OK, legalese: They own, I borrow and play, I put back, no harm, and no foul.
I'll Be Seeing You, Chapter 1 (MA for some adult discussion)
By Mistress V
Col. Robert Hogan pushed the door open to his base apartment and switched on the light. It was snowing outside, big fat flakes, the usual for a Virginia January. He shook out his overcoat and headed into the kitchenette, mail in his gloved hand.
The fridge was almost empty. A trip to the PX was needed, but for now, beer was still on the menu. He cracked a Hamms, poured it out and rifled through the letters. Bills, advertisements. Then a pale blue airmail envelope with a familiar East End address. Hogan smiled and made his way to the sofa.
A letter from Newkirk was always a good start to the weekend.
"Hi, old chap," Peter wrote in his breezy though perfect English copperplate script. "I know this letter will reach you after Christmas but I hope it was happy just the same."
Newkirk went on with another chapter in his new life as partner with his brother in law at an East London Pub, the Joker, as well as his somewhat nefarious doings as a "wide boy", the UK version of a wiseguy. Business was brisk and the numbers game on the side only added to the profits.
Newkirk added he'd spent part of the summer down in the south of France, visiting Le Beau. The former corporal found work amongst the newly emerging movie studios that dotted the Cote d 'Azur. In addition to his culinary and management expertise, LeBeau soon found there were plenty of wealthy single women who frequented the area and were in need of handsome escorts. Since Newkirk also looked great in tux, hed'd soon been enlisted into the escort business and had spent many a summer evening having a great deal of fun. When he wasn't busy working, LeBeau lived in a little cottage on the beach near a sleepy fishing village called St. Tropez. It was, Newkirk declared, even better than Brighton, especially since the local lasses thought nothing of having a swim au naturel.
A creased yellowed clipping was carefully enclosed. It fluttered into Hogan's lap even as he read a P.S. from his friend. "By the way," Newkirk added, "I thought you'd like to know."
An obituary from The London Times, for one Alsdair MacFarlane.
Hogan scanned the text. Viscount MacFarlane had met a sudden and untimely death in an equestrian accident the past December, on Boxing Day to be precise. He was survived by his widow, Margaret, and their son Robert.
A subarctic talon clawed its way down Hogan's back. He shivered as he got up for another beer. Thoughts raced through his brain.
Peggy.
Despite his somewhat cavalier attitude about wartime romance, and all the women he'd know, she was the one who got away. Memories washed over him unbidden and he lay back on the cushions, remembering.
The allies liberated Stalag 13 a month or so before V-E day. It had been an amicable surrender by Klink and Co., with his former charges bidding Herr Kommandant and Schultz a fond farewell before they went their separate ways.
As a senior allied intelligence officer, Hogan was whisked off to London for debriefing. His superiors then sent him to the countryside near the bases in East Anglia, where he worked with others supporting the resistance units fighting for the final downfall of Germany. The war was in its last days but offensives were still being mounted.
They'd been sequestered rather nicely at a stately local manor near Ely, Catkin Hall, home to the late Lord Robert Crafton. His Lordship, an RAF Group Captain, had died in the early days of the war but his widow, daughter and married son and family still lived on the estate.
James, the heir to his father's seat in the House of Lords (in addition to being a rather spiffing fighter pilot in his own right), welcomed the arrivals to his familial home. Having been called to frequent emergency Parliamentary debates, the young Milord was seldom around but his mother, Lady Camille, had done her best to see the visitors were accommodated comfortably. Hogan liked his digs. This wasn't your typical holier than thou manor, no sir. Everyone from the Lady of the house to the dogs in the kennels was as down to earth and friendly as they could be.
And there was Peggy, known as the Lady Margaret Crafton. She'd completed an honors degree in French and German at Cambridge in the early days of the war, so had been working in the War Rooms throughout. Despite her father's untimely demise, she'd remained at her post in London until called home to assist the group stationed there.
Tall, slim, with dark blond hair and green eyes, Peggy worked tirelessly translating messages the resistance was still sending. From the first moment Hogan laid eyes on the woman, he knew she was dangerous territory indeed and did his best to keep distance between them. She was engaged to an army lieutenant serving in the Pacific, a man whose blood was the same shade of blue as hers. And she was the daughter of Hogan's hostess. No go.
But it was spring, and despite the war raging just across the channel, the days were a long riot of green and flowers. The air was warm and spirits turned optimistic, doubly so when victory in Europe was finally achieved. Hogan remembered kissing all the ladies (on the hand or on the cheek, naturally) while Lord James popped the cork on a vintage few bottles of Bollinger champagne. Was it his imagination, or was it the sparkle of the wine in the twilight, but had Peggy's eyes caught his and lingered a little too long, just before they slowly made their way over the planes of his dress uniform?
Later that night, Hogan promised himself again to steer clear of the beautiful woman, despite her obvious interest in him. This was forbidden territory, he told himself. Can't go there, no matter how challenging or exciting it might be.
Peggy had other ideas.
"My fiancée, Alsdair, is missing presumed dead in Burma," she informed him crisply the next afternoon, when they somehow ended up having tea together alone on the veranda.
"I'm sorry," Hogan responded awkwardly, wondering where this conversation was headed.
"I'm not," Peggy replied. "Alsdair and I were slated to marry from the age of ten or so. A union of two great landholding families, you know. Never mind we had no feelings other than friendship. It was one's duty. And until and unless Alsdair comes home, I shall not think of it otherwise."
Hogan recalled nearly choking on his food. "War can make thinking a little cloudy," he began somewhat cautiously, by now realizing what was on the table besides tea and sandwiches.
"Not mine," Peggy stated. "I have never seen things so clearly in my life." She laid a hand over his own and squeezed it suggestively.
"Please make love to me, Robert" she whispered."I want you."
From there, it was no hold barred. Hogan was astonished to discover that the so called British reserve could be wiped away with a single kiss. It was, to say the least, unbelievable. Within a day, Hogan couldn't even remember any other woman.
Sex during the war had been an exciting, dangerous thing, full of whispered promises and tearful goodbyes and raw lust. Being with Peggy made it different. It was like learning to make love all over again but without the hesitation or uncertainty. Her Ladyship was an eager student and learned new ways of love with a vigor Hogan found amazing.
It transpired she was not a virgin.
"It was the war. I can't say much, because there wasn't much to say," she admitted flippantly one afternoon as they lay hidden beneath a willow tree, the sun dappling their naked skin. "He was leaving, so I did what was expected."
"And when he comes home?" Hogan recalled himself asking, the blood pounding in his ears as he let his lips slide down low on her abdomen, headed towards a secret place of desire he worshiped.
"I will do my duty again," Peggy sighed, her voice sad. Then she pulled his face up to meet hers and Hogan saw the fire and love in her eyes that matched his own. "And I will remember these days for the rest of my life, my love. Will you?" A moan tore through her as his fingers met her heat.
He showed her that he would.
Then one day it was finished. The morning news was filled with the story of the liberation of a POW camp near Rangoon, a rather haphazardly run one not unlike Stalag 13, and one of the survivors listed was Lt. Alsdair MacFarlane.
Peggy was lost to him forever. There was no need for her to tell him of the decision made, the duty owed. Her eyes, half lidded and threatening to spill over, said it all. Just before they kissed that last night they spent together, trying to store up memories for their separate lives that lay ahead.
He put in for an immediate transfer stateside, citing his aging mother. Peggy bid him a perfunctory goodbye several days later, effectively closing the book on the greatest love story known to mankind. Her fiancee was due to arrive the following week and the wedding was planned for the day after his homecoming. Lady Camille was sad the young colonel would not be there to share her family's joy, but wished him a safe journey just the same.
Hogan spent his last night in England at Newkirk's pub, trying to drink away the past few weeks. His friend advised him to declare his intentions and seek the lady's hand. Hogan declined, knowing his was a lost cause. After all, the scandal of Edward and Mrs. Simpson was still fresh in the minds of the British people. One did what one must, for duty. And besides, what would a titled lady want with a common airman, even if he was a pilot?
Newkirk disagreed and went on. "You go tell that girl you love 'er and want to marry 'er," he insisted. "I think you'd get the brass ring, mate. You said so yourself, she's crazy about 'cha. After all, this war, it's changed us 'ere forever," he said. "Things 'appened and ideas'll keep changin'. Why one day, the Prince o'Wales might even marry the woman 'e loves and keep his throne, eh?"
They laughed and drank, but the next morning Hogan crawled onto a transport and left England. He'd never been back.
The present beckoned. Hogan poured himself another beer into the colorful stein Schultz sent a few years back. The portly sergeant and his wife had opened a Gasthof in their home town and were now catering to off duty occupation forces personnel and their guests. Schultz said it was a good life, and extended an open invitation to Hogan and his former crew anytime they wished.
Hogan sighed now. Here it was, 1951. The war was over and instead of pursuing his dream of being a cargo pilot somewhere exotic, here he was still in the Army Air Corps. Or, more correctly, in the foundations of the new United States Air Force. With things the way they were over East, his background was in constant demand and the rewards were decent. The CIA was also in its fledgling days. Hogan was a popular man, it seemed, everyone wanted his input. He was told he'd be in on the ground floor for an exciting ride--his for the taking.
Women…There were a few here and there, nothing serious. The memory of what he'd had with Peggy seemed to make all the others a kind of cheap substitute, going through the motions. Physical. Love was a figment of a storyteller's imagination, not a word in the vocabulary of Col. Robert Hogan. Once, perhaps…a lifetime ago, but he'd opened his heart and look what it got him. He forced himself to banish her from his thoughts, that way the empty space in his soul didn't hurt so much.
Newkirk had sent along the wedding announcement, which showed a thin, aristocratic young army officer and his beguiling bride, pretty in a fashionable suit. A year or so later, a birth note followed for the arrival of Robert Duncan (for her own father and her husband's) MacFarlane. Newkirk stated in letters that the baby was the spitting image of his pa, a real handsome bloke. Hogan forced himself to write a holiday card to Lady Camille that year, congratulating her on becoming a grandmother again and wishing the family well, but he was numb otherwise.
From then on, a Christmas card from Lady Camille and her family found its way to Hogan's mailbox every year. No new extensions to the family on Peggy's side, but the widowed matron wrote in glowing terms of how well things were for everyone and fondly recalled the past and the brave officers who lived at the manor.
Hogan thought about that past. Besides himself, the rest of the Stalag 13 crew had done well. Klink, sensing a sweet deal despite a sour wrapping, finally deigned to marry Gertruda Burkholter once her husband Otto had been officially declared dead. The family name helped garner him a post at the local airfield, where Lufthansa hoped to fly commercially soon. Klink's family estate was now, he moaned in the odd letter, in the hands of the Kommunisten. His relations had mostly escaped the division of Germany, but the times were sad indeed.
Andrew Carter, married to his high school sweetheart and the father of two daughters, had been snapped up by DOW chemical as soon as he got back home. The company paid not only for him to get his B.S. at Purdue, but funded his Masters at MIT too, all in the hopes of building a better stick of dynamite someday.
Kinch had gone back to his alma mater, Stillman, and finally finished the degree in engineering the war had interrupted. He now worked in Detroit as a sound recording technician for a music studio, a field he told Hogan would break wide open very soon.
And Hogan? There was talk of new base duties in Europe, recon missions, all very cloak and dagger. Nothing concrete, but the prospects were exciting. Coming out of his reverie, Hogan reached over to the desk next to the couch. He fished out some writing paper and a pen, then set to his task.
"Dear Lady Margaret," he wrote carefully, chewing his lip hard. "I am so sorry to hear of your loss and hope you and your family are well. Please accept my sympathies, your husband was a fine man. If I can do anything, please let me know. Colonel Robert Hogan."
He posted the letter the following Monday on his way to the office and thought no more about it.
Spring, at least April, was making its presence known on the Eastern Seaboard when two events crossed on the same day for Hogan.
The first was a summons to England the following month to complete the establishment of an office overseeing Eastern recon missions and possibly flying some. Hogan didn't mind, it was everyday activity for him, but it was the first time he'd be headed back to London. Since.
The second was a letter waiting, on fine vellum stationery, from England.
"My dearest Robert," Peggy wrote in her flowing hand. "Thank you for your condolences. We are muddling through, as you say. Mother, James, Fiona and the children are all well. I hope someday you might be visiting these shores again. We would enjoy seeing you. You are always welcome at Catkin Hall. All my love, Peg."
But it wasn't the letter that made his heart lurch.
It was the photograph.