Author's Note: This post-war story is consistent with the "Conversations" stories I've written in terms of Hogan's post-war career, although it doesn't feature any of Hogan's family.

ooOoo

October 1946

"President Truman, may I present General Robert Hogan. General Hogan, this is President Truman."

Hogan shook the hand offered to him, studying the man it belonged to. A firm grip—hardly surprising. The President was taller than he had expected: the press always seemed to describe Truman as a small man, but Hogan put him at around five feet, nine inches—about average height, maybe two inches shorter than Hogan himself. Truman was dapper, too, in his dark gray double-breasted suit and bow tie with orange and blue fish swimming against a red background. Fond of a bright tie himself when out of uniform, Hogan grinned inwardly while President Truman's hazel eyes, magnified by the thick glasses, regarded him cheerfully.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Hogan said sincerely, still trying to make himself believe that he was actually being introduced to the president of the United States. The very idea seemed surreal, and he wished he could go back in time to tell his ten-year-old self.

Nonetheless, here he was at a tea party in the Rose Garden of the White House, with enough stars on the uniforms around him to make whole constellations. His own lone star, well under the average of the dozen or so other generals and admirals attending this event, made him wonder exactly why he was here, or if there had been some kind of mistake. But no, the invitation had been clear—and it had been backed up by his own superiors, Generals Butler and Barton. General Butler had in fact personally checked to make sure Hogan had both gotten the invitation and was attending the event. He had also just made the introduction—and had now stepped back, leaving Hogan on his own with the President.

So Hogan was definitely wanted here at the White House. The question was: why? This kind of contact still seemed above his pay grade, even given his current job.

"How's your golf game, Hogan?" the President asked with a grin.

Hogan chuckled in response. He'd been getting variations on this joke since late August, when Ben Hogan had won the PGA Championship. "Nowhere near champion level, I'm afraid, sir. And there's no relation, as far as I know."

The President grinned at him again, then gestured over to the White House behind them. "Have you ever been here before?"

"No, sir," Hogan answered, his eyes going over the large neoclassical façade. His rank as a major before the war had certainly not merited any kind of connection to the Roosevelt administration. Nor had he ever found the time to play tourist in this particular spot.

"We'll have to be sure you get the nickel tour," the President said, also eying the famous residence, but with a clearly critical view. "Though the whole damn structure needs work—the place is falling apart from the inside. Even the outside needs redoing, especially the South Portico. Those awnings are a perfect eyesore. We need them to shade the Blue Room, but they look awful. I've had them painted, I've had them washed, and we put new ones in this year and still they look like hell. They just collect dirt." He shook his head in disgust.

"You have a good point, sir," Hogan nodded in agreement. The awnings didn't fit the dignified structure very well in his view, breaking up what should be elegant spaces between the columns. However, surely he hadn't been asked here to give his opinion on interior—or exterior—decorating.

"Come see the grounds. They give a better view." The President of the United States moved off southwards at a quick clip, and Hogan lengthened his own stride to keep up with him. General Butler seemed to have melted away entirely; their only companions were a discreet set of Secret Service agents—who also seemed rather hard put to keep up with Truman's brisk pace.

This has to be it, Hogan thought to himself. He's going to tell me why I'm here.

The President paused suddenly when they were in the midst of the South Lawn, well out of earshot of the party. He turned back to Hogan, who had fortunately managed to stop before running into the leader of the free world.

"Mr. Churchill speaks highly of you, General Hogan," Truman said.

Hogan's eyebrows lifted in surprise. While he and his team had once had the great honor of meeting Winston Churchill while they were all being debriefed in London after V-E Day, he could not imagine why on earth the former Prime Minister of the United Kingdom would mention him to the President of the United States.

Truman looked amused at his reaction. "You did save him from assassination," he pointed out, "and you played a crucial role—with his personal approval—in the D-Day plans. You've spent a fair amount of time in England since the end of the war. You are certainly—what's the new phrase you pilots use?—'on his radar,' General Hogan."

Nonplussed, Hogan blinked, unsure how to respond. He was apparently on Truman's radar too. Truman had just made it obvious that he knew about the very highly classified operation at Stalag 13. Of course, he was the President, so naturally he had the security clearance . . . but it felt more than a little strange that the President of the United States, whom he had never met before today, knew things about him that his own parents didn't.

Before Hogan could marshal his thoughts to provide a coherent answer, Truman continued on. "Mr. Churchill suggested I read your file. I must say, it was a lot more entertaining than most military files—even the classified ones. You accomplished a hell of a lot during the war, General."

"Thank you, sir. I had a great crew," Hogan replied, giving credit where credit was due.

Truman smiled. "I like a man who doesn't take all the glory for himself. Tell me about them."

Something in Truman's demeanor suggested to Hogan that they were finally circling the conversational target. If the President had read his classified file, then he had to know about his Stalag 13 team. Everything Hogan had heard or read about Truman suggested he was a straight shooter, not a Machiavellian schemer. Retreat was no option. Hogan decided to go on the offensive with a bold, and perhaps risky, maneuver.

"They were the best team of the combined Allied armies," Hogan said, pulling out his wallet. "Here's a picture of them, sir," he said, sliding out a small photo and handing it over to the President. It wouldn't have been in any file Truman had seen.

The picture had been taken right after liberation, his inner circle standing around him, just outside the barracks' door: LeBeau and Newkirk on his left, Kinch on his right, Carter slightly turned, looking over at Newkirk. All of them a bit skinny from the short rations of the last few months of captivity, but everyone alive and healthy and smiling broadly, having won through the war, despite all the times they'd had close scrapes with disaster. Baker had taken the picture, so unfortunately wasn't in the shot; Olsen had been somewhere else at that moment and was also missing from the picture. But it was the best image he had of the men who had worked side by side with him to accomplish the impossible, under his orders, over and over again for nearly thirty months. If anything would make the names in the files real to the President, it was this picture.

Truman took the picture and peered at it. "This would be Corporal LeBeau, and this Corporal Newkirk?" he asked, pointing to each unerringly.

"Yes, sir," Hogan nodded, noting the confirmation that the President knew his crew by name and nationality.

"Then this would be Sergeant Carter, and this," Truman's finger moved to jab at the final figure in the picture, "must be Sergeant Kinchloe."

Hogan's senses all hit high alert. Kinch was in Truman's sights in some way. He looked up sharply from the picture to meet Truman's eyes. The President's face was composed, no hint of what the man from Missouri thought of Hogan's unorthodox choice as his right hand man in the operation.

"I believe he received a commission, has been promoted to first lieutenant, and serves as your aide now?" Truman asked, his voice still bland.

"Yes, sir," Hogan answered, meeting the President's flat tone with his own. He'd fought this battle before, but he hadn't counted on having it here, now, with this particular superior. But he was not about to back down from it.

"So tell me about Lieutenant Kinchloe, General," Truman continued.

"What do you want to know, sir?" Hogan countered, trying to get a bead on the other man's line of inquiry.

"Whatever you think is important," the President responded, his tone still neutral.

Okay, fine. Hogan intended to come out all guns firing. He tucked the picture carefully back into his wallet, gathering his thoughts, then faced the President grimly.

"Kinchloe was essential to the operation, sir. He started as our radio man, building the radio from scratch and keeping it working for the duration, despite the difficult conditions. He handled all communications from London, keeping up with all the codes and their changes, and probably slept even less than the rest of us, monitoring the radio communications at night. He is fluent in both German and French, so he was crucial in monitoring information we gleaned from German sources and what we got from the French resistance, not to mention his usefulness in playing the part of German officers over the radio and telephone when we needed it. He had the coolest head under pressure of the entire crew, and the best judgment. I could—and did—count on him to point out flaws in plans, to reel me in when my own ideas were unworkable, and to see to it that my orders were carried out once I gave them. He is a natural leader and had the respect of not just every man in my inner circle, but in the camp as a whole. And that's just for starters. I could go on—sir."

"And he lived in the barracks with you. A black man." Truman's voice remained neutral, but his gaze was sharp, despite the distorting spectacles, and he had put his hands on his hips.

"Yes, sir," Hogan gritted out. "His bunk was next to the door of my quarters, so he was always within call for me when I needed him."

Truman shifted his feet and folded his arms over his chest, looking away from the White House and down toward the Mall, where the white obelisk of the Washington Monument rose high into the air, looming over the reddening trees that bordered the South Lawn. "The other men made no difficulties?" Truman asked after a moment's silence.

Hogan tilted his head back slightly, lifting his chin defiantly. "I got any man who couldn't work with Sergeant Kinchloe transferred to another camp," he admitted. "I needed Kinch more than I needed any of them—and quite frankly, sir, that didn't happen many times. The men of my camp put the mission before any other considerations. And," he added challengingly, "we all knew what we were fighting against—and thus what we were fighting for."

Truman returned his gaze pensively, unfolding his arms and standing with his elbows akimbo. His fingers twitched slightly at his waist. Hogan stood firm.

"I admire a man who defends his subordinates," Truman finally replied. "And I would be curious to meet the officer who inspires such an impassioned appraisal from you, General. I'll ask my appointments secretary, Mr. Connelly, to find an appointment time for you and Lieutenant Kinchloe next week. General Vaughn, my military aide, will coordinate the time with you. For now, we had best return to the party." He gestured off toward the Rose Garden.

"Of course, Mr. President," Hogan replied, wondering what kind of situation he and Kinch had wound up in this time.

ooOoo

Historical Notes (quite possibly more than you're interested in): Truman was fond of bright ties. The one he's wearing in this scene is lifted from an online description (with picture) of one he actually owned. Hogan tells General Biedenbender in "Hogan Gives a Birthday Party" that he likes "loud ties."

Truman was also well known for what was politely referred to as "salty" language, so the mild (by today's standards) swear words I've used have their basis in historical reality. One of my favorite Truman anecdotes starts with the complaint from a friend of his wife who objected to Truman referring to "good manure" at a horticulture show. When the friend complained to Bess Truman, asking her if she couldn't get her husband to say "fertilizer" instead, the First Lady responded, "Heavens, no. It took me 25 years to get him to say 'manure.'"

Truman's comments on the White House portico are adapted from a letter he wrote the next year (1947), when he began to argue for the creation of what eventually became the Truman Balcony. He faced fierce opposition to building it, many believing it would ruin the façade, but Truman stuck to his guns. He argued that it would enable them to get rid of the awnings he hated by providing the needed shade and that it would be an architectural improvement to break up the overly long columns of the portico, citing Thomas Jefferson's own similar structures at the University of Virginia. (The awnings really did look terrible in the photos I've found, sticking out between the columns of the portico.) Congress couldn't use purse strings to stop Truman because he paid for the construction of the balcony himself, out of money he had saved from the White House budget. Once it was built, the critics agreed that Truman had been right. The Truman Balcony bears his name to this day.

Out of power in the United Kingdom, having lost his office as Prime Minister in the July 1945 election, Winston Churchill did visit the United States in March of 1946. He spent a good deal of time with President Truman, with whom he became good friends.

Mr. Connelly and General Vaughn are historical persons: they were Truman's aides.

Other episodes referenced: "Funny Thing Happened on the Way to London," "D-Day at Stalag 13."