Chapter Text
There was a kind of stillness over the plain that housed Stalag 13 - the paradise home away from home of so many daring POWs. An eerie stillness, almost. There were no dogs whining and barking from their kennels, no heavy footsteps of loveable sergeants, no annoyingly grating voices yelling for reports.
Everything was still. Everything was quiet.
In the top most bunk in his office, Colonel Robert Hogan awoke, immediately on edge. His nerves settled, hearing the familiar chorus of snores and deep breathing coming from the main barracks. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong; something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
The answer greeted him as he swung open the shutters, gazing out over the compound. Snow was falling, dancing in the air, wafted about on invisible currents of air. The pilot part of Hogan spared a thought for his comrades flying in these conditions; the rest breathed in the rare peace.
From wire fence to gate and guard post and beyond, the world was white. Snow had fallen - was falling still - piling snow upon snow as far as the eye could see. There was a pristine stillness to their bustling camp, an untouched beauty their prison so rarely held.
Hogan closed the shutters as he dressed, opening them again to watch the world awaken from the snow globe silence. His breath crystallised before him, but he paid it no mind. In the nearly two years he had been here, he had never seen Stalag 13 look so innocent.
The sight reminded him of a carol Newkirk had grudgingly sung the previous year - to show LeBeau how an Englishman did it (properly). "Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow".
Things certainly were fairly bleak this as the last winters, and the wind definitely made moaning noises as it blew through the rickety structures they called home. But those few lines, they summed up the sight before him as well as any other he could dream up.
For the moment, Hogan could forget the war raging viciously on around them. For a moment, he could pretend that the world was as innocent and pure as it seemed, untouched by death, evil and the carnage of this second world war. For a brief, brief moment, Hogan could imagine their loved ones were all safe - especially the Newkirks in London and the LeBeaus in France.
As if reading his thoughts, the snow fell harder, obliterating all sight of the guard towers and fences in the distance. Hogan's chuckle misted the air before him, a fleeting piece of happiness he could catch if he felt so inclined. Hogan let it fade before his eyes, staring like a child in wonder at the sight before him.
A knuckle tapped at his door, the hinges squeaking slightly as it was eased gently open. Kinch's familiar footfalls sounded behind him; his old friend and second in command stopping, awed, at the unimpeachable sight.
"That explains London's message," Kinch announced, whistling through his teeth. He handed Hogan a scrap of blue paper, stating softly; "They've cancelled the mission."
Hogan looked between the words inked upon the paper and the unblemished snow before them and nodded. "If they hadn't, I would have," he replied, pitching his voice as low as Kinch's. "There's no way we could risk sending anyone out in this. If we didn't freeze to death, we'd be sitting ducks for the Gestapo."
Kinch made a low sound of agreement in his throat, seemingly as entranced by the hypnotic snowfall as Hogan. Brown eyes traced the path of snowflakes brave enough to fall on the Kommandantur, grateful that he couldn't see how much snow they'd have to shovel away from the motor pool in the coming days.
The radioman rubbed his hands together, keen ears detecting the sound of their barracks beginning to wake. "Coffee, sir?"
With the frigid air turning his turning his usually semi-warm office into the North Pole, Hogan couldn't deny that a warm beverage was just what he needed. The falling snow, however, struck a different chord inside him. "Right now, I could go for some cocoa."
Kinch chuckled, a rare sound that Hogan treasured from his friend. "Couldn't we all."
LeBeau was jealously guarding the supply they'd received in an airdrop from London - along with some much-needed penicillin. Their resident renaissance man promising them thick, chocolatey cups of heaven bright and early Christmas morning.
"Coffee would be great, thanks, Kinch," Hogan murmured, still unwilling to break the spell they were under.
"I'll send LeBeau in with some when it's ready," his second replied, taking another last look at the vista. "I've already promised to take Newkirk some in the tunnels. He's finishing up his sister's birthday present."
"Tell him not to linger down there," Hogan bade, shifting a little so he didn't catch the full brunt of the icy blast. "I wouldn't put it past Klink to order surprise roll calls at all hours today."
"Don't spend too long staring at that, sir," Kinch said, hand on the doorknob. "I'd hate for you to miss LeBeau's feast because you've caught a cold."
Hogan smiled over his shoulder at his old friend. "You worry too much, Kinch."
"With how our missions often go, Colonel," Kinch replied easily, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I think I worry just enough."
"Well," Hogan offered, flashing one of his own disarming grins. "Worry less about me and more about how that lot is going to take London's news."
Kinch's sigh rivalled most of Hogan's superiors' most exasperated. "Let me guess, you're delegating telling them to me."
Unable to stop himself, Hogan beamed one of his more boyish grins. "It's one of the perks of seniority."
"What do you mean the bleedin' mission's been cancelled?" Newkirk demanded, standing just before the tunnel entrance bunk, cigarette smoke swirling around him like the snow falling outside.
LeBeau made a sound of pure aggravation, stabbing a spoon towards the windows. Windows not a man among them could see out of. "I don't know, Pierre," the Frenchman uttered sarcastically. "Why do you think the mission has been cancelled? Have the boche surrendered? Could it be too hot?"
Newkirk blew into his hands, glowering at the irritated Frenchman. "I was only asking, wasn't I?"
Sensing another pre-christmas argument brewing (and he'd already had to be firm to stop a repeat of the Great Stuffing Debate of '42), Hogan stepped through the door from his sanctuary. "Alright. Settle down, fellas," he bade, pouring another mug of coffee. He'd need it to get through this day. "I know you were all looking forward to blowing up another of Burkhalter's munitions trains. Make a nice present of it for everyone back home."
A chorus of agreement met his words, along with a few choice mutterings. "Boche weather," LeBeau grumbled, casting a dark look at the sky.
"We should complain," Carter offered, joining LeBeau in staring out at the unprecedented snowfall. "Boy, can't you do anything about this, Colonel?"
"I'm good, but I can't control the weather." Hogan inclined his head, silently conceding the fact that - given enough time - he might be able to dream up something to affect the snow around the camp, but nowhere wide enough for the scope of the mission. "Unfortunately," he continued, slipping easily into his pacing briefing mode. "The train has been cancelled. Too much snow on the lines." Hogan glanced out of the nearest window, frowning. "Too much snow everywhere, to be frank. So, instead of giving the folks back home the present of a destroyed munitions train, I'm giving you all the gift of a Christmas Eve break."
"Supposing they get all that snow shifted, Colonel," Newkirk asked, pragmatic as ever. "What then?"
Hogan let out a tired sigh. One of these days, his men would start trusting him when he gave them nights off. Beckoning the English corporal forward with the crooking of his finger, Hogan clapped him on the shoulder and steered him to the door.
A stampede of feet followed as everyone tried to get as far away from the door as possible, Newkirk sending a glower over his shoulder.
Hogan opened the door, wincing at the burst of savage arctic air that stung his face like the notes from Klink's tortured violin. The cold air and pristine snow was beginning to lose it's charm. Undoubtedly, as soon as he was inside again, the snow would regain what charm it had lost.
"All this, across half of Germany," Hogan announced, sweeping his hand before them. "Kinch checked with London. They're not getting the lines cleared. We've got more of this on the way."
"Wonderful," Newkirk said, dancing a little on the spot. "Can we go in now? I'm getting frostbite just looking at all this snow."
Hogan nodded, ushering Newkirk in ahead of him.
Always one to capitalise on an opportunity, Newkirk was grinning by the time Hogan had shaken the snow free from his cap.
"Well, we've got a free evening. Anyone want to pop round to the Hofbrau for a couple of swift halves? First round's on me."
"Nobody's going anywhere," Hogan announced into the clamour of voices vying for a spot in Newkirk's outing. "We're staying in and having an early night." He could hear the wistfulness in his own voice. A full night's sleep was a very dim memory for him.
"Oui," LeBeau agreed, shooting a sly little grin at Newkirk. "We want to be in bed nice and early for Father Christmas."
"Boy, you wouldn't catch me going out there even if we weren't," Carter added, shuddering in his bomber jacket. "We had a lot of white Christmases in Bullfrog, but that doesn't mean I want to be out in one."
As if prophetically, his senior Sergeant's words were followed by the familiar bellow of their usually affable guard.
"Roll call! Roll call! Everybody outside in five minutes!"
A chorus of groans and less than complementary suggestions for what Schultz could go and do with his roll call erupted around the barracks. Roll call in winter was never fun, especially when Klink was in the mood to talk at them. But in snow drifts half as tall as LeBeau? Hogan could see only disaster happening.
"Klink can't honestly expect us to stand around in that," he announced bracingly, swiping his cap from where he'd only just dropped it. "I'll go talk to him. Until then, stay inside and try to remember it's Christmas."
Trudging out into the knee-deep snow, Hogan spared a thought for the irony of his position. Papa Bear's mission may have been cancelled, but a Senior POW's job was never over. Even in snow upon snow.