Author's note: Thanks for all the comments and support for my previous one-shots. Thought I'd commemorate Easter this year with a little spiritual piece. All comments welcome and appreciated.
No infringement on copyrights intended by the use of characters from Hogan's Heroes; they do not belong to me.
The Resurrection and the Life
Easter morning never meant to be this sad. Hogan looked out his room's window, out at the stalag's little cemetery on the other side of the road. It could barely be seen from here, but his eyes fixed on it sadly and purposefully. It was going to gain another resident.
"Colonel?" It was Lebeau's quiet voice behind him.
Hogan turned.
"It's Williams. Olsen says he's not going to make it."
Hogan paused and said nothing, moving up towards the door.
Lebeau opened the door wider and Hogan stepped out, then the two of them hurried out the hut and into Barracks 4. Several men were gathered around the dying chaplain, many of them young and all of them sad. They had tried to save him, but the pneumonia had already taken its toll by the time they got him to the town hospital. And when the doctors indicated he wouldn't make it, Williams asked expressly to be taken to the barracks. "It's where my men are," he'd said. Mercifully, Klink conceded.
Kinch had joined the comforting group around the chaplain, who lay on a lower bunk covered in blankets, his head supported by folded fabric. Newkirk and Carter stood by, while a certain young man, a new prisoner, Hogan noted, was kneeling beside the dying chaplain's feet. Olsen was standing by Williams's head, a moist towel in his hand. He looked up when he saw Hogan enter. "Williams has a request of you, sir."
Hogan acknowledged him and knelt beside the dying man's side. His brow furrowed at the sad condition of Chaplain Williams's body. His skin was dusky and in his eyes was evidence of pain and a toll of tiredness. His breath was quick and short and gasping. "What is it, Williams?" Hogan asked.
"Sir," he said, his body trembling, "would you preach my funeral?"
Hogan let him catch his breath. "I don't think I'm qualified to do that."
He took another pained breath, then looked down at his hand. His fist crumpled a piece of paper on his chest. "Just read." He looked up into Hogan's eyes, his own suddenly clear and alive. "For my men . . . I won't," He gasped again, "be there to tell them . . . to hope." His brow creased. "You'll do it . . . sir?"
Hogan's heart gave way. Williams had done a lot for them. He was the one to give them a hope beyond what they could accomplish with dynamite and tunnels. His advice might not have seemed like a lot right now, but in the end, it was what made all the difference. This was the least he could do in return. He grasped William's hand. "Of course. I'll do it."
Williams sighed and closed his eyes, a tired smile hinting at his lips. "Thank you, sir." He sighed heavily. "I am honored . . . to have served with you." He opened his eyes, then looked to the ceiling with a long, pensive glance.
His eyes didn't close.
Hogan squeezed the man's hand one more time and rose, biting his lips. He nodded to Olsen, who gently closed William's eyes. The gathered prisoners slipped off their caps. The young man at Williams's feet bent his head and tightly shut his eyes. Hogan picked up the paper in Williams's hand and stepped outside the barracks, where the rest of the camp had assembled. "I think you all know Williams's condition. He's left us now." He paused, then added, "To be with the Lord."
The men removed their caps. A few crossed themselves.
"When's the funeral?" someone asked quietly.
"As soon I have it arranged with Klink. Williams wanted me to preach his funeral."
A few minutes later, the men of Stalag 13 assembled on the court of the camp. A few young men in the front were clearly holding back tears. Until now, Hogan hadn't realized how much of a father Williams must have been to them. Hogan moved quietly to the front of the group. "I want to start by saying that Joe Williams was a friend to all of us. He performed his duty here with unswerving commitment and resolve. He will be truly missed." He paused and opened the paper Williams had given him. "He gave me little something to say to you." He cleared his throat and smoothed the paper, letting it catch the sunlight.
"Men, brothers, sons." His voice carried clear and crisp through the spring air. "Though I am gone, I want to remind you that what I have given you all these years has not passed with me. The Lord said, 'I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.' The world may take my body, but my soul is Christ's. And as He rose on this day so many years ago, so He shall give you life again when you die. Let this be your hope, my children, and let this be the part of me you keep with you. God bless. See you on the other side."
Hogan closed his eyes, now filled with moisture, and folded the paper. The assembly stood quietly for a long minute. The wind blew gently on them, and the sun grew bright through the clouds. Hogan looked up and saw a ray of sunlight cast down over the northern treeline, alighting on the wooden crosses skirting the banks of the hillside. Somehow, this was a sign, a sign that Easter morning couldn't end so sadly, and that there was always a greater hope.
And as they buried the chaplain and planted the crooked wooden cross on his mortal resting place, a small part of the heaviness lifted from his heart.