all three of you get in the back with Christy and Bonacelli. Kelly - he pointed to the driver - and I will stay in the front. Kelly's going by 'Corporal Schultz.'"

"Got it, boy, I mean Skipper," Carter choked back a laugh and headed off to plant the bomb. Newkirk and Lutz smirked as they went to work loading supplies.

The Skip sauntered over to the thoroughly cowed guard, remarking, "They are incompetent. You should be glad I'm taking them." He returned to the trucks.

"Bomb's set, Skip," Carter whispered, "It'll go off like you said, then . . ." he paused slightly, "BOOM!"

McHale nodded as he pretended to be engrossed in supervising the loading. "Achtung! In the truck, you men. You're coming with me. Christener," he added, "watch them closely. No tricks."

A final stop at the gate, then they'd be on their way back to the 73 boat. As they passed the sentry, the guard saluted, then said, "Your driver, Herr Major, is something wrong with him? He seems different."

"Idiot!" McHale snarled, "This man is a Hero of the Reich. He was injured saving three of his patrol from a blast. He was wounded in the leg and his eyes are still sensitive to bright light. He was awarded the Iron Cross for his acts, something you will never receive."

The abashed guard murmured an apology and saluted the "Hero of the Reich" as he raised the barricade.

"You know," said Chin with a laugh, once they were far enough away from the gate, "That's pretty close to what actually did happen. I was nominated for a Bronze Star."

"Then you really are a hero!" the PT Boat commander replied.

o-o-o-o-o

Newkirk whiled away the trip by teaching the professor some of the finer points of gin, while Carter, Christy, and Bonacelli outdid each other with taller and taller tales of their past adventures. Every so often, Carter checked his watch, counting down until his latest explosion. He knew they'd be too far away to hear it, but maybe, just maybe, he'd catch an echo.

They didn't hear an echo. What they did hear were the raucous sounds of one of Gruber's card games as they pulled into the landing. Forgetting that he was still in a German uniform, McHale jumped out of the cab as the truck came to a halt.

"Gruber! Tinker! Wally!" There was no mistaking that bellow. "What are you meatheads up to now? Where's Mr. Parker?"

"Just a friendly card game, Skip," the torpedoman smirked. "We met this Marine patrol and, well, we figured we'd have time for a few hands."

One of the Marines shook off his surprise as he spotted what he thought was an enemy officer. Grabbing his riifle, he yelled "Krauts! Hands up or I'll send you to Valhalla!"

Gruber pushed the gun down. "That really is our skipper, Lt. Commander Quinton McHale. He's been on a mission.''

"Why's he dressed like a Kraut?" The Marine checked the back of the truck. "And who are these guys?"

Christy and Bonacelli introduced themselves. The Italian officer pointed to the other three men and noted, "They're conscript laborers. We got them out of a German camp and are taking them back to their homes. They don't speak the English, just Italiano."

"OK," the now confused Marine replied. "But who's he?" indicating Chin.

Kelly pulled off the helmet and sunglasses. "Sergeant Chin Ho Kelly, USMC." He handed over his dog tags "I'm on a special assignment with the Navy."

"Guess it's OK ," the young non-com said with a grin. He called his patrol to order and waved at the 73's crew. "Thanks for the game, guys. And the winnings!"

"By the way," McHale continued. "There's a German ammo dump about two hours up the road. Wait a couple more hours and you'll just have to pick up the pieces."

o-o-o-o-o

McHale stretched. It felt good to be back in his own uniform. He walked over to where his crew and the rescued men were preparing for dinner.

"Smells delicious! Fuji sure packed some terrific meals. He's as good a cook as LeBeau." This from Carter. The young POW turned to the Skipper. "So, how are we gonna get back home to Stalag 13?"

"That's all taken care of," the CO answered. Major Bonacelli and Professor Lutz will leave for our regular transfer point after chow. A plane will be waiting, He'll be in England tonight. As for you two," McHale paused, then grinned wickedly, "Carter, you are now Colonel Stefan Keller and Newkirk, you're his aide, Lt. Kirkheim. The Underground will get you to the train tomorrow. You'll be met in Dusseldorf and taken back to Stalag 13 in Oscar Schnitzler's dog truck. Think you can handle it?"

Carter laughed. "Piece of pie!"

"Cake," Newkirk corrected.

o-o-o-o-o

Stalag 13

"And that's the story, Colonel," Carter finished the tale. "McHale sure came through for us."

"And my mate Carter here did get to blow something up," Newkirk added.

"More strudel anyone?" LeBeau passed around a pan of his famous dessert. "Better eat it before Schultz comes to check on us for roll call."

"Yeah," Kinch teased. "You must have recovered from that 'suppurating rhinitis' by now, the way you two put away that strudel!" His comments were greeted with laughter.

Hogan, leaning against the wall in his office, couldn't help smiling. Things were just the way he liked them: his team back together, another mission completed. "OK, guys," he began, "What are we gonna to do next?"

o-o-o-o-o

Honolulu - the Kelly Home

"And that's the story," Chin finished as he returned the medals to their case. "Of course, Binghamton was a little unhappy when I told him I found no evidence against McHale and his crew. If anyone deserved a medal for bravery, they did. That old 73 boat was a legend.

Tim looked at his dad. "Campaign ribbons, Purple Heart, Bronze Star. You really were a hero!"

Chin's wife, who had joined the group, gave her husband a peck on the cheek. "He still is!"

PAU