Burning Bright
TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
It was a less than auspicious beginning. The French agent known as "Tiger" turned out to be a "tigress". His first impression was of a ditzy blond—not that Hogan had anything against ditzy blonds in the right circumstances—who bluntly told him her purpose in taking the mission was to meet the great Papa Bear. Imagine setting up a blind date in the middle of a war! Hmm… yes, imagine it… a little moonlight glinting off the barbed wire, a raised toast with some of Klink's best (stolen) wine while soft violin strains wafted through the night. Then, as their lips met her taut body pushed hard against his, soft yet strong, full of yearning. He leaned her back and back, down. Fumbling with her clothes… No, no clothes. So aroused she took no notice of the coarse blanket chafing her bare skin. Stroking her hot flank as the searchlight found the cracks in the walls, and he found…
Hogan winced as the violin hit a screeching sour note at Klink's imaginary hand. Yeah. Not the right setting for romance. Of course, maybe she'd go for a quick round of pressure relief between two Underground leaders, Hogan allowed pragmatically. They'd really be serving the Allied cause, enhancing relations, and such. Practically diplomatic relations, not, you know…
Turning uncomfortably on his bunk, Hogan thought of Tiger down below in the tunnels, and of Kinch's bunk blocking the tunnel entrance.
It wasn't their parting kiss that sealed her in his mind, though the swelling tide the memory of it brought arose time and again. No, it was the look in her eyes—in their eyes—as they met and held promising a world and a lifetime.
He'd loved every one of them, Hogan had. He'd well and truly loved each and every one of the parade of women who'd passed through his life. But he'd loved them for exactly and precisely as long as they remained before him, near him, or under him. As soon as each had slipped away, the love had slipped away with them.
Yet Tiger lingered.
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
"Sorry, ma'am, the Lone Ranger only kisses Silver, his horse," Hogan said, keenly aware of his men's eyes upon him. Was he so obvious in his feelings for Tiger? Um… well, okay. Maybe. Probably. Okay, definitely. He'd blatantly disobeyed London's direct orders to rescue her with single-minded purpose. Had his men seen through his protests that saving Tiger was merely the saving of a valuable Underground contact?
Their eyes all shone with amusement matching the smirks on their faces. Yup, they'd seen through him.
What the heck. Hogan swept Tiger into his arms, bending her backwards as he lost himself in their kiss.
"Marie Louise Monet." He tasted her name as he breathed it into her ear. How had he not known her name before seeing it on a Gestapo report? Hogan repeated the name, his whisper more husky. No. She would always and eternally be Tiger, burning bright as her eyes and the fire in her spirit.
Then he pulled back abruptly, holding her at arms' length. The intense swirl of danger heightened the moment, but only if they lived to remember it. "We've got to get out of here," Hogan told his men, and Tiger. The others snapped to business with but a few lingering, sappy glances; LeBeau's eyes moist, Newkirk's expression amused yet touched, Kinchloe's thoughtful but pleased. Carter took a firm shove on the back to knock him into the reality of the moment, which involved explosions still tearing through the blazing train, and the screams of the dying. Sirens sounded in the distance, nearing. They must vacate the scene.
The objections to Hogan going out again with Tiger were little more than form. Only Kinchloe stood firm, insisting—orders or no—he was accompanying them to her hideaway in Fulda to retrieve the vital documents.
Kinchloe, however, did not dispute the order to remain hidden in the bushes while Hogan went with Tiger into the small apartment. The look on Kinch's controlled face was knowing, though Hogan wanted to be dismissive. Nothing is going to happen, Hogan didn't say; could not complete even the thought.
Count the moment not even in seconds. The blaze in her eyes the instant she turned set him aflame. He reached, his hand grasping fire at the first touch. Rationality and reason scorched beyond recognition as they tore at each other's clothing. Tiger's sweater, already torn by the filthy hands of them, tore yet further as Hogan sought the hot flesh beneath.
Tiger's hands swept over him, hungrily seeking as their lips met and melded, their bodies straining to become one.
Madness. It was madness, Hogan might later think, when thought again became possible. Now, nothing mattered but the urgent completion. Falling to the bed entwined, Tiger's legs wrapped around him as he sought her center. Drives as ancient as time, the call to life in the midst of death, drove their rhythm. She rose to meet him as their unity climaxed.
Here, here then were the wings to which he, and she, dare aspire. In the fire of their joining, defying all logic, all things became possible, and they would, together, forever soar.
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
Hogan woke in the dreary gray of a London dawn, wondering what was wrong. Roll call? Prison guards? Barbed wire? No. London. Air raids? Invasion? Then he became aware of the soft breathing from the warm figure beside him and remembered. That was all over. There were bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover. But…
Right. He was getting married today. His heart gave a lurch. Here was the happiest day of his life. So he told himself, repeating it over and over like an order he was reluctant to accept. Could I have that in writing, sir, please? You soon will. On a marriage license. A legally binding document tying him to one woman for the rest of his life. One woman. Only one. No more smorgasbord of blonds, brunets and redheads. One woman. For eternity. Oh, the joy.
There'd be love and laughter, and peace ever after…
Somehow the sense of bliss and excitement eluded him. Hogan eased out of the bed, taking care not to wake his sleeping bed-partner. It would be the same one there, on that side of the bed, for all time, from this day forward. As long as you both shall live. Until you're mercifully dead. He gave a small shiver. No more bluebirds for him. Tomorrow when everyone in the world but him would be free…
His eyes traced the form half-covered on the bed. If seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding was bad luck, how did seeing her naked bode? Still, sleek, taut, tantalizing… until he reached the extra curve of her tummy.
He squared his shoulders, accepting necessity with the same sense of grim determination he had accepted his role in the war. There was a job to do, a duty to perform, and he'd do it. There was a child to consider, a child who might be… ahem, was… his. Not the sort of cad to abandon a woman in trouble, Hogan would step up and do what must be done. He'd put an utterly believable smile of joy on his face when the moment required it. At that he was practiced. Faking. Subterfuge.
How romantic.
He scowled. A drowsy sigh, a sleepy stirring from the bed. Eyes drawn to the golden curls silky on the pillow. The very sinews of his heart twisted. No doubts. Truly. Forty-some years of seeking—or of pointedly avoiding, as the case may be—and… and… Smitten. That was the word. The one and only. Those were the words.
War-time romance. Hmph. Those were the words Kinchloe had finally used in a rare moment between colonel and sergeant when ranks had been set aside. At a pub over their third, or maybe seventh, round Kinch had asked if Tiger took cream in her coffee. How would I know, and Hogan ordered their eighth, or eleventh, round.
Now as Hogan held the telephone receiver, listening to the double-buzzing of English phone rings, he realized what Kinch meant. The front desk answered and Hogan ordered a full breakfast with coffee… and cream… and sugar… not knowing which Tiger preferred. No matter. Only tea and toast appeared. Coffee yet rare in London.
Such studied avoidance to follow and precede such intimacy. Eyes did not meet. Speech remained formal. Tiger in a neat cream-colored suit, Hogan in dress browns. Huddled under the umbrella as they hurried toward their fate through the droning rain, hands most carefully evaded touch. This was a business to be done. A duty. An act of diplomatic relations between allies.
Words were spoken. Repeated. Eyes on them, discretely ignoring the fact the bride was already showing. Many twinkled with amusement to see the great Papa Bear captured at last. The best man's, Kinchloe's, among them. In the rear, a scattered formation of female eyes dripped. Loud sniffles punctuated "'til death us do part." The smorgasbord's last salute. One broke ranks, heels clicking as she ran from the church. Tiger claws curved out for a moment at that and Hogan knew his leash would be stout.
Turning to face each other. Ah ha! They knew what they were doing with this bit of business. Force the participants to face each other as the transaction was completed. Then eyes met and time ceased. It was the look in her eyes—in their eyes—as they met and held promising a world and a lifetime. A small gasp from Tiger as Hogan slid the gold ring onto her finger. Eyes narrowed in question, Hogan paused, ring not yet in its final—final—place. "The baby kicked," Tiger murmured. Held suspended in the moment, Hogan glanced down. Not two joined as one, but three. A third heart beat. Tiny hands grasped. Tiny feet kicked. From the darkness of death and destruction a spark of promise and life had been created. Their life. His and Tiger's. Klink was right (gosh, how he hated that idea!). Dread fled away. Whoever sired that tiny being mattered not a bit. It, he, she, was Hogan's, as was—he pushed the ring firmly into place—Tiger. Without waiting for the order, Hogan swept her in close, sealing them together with lips pressed firm.
Not a caged bluebird at all. Here were the wings of freedom he sought, in these golden bindings. Defying all logic, all things became possible, and they would, together, forever soar free.
Another loud sniffle. Hogan broke from the kiss to glance over the gathering. Ah! That was Louis' sniffle. Beside him, two of Tiger's sisters, their mother refusing to attend a too-hasty wedding not held in a French Catholic church. Well… he'd managed the Gestapo, he'd manage a mother-in-law, though he suspected the Gestapo were pussy cats compared to a Tiger's mother.
As they stepped outside, now husband and wife, the clouds deigned to break and send a shaft of brilliant promise down upon their future.
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
Klink was right. Gee! Hogan really hated admitting that, but Klink was right. He couldn't land in Greenland this time of year. From the cockpit of the Mustang, Hogan peered down at the fog-bound coastline straining to distinguish the glaciers rising above the mist. There'd be no landing in that.
Rose and gold, twilight colored the world below and behind with glory. Hogan flew away from the light into the darkness, black determination his wings. Beyond the bleak horizon his Tiger had cried out, calling him to her. The tug of a chain, heedless of its rust, never to be broken. Don't die. Don't leave me, his heart pleaded with heavens and earth. How could he look upon his new daughter knowing her life had cost her mother's? Could he hate the girl?
Reeling in the antenna, his calls for a navigational fix answered only with static, Hogan peered from compass to dimming seascape below. Cloud bank ahead, a barely seen wall of mist waiting to swallow him. Then into it. Zero-zero. Zero ceiling. Zero visibility.
On the pad on his knee he scribbled his life out, calculating his existence. A spin of his flight calculator. Squint at the numbers in the faint cockpit light. Calculate. Scratch out. Calculate again. Life or death rested in a decimal point. From Greenland, a compass heading to Iceland. Air speed. Wind speed. Uncertain as the plane buffeted about. Coalsack darkness outside. Pure dead reckoning. Dead, if reckoning proved wrong. If he failed to find Keflavik field in the vast darkness… If he was a scant degree off, he'd miss Iceland to the south, run out of fuel and crash into the sea. But, no, find Keflavik. Hope the runway was open, and not covered in ice and snow. Hope he didn't smack unseen into a mountain or glacier. Drift too low and dive into the deep.
Altitude… Hogan rapped the gauge. The needle jumped. Altitude changed. Alarmingly. Peering futilely out of the cockpit. Unable to see even the flashing blue and red lights on his wingtips. Wings icing? Instruments icing over?
The grasping hand of dread squeezed his heart.
Please, please, please… I'll never touch Lily Frankel again. I'll never lie about going on missions. I won't complain about burnt toast and unvacuumed floors. I won't order you about. I'll stay home and be true. I'll… I'll… A thousand promises and pleas, wholly meant though only half-true.
Then. Calm. Peace. A coolness upon his mind. A knowing beyond reason that Tiger lived. Their child's squall would bring joy not sorrow. He would hold both in his arms. Call it self-delusion. Call it denial. But, perhaps, just perhaps, call it faith.
A burst of angry French from a squat woman in black as Hogan pushed his way into the Paris house. Too befuddled with lack of sleep to attempt to translate the glob of furious French, Hogan set the woman ("Hello, Mother," muttered into the scowl) physically aside. Through a blur of sisters, Hogan's eyes landed on an infant held in the arms of—incongruous, indeed—a black man not dressed in black as were all the others. Kinchloe in army green held a pink child wrapped in white.
"Colonel!" Kinch raised the child slightly. "Your daughter."
Nearing, eyes fixed on the infant, Hogan heard a name assigned her through a spatter of French. Marie Liselle, or some such. He heard Lisa, and so called her. Doughy infant blobs all look the same, he'd always thought, yet in little Lisa, tiny tigress, shone the echo of the mother. As a hammer blow to stun him, love struck beyond all bounds.
Warmth bundled into Hogan's arms, Kinchloe gently guided him by the elbow to a bedroom door. Kinch's own wife, brazen and brassy, Mavis Newkirk Kinchloe (what an incongruous, yet perplexingly well-matched pair!) took la petite bébé Lisa from his arms as he lost himself in the eyes of the Tiger on the bed.
Though wan and pale, the furnace of life burned yet bright.
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Creeping through German darkness, clothed in black, burnt cork darkening his face, Hogan knew again the thrill of danger. How he loathed this existence during those years at Stalag 13 and how he yearned for it in the years since. Battle it though he may, never did life fill him more vigorously than when risking all to accomplish the impossible. Drive. Meaning. Purpose.
Danger, a tonic to fire the blood.
Seven years gone by since those days he matched wits with the Nazis. Only the names had changed. East versus West.
Not tonight, though. He raised a glance toward the heavens. Not tonight. This night the last remaining target of those days far gone would meet resolution. The last one… Hogan set his jaw. In that house they crept near the last of Hochstetter's men who had defiled his Tiger, who had tainted the parentage of Hogan's son, would meet an ending. Alive, he reminded himself, however unwilling. Hogan would take the man alive, if possible.
If possible, the wish coldly rose. Only if possible.
A break in the clouds threw a spear of starlight down. His eyes flicked over to his cohort. Kinchloe met his look solemnly. No levity in their connection tonight. No smile of shared understanding. Cool, grim resolution.
Tonight. At last. The last. An ending. For you, Tiger. For us.
Nearer, then nearer yet. Scarcely to breathe, lest the faint whisper of air obscure a vital sound from the prey.
To the door. Deep breath now. To the count. Three. Crash in. Ready. Life and death separated by a finger's squeeze on steel.
But… nothing.
Exchange of a wary glance with Kinch as both eased into the room. Empty. Hogan frowned. This was recent. Very recent. A dinner rested upon the table, not yet cold. Coals glowed in the stove. Empty of life, yet with traces of death smeared about. Blood still wet stained a wall, a floor. What…?
"Hogan," came the voice softly from the doorway.
Whirling, gun ready, then Hogan relaxed. "Lily." Seeing the man—so glum?—behind her, "Dubois?" What…?
"She found him first," said Lily as though Hogan would know what she meant. What…? She? "She got him. Before he got…"
The world trailed off.
Tigers hunt. It is what tigers do. A mother with kits is yet a tiger, after all, and can never pretend to be a lamb. Tigers do hunt.
From the den of death, Hogan pushed out. No backward glance at the lifeblood spilled within. Clouds deigned to close in over the mocking bright stars. Heaven wept so he knew not if the tears were his or not.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
It was a less than auspicious parting. Hogan stood alone in the claustrophobically cramped Paris graveyard, staring down at the gravesite framed with brick. At the head stood a new stone which already looked old. The engraving was simple. Marie Louise Monet, it said, with the dates. Dates too close together. Too short a span between life and death. He hadn't put his name on the stone, to the puzzlement of many. Kinchloe, alone, had nodded, understanding, or seeming to. Hogan hadn't owned her. He had never tamed the Tiger, as her death made all too clear. She had never been Marie Louise Hogan. She had been Tiger. Untamed. Unframed. Never to be fully held contained.
His anger yet smoldered, though he cursed himself for it. What use to be angry with the dead?
Hogan set limp flowers down on the grave gazing one last, long time at the stone. Never again would he return to this spot. Flowers, the remembrances of a dutiful husband, he'd have sent and delivered. For himself, he'd never come again to the place that tried to hold his Tiger framed.
Turning away, Hogan strode to where his children waited with Kinchloe, to continue life. Perhaps to love again, but never for more than the moment when she—whoever 'she' would be—was there with him.
Hogan walked away from the grave, alone, though not, for yet Tiger lingered.
The End
"Tiger, Tiger" by William Blake, 1757–1827