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.

Written for the 2015 Short Story Speed Writing Challenge. The prompt line is from "Galaxy Quest".

There is some language which might cause offence, but it's not my fault.

"Of course, it's always a pleasure to welcome you to Stalag 13, General Burkhalter. It's just that we can be so much more welcoming if, before you make a surprise visit, you give me a little advance warning..."

The hint of fretfulness which infused the words might have been imposed by the means of their transmission, since neither the microphone concealed in the office of the Kommandant, nor the tiny speaker, hidden within a coffee pot, which broadcast it to the interested ears in the barracks building on the other side of the prison yard, were of particularly high quality. But the overlying sycophancy, with its undertones of reproach and resentment, owed nothing to dodgy electronics; it was pure, unadulterated Klink.

Colonel Hogan's eyes gleamed as he looked at the coffee pot. "It can't be good for him, trying to keep all that bottled up," he remarked. "One of these days, the cork's gonna come out, and when it does, oh, boy!"

Newkirk, who was leaning on the table, taking up far more room than he deserved, chuckled deep in his chest. "Pity we can't predict when it's going off. We could make a fortune selling tickets."

His fellow prisoners snickered, but held any further comments in check as the visitor spoke: "This is not a surprise visit, Klink. I am merely passing though on my way to Paris for a well-earned furlough. If my staff car had not developed engine trouble not far from here, I certainly would not have put myself to the trouble of coming to see you. Believe me, it gives me as little pleasure as it does you."

"Ahem..." Momentarily disconcerted, Klink made a quick recovery. "Well, General, it is an honour to be able to assist you in your hour of need. I'm sure the mechanics in the motor pool will have your car running smoothly in only a few hours."

"I am very pleased to hear it. But there is no hurry. They can work on my car while I continue my journey in yours."

"In mine? But...but..."

"Is there a problem, Klink?"

"Oh, no, no...well, you see, General, as you no doubt recall, we have two officers of the Weapons Procurement Office staying here while they work on a top-secret long-range cannon project."

"Of course I remember. I ordered you to provide them with every assistance. So?"

"So as their staff car has also developed engine trouble, and as they need to drive to various factories around the area for consultation, they are using my car. And my spare one is - well, it's off the road. Engine trouble."

"Gee, what's with all their staff cars?" Carter put in as an aside.

"That's what they get for not buying American," replied Hogan, and grinned at the outraged noises coming from the Englishman in the room. "Okay, pipe down, Newkirk. I don't want to miss anything."

Burkhalter was speaking: "...I would not wish to interfere with their work. I think it would be best if I remain here while I wait for another car to be sent from Berlin. It should take no longer than a day for it to arrive, and I can use the time to study some urgent reports I have with me. This will leave me free to enjoy my time in Paris without thinking about work."

There was an uncomfortable pause before Klink replied. "General, I am always delighted to offer you our simple hospitality. However, there is a small problem. As you know, the only suitable accommodation for you is the VIP hut, which is currently occupied by Major Dorner and Lieutenant Fischer."

"Your small problem has an easy solution, Klink. I will take your quarters. So the only problem is, where will you sleep? And that is no problem of mine."

As Burkhalter finished with a wheezy rumble of amusement, Hogan unplugged the speaker. "I sure would like to know what's in those reports," he observed, folding his arms.

"Well, Burkhalter's here until tomorrow," said LeBeau. "Maybe we could get a look at them tonight, while he's asleep."

"Sooner you than me, chum," grunted Newkirk. "If anyone wakes old Burkhalter from his beauty sleep, he's liable to turn ugly."

"Boy, he must get woken up a lot," sniggered Carter.

Kinch, however, took it more seriously. "Colonel, we've got orders to get a copy of the blueprint Dorner and Fischer are working on, and we've only got a couple more days before they finish up here. Once they're gone, they're gone. Sure, it'd be nice to get our hands on Burkhalter's reports, but..."

"But that long-range cannon is the priority. I know, Kinch, I can't have my cake and eat it," said Hogan. "We just don't have the manpower to try for both targets in the time we've got. We've already got instructions from London to get that blueprint, so that's the cake we'll go for."

He folded his arms, frowning in thought. "Tomorrow's our best shot. Dorner's going into Hammelburg for a final meeting with the manager of the steelworks, leaving Fischer here to finish the draft submission for the project. He'll have the blueprint on his desk. Newkirk and Carter, you'll stage a diversion to get him out of the VIP hut for a couple of minutes, while Kinch and LeBeau get in through the back window and photograph the blueprint, and any other papers he's got lying around."

"And just how are we supposed to get the blighter to leave his precious drawings for even thirty seconds?" said Newkirk.

"Well, seeing how touchy he is about his time on the eastern front," suggested Carter, quite seriously, "maybe we could tell him the Russians are at the gate."

"And have him come tearing out ready to shoot anything that moves? No, thanks. I'm allergic to bullets. Carter, how about you leave the thinking to those of us who are good at it?"

Carter bridled, but before he could compose and issue a suitably blistering retort, the door of Hogan's office flew open to admit a bulky figure who announced his presence with a booming command: "Achtung! Everyone out into the yard for the exercise period."

Hogan barely glanced at the intruder. "Not now, Schultz, we're busy."

"You can be busy later. Now it is time for the men to exercise. Raus, everybody." Schultz made a wide gesture towards the outer door, as if trying to sweep the barracks clear of reluctant prisoners.

"Okay, men, go get some exercise," said Hogan. "We'll take it up again later, by which time hopefully someone can come up with a better plan than Carter's."

Schultz stopped him as he followed his men. "Wait a minute, Colonel Hogan. What do you mean, a better plan than Carter's? Are you up to something?"

"Well, actually, Schultz..."

"Shh! Don't tell me." Schultz held up both hands. "I hear nothing, I know nothing."

He averted his eyes, and lumbered away, leaving Hogan to stroll out at his ease. In the middle of the parade ground, his boys had tagged onto a rough-and-ready soccer match which was already in progress. It didn't seem to matter which side anyone was on, since apparently there weren't any rules in force. It was pretty boisterous, but behind the noise of the game, another more refined sound caught Hogan's ear. He turned up his collar against the spring breeze, and went to investigate.

It came from Barracks 10, of course. Close harmony singing of such precision could only originate there. The door stood open, but even as Hogan entered, the music cut off abruptly, and a single voice spoke in tones of grave disapproval.

"Gentlemen, the rules of music – indeed, the laws of physics – dictate that in any given musical key there can only be a finite number of dissonant notes. Could you possibly try not to hit every single one?"

The speaker's voice resonated with an acerbic edge which made the members of the ensemble exchange uneasy glances, before one of them ventured on a mild defence: "Begging your pardon, sir, but you've had us singing this same thing for ages, and it's not getting any better. Can't we do something different, just for a rest? You know, something a bit…uh…"

"Easier," muttered someone at the back of the group.

Lieutenant Doyle fixed the malcontent with an icy glare. "Do you have a problem with counterpoint, Gibbons? Because I seem to recall hearing a quite acceptable improvised basso continuo from you and Campion during your impromptu performance of There'll Be A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight at roll call yesterday."

He might have had more to say, but noticing his choristers glancing towards the door, he became aware of their visitor. "I beg your pardon, Colonel," he said. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Only just got here," replied Hogan breezily. "You know the exercise period has started, right?"

Doyle glanced at his watch. "Is it time for exercise already? Ah, well, I suppose that will have to do for today. We'll take it up from there tomorrow. Off you go - I mean, dismissed."

Hogan stood to one side as the choir headed for the open air, then turned a quizzical gaze on the choirmaster. "A little disharmony in the ranks, Doyle?"

"Just a touch of restlessness, sir," replied Doyle, gesturing for the colonel to precede him through the door. "I think it's the season. They see the weather changing, and it reminds them of how long they've been here, and how little they're contributing to the war effort."

Hogan put his foot up on the bench outside the barracks, and considered the point. "Really? I don't think they're being entirely fair to themselves. They helped out in a big way, when we needed them."

"The concert in Hammelburg? I know, they did splendidly. But that was just one little sortie. They see you and your men risking life and limb every day, and they start to think it's all a bit footling, trying to defeat the Hun with motets and madrigals. They're decent chaps, all of them, and they just want to do their bit, even if there isn't a bit for them to do."

Casting his eye across the choir members as they took up their places for a game of rounders against the men of Barracks 9, Hogan couldn't help but smile. "Your boys aren't exactly tough guys, Doyle. They're probably gonna get creamed out there today. Beckett's boys play rounders like it's a battlefield."

He watched in silence for a moment, his smile broadening into a grin at the inspiration which had come to him. He might just be able to have both cakes, after all.

He turned a speculative gaze on Doyle. "I can't use your boys in the field. They're just not the right material for that. But if they really want to help out, and if they don't mind a bit of trouble with the Krauts, maybe I do have a little job for them..."

The following day proved fair and mild; by early afternoon, the conditions were perfect for the little concert en plein air which Hogan had requested.

"This should be a good spot to initiate proceedings." Doyle came to a stop, halfway between the VIP hut and the Kommandant's quarters. "Now remember, gentlemen, we need to be heard, so fortissimo from all of you - Sergeant Beckett, so glad you could join us."

The senior NCO of Barracks 9 had come slouching across the yard with a couple of his men. "Sounds more like our kind of do than yours," he replied. "We knocked out a few ideas, like you asked for."

He handed over a grubby sheaf of pages, heavily scrawled over in black pencil. Doyle perused it with a critical eye. "Hmm, yes, they seem suitably irreverent, without being overly…Really? Three German Officers crossed the Rhine? I know I asked you to cast the net wide, but don't you think that one is a little too offensive?"

Beckett ruffled up. "That's a classic, that is. My old man brought it back from the trenches, taught it to me when I was just a nipper."

"What a shining example of paternal care and responsibility. Did he explain what it means, or were those words already in your vocabulary? No, I think we'll save that little scherzo as an absolute last resort."

"It'd be a perfect encore," persisted Beckett. But Doyle just shook his head, and waved him into line.

His gaze swept across the entire ensemble. "One last word before we start. We have been assigned to present a small diversion – a divertissement, as it were – to give Colonel Hogan's team a chance at gaining some useful information. Our part in this is almost certainly going to lead us straight to the cooler, so if any of you would like to stand down, now is the time."

Not a man moved, and Doyle gave them an approving look. "Very good. Now, as I believe the famous Mr Noël Coward once almost said - let's all be beastly to the Germans."

He held up his hand, paused to make sure they were ready, and gave them an upbeat.

Hitler has only got one ball,
Goering has two, but very small,
Himmler has something sim'lar,
And poor old Goebbels has no balls at all…

It was probably the most elegantly harmonious performance that song would ever receive.

At the edge of his field of vision, the conductor could see Hogan loitering nearby, ready to intervene if necessary; or, more probably, to do his best to stretch things out. Sergeant Schultz, just behind the colonel, dropped his rifle in order to wave his arms in frenetic shushing signals. But there was no stopping the choir before they reached a rousing final cadence; and Doyle paused only briefly to acknowledge the scattered applause from the other prisoners who had started to gather round, before proceeding to the next item.

Hermann bloody Goering's got a pimple on his bum,
Hermann bloody Goering's got a pimple on his bum,
Hermann bloody Goering's got a pimple on his bum,
And the poor sod can't sit down.

Glory, glory, what a hell of an arse he's got...

With scarcely a break, the choir proceeded on to a brisk version of Run, Rommel, Run, followed by an expressive Kiss Me Goodnight, Martin Bormann. There was no sign of Burkhalter yet, but Doyle, risking a quick reconnoitre, spotted Lieutenant Fischer peering out of the window of the VIP hut, and nodded to his men. "We have the attention of one of our targets, gentlemen," he said. "Let's see if we can't stir up some memories of his time on the Russian Front. Sergeant Beckett, you may take the lead."

Beckett drew himself up, his eyes sparkling; and a stentorian, but tuneful, bellow filled the prison yard:

The might of the nation is wielded by one.
Vive la Joe Stalin!
He isn't half knocking the shit from the Hun.
Vive la Joe Stalin!

As the rest of the choir, along with most of the other prisoners, joined in an almighty roar for the chorus, Fischer disappeared abruptly from his window, and burst forth from the hut a few seconds later. Hogan stepped forward to intercept him, apparently trying to douse the flames of Fischer's wrath with a few well-chosen words. He might as well have thrown petrol onto the fire. In fact, such was probably his intention.

Burkhalter now also appeared, looking more irritated than outraged. He strode across from his temporary quarters to confront the director of the choir. "What is the meaning of all this commotion?" he demanded.

Seeing Hogan was still busy feeding Lieutenant Fischer's fury, Doyle himself stepped into the breach: "Good afternoon, General Burkhalter. What a pleasant surprise, we had no idea we were singing to such an exalted presence."

The general was in no way appeased. "The exalted presence is trying to work, and you have interrupted me. I need peace and quiet if I am to concentrate."

"Of course you do, sir," replied Doyle genially. "And as soon as we have finished our little recital in honour of St Grubb's Day, you shall have all the peace and quiet you need."

"In honour of what?"

"St Grubb. The patron saint of the cheerful underdog." Doyle, who could see Newkirk and Carter slipping into the building Burkhalter had just left unattended, kept his eyes firmly fixed on the general's ill-tempered countenance. "It's a tradition to celebrate with a few ribald songs and a grand supper of jellied eels. Unfortunately eels are in short supply at Stalag 13. Such a pity, sir, they would have been such a treat, and I'm sure the men would have been quite happy for you to have a share…"

"Lieutenant! I do not care for your traditions, or your jellied eels," snapped Burkhalter. "And I do not wish to hear another sound from you until I have left the camp. Do I make myself clear?"

He swung on his heel and headed back towards Klink's quarters at a remarkably quick pace for such a stout man. If he caught Newkirk and Carter in there, it would be a disaster. It was a case for drastic action; and Doyle did not hesitate. He turned to his ensemble, meeting Beckett's loom of dumfounded consternation with a rueful smile.

"Men," he said, "I think we may need an encore after all. Are you ready?"

Like the crack troops he knew them to be, they did not let him, or Hogan, down. With full-throated enthusiasm, they delivered their last available volley.

Three German officers crossed the Rhine, pa-a-arlez-vous!

Just as Doyle had hoped, it stopped Burkhalter in his tracks. He, too, was a veteran of Flanders, and he knew that song. His cry of rage echoed from the surrounding hills, and brought Klink running from his office, apparently under the impression there was a riot going on.

"Sound the alarm! Let loose the dogs!"

The ensuing mayhem was quite spectacular. The guards yelled and threatened; the prisoners shouted back, and the dogs ran around in circles, barking their heads off and trying to bite anything in a German uniform which came near them. Combined with Klink's frantic blustering, Burkhalter's unleashed rage, and the furious denunciations of the wildly irate Fischer, it all made quite a symphony. But Doyle and his ensemble were not distracted, and the song continued on until it reached its final, triumphant Inky-dinky, parlez-vous!

Hogan stood back, watching the show with an expression of patient disapproval. But he waited until the very end of the song before he stepped in. His men had reappeared; Kinch and LeBeau from the VIP hut, Newkirk and Carter from the Kommandant's quarters, each pair looking self-satisfied enough to confirm the success of their missions. Hogan grinned at sight of them, then strode into the melee and held up his hands.

"Okay, fellers, pipe down," he said; and gradually, the general pandemonium died away until not a sound could be heard. Only then did Hogan turn towards the choirmaster with a mild rebuke on his lips, belied by the warm approval in his eyes: "I'm surprised at you, Doyle. That's not the kind of thing I expect from you, of all people. Your second tenors sang flat all the way through. Don't let it happen again."

Doyle, fully aware that the Kommandant's next order would condemn him and his men to solitary confinement, bowed his head slightly. "You have my word, Colonel. From now on, we'll be note perfect. Gentlemen, on three, if you please."

Without waiting for sentence to be passed, he marshalled his men into line and led them away to the cooler. But one last tune drifted back towards their audience, providing them with a joyous, triumphant recessional:

There are no more German bombers in the air,
There are no more German bombers in the air,
There are no more German bombers, no more German bombers,
There are no more German bombers in the air.

'Cause the RAF from England shot them down,
Yes, the RAF from England shot them down,
'Cause the RAF from England, the RAF from England,
Oh, the RAF from England shot them down!

Notes:

All of the songs quoted are in the public domain. They're soldiers' parodies from one of the wars, except for the last one which was a children's schoolyard song. Please don't go looking for "Three German Officers Crossed The Rhine" on Google. It's very, very rude indeed.

Noël Coward, the British playwright, composer and singer, wrote a song during the war called "Don't Let's Be Beastly To The Germans."

Lieutenant Doyle and Sergeant Beckett have appeared in some of my previous stories.