AN: All characters are fictitious. Though historical facts are noted, this story and its events are purely from my imagination, so any similarity to real life people or situations is purely coincidental. I claim ownership to all OCs and none of the Hogan's Heroes characters.

Newington, Connecticut

January 20, 1944

They call me a soldier's angel. I'm not really. Last time I checked, I didn't have wings growing out of my back or the ability to accompany the people I love into battle. I wasn't there when my twin brother Robert crashed in Germany. I wasn't with my husband Walter when he fought in the Pacific or when my younger brother Frank left to fight. I don't have any special powers really. I just do what I can.

What I can do is visit the veterans' hospitals, as long as the doctors will let me. Sure, the travel gets expensive, but I don't care. The joy I see on the faces of boys who've had unspeakable horrors inflicted on them makes the costs worthwhile. I just wish I could take credit for coming up with the idea. Robert suggested it a few months back. "You could charm the crankiness from Hitler with that smile of yours," he said in a letter. "I can just imagine what you'd do for wounded men's morale." While I haven't taken a crack at Hitler, I daresay I cheered up the five boys who've proposed to me since I started my visits. I only wish I could help boys like the one I sat with on my last visit. His face was covered with so many bandages, he looked like an actor in a horror film.

His doctors said he's been like this for nearly a year. God, what a year it must have been for him. What a year it's been for me, too. If I'd only known what was coming.

oOo

Bridgeport, Connecticut

January 20, 1943

It just hadn't been my day. The glaze on my ham had turned into a lacquer, my meatball hors d'œuvres had crumbled to dust and my cake batter was threatening to follow suit as I knocked half the bag of flour into it.

"Dammit!" I growled, coughing and waving away the cloud of white powder hanging over me. "I should know better than to listen to Edith Hansen's Kitchen Club. This happens every time I try one of her recipes, especially when Mom and Dad are coming over for dinner."

The stove hissed as my peas started boiling over. "Argh! Can this day get any worse?" I turned the burner down and blew on the water when the doorbell buzzed. "Eddie!" I yelled. "Would you get that please? My hands are full."

The doorbell rang several times in rapid succession. "Eddie! I told you to answer the door, young man!"

My youngest's footsteps shook the ceiling as he bounded down from his room to the front hall. "Thank you!" I shook my head. "Honestly. It's like he pretends I'm not even talking."

He wasn't the only one. My oldest, Tom—who took after his uncle in every way, including his rebellious streak—argued with me no matter what I said. Lorraine, my middle child, had a gift for hearing only what she wanted to hear, so I rarely got through to her either.

"Mom!" he shouted. "It's for you."

"Tell them to come back later," I snapped, shoveling a handful of flour back into the bag. "I've up to my elbows in trouble right now."

"Mom says to come back later and that's up to her elbows in trouble!"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, good grief, Eddie, you didn't have to repeat that."

"He says he can't go until he seems you! He's got a telegram for you!"

My eyebrows rose. "A telegram? I'm not expecting any telegrams."

The world stopped as it hit me. It can't be. I got a letter from him a week ago. He just shipped out from Honolulu.

I barely felt the towel I wiped my hands on before forcing myself to walk to the front door. My feet suddenly felt like they'd been fitted for concrete shoes.

The gangly carrot-topped kid on the steps looked away when he saw me. "Mrs. Walter Allen?"

"Yes?" I said, my lips fumbling over the word.

He gulped, holding out a small white envelope to me. "Telegram from the War Department. I'm awfully sorry, ma'am."

I took it and reached into my apron pocket, frowning as I pulled out a handful of flour. "That's funny, I don't seem to have anything to give you for a tip."

He shuffled his feet and headed for his dented bike. "Oh, that's alright. I'd better be on my way anyway."

I stared at the envelope in my hand. There must be a mistake. This can't be mine.

Eddie tugged my skirt. "Mom? Is something wrong?"

I tried to speak, but only managed a short croak.

"Mom, are you okay?" Eddie asked, his voice softer.

I started for the gate. This can't be happening. I pushed it open and stumbled down the sidewalk against a gusting north wind. I couldn't bear it.

I headed for my parent's house at the end of the street. I've got to find Frank. Surely he hasn't left yet. He'll tell me the truth. He'll tell me it's alright.

I banged on their door, feeling like I was watching another woman living this nightmare. This isn't happening to me. It can't be.

Mom opened the door and gave me a cheerful smile. "Margaret, what a surprise! Do you need a cup of sugar or some eggs?" She looked at Eddie. "Why, if it isn't my favorite grandson."

"Is Frank home?" I whispered, feeling a cold numbness settle over me.

Her face fell as she saw the telegram trembling in my hands. "What's wrong?"

"I need to see Frank."

She wrapped her arm around me and let me in. "Sit down, dear. You look like your ready to fall down. Where are Tom and Lorraine?"

"Out with their friends. And I don't want to sit down. I want Frank to read my telegram."

"Did I hear my name?" Frank asked, appearing in the hall. "No doubt my dearest older sister has come to bid me farewell before I leave tonight."

If Robert had the sex appeal of Tyrone Power, Frank had a presence equaled only by Cary Grant, especially when he was in his Marine uniform. No wonder the girls in our neighborhood couldn't keep their hands off them.

At the moment, though, his good looks were obscured by a concerned expression. "What's wrong? You look like you've been through a tornado. What the heck have you got all over you?"

"Please, Frank, read this to me," I gasped, my lungs feeling ready to burst through my ribs. "I can't."

Frank took my hands and held them until I calmed down enough for him to take the envelope and open it. "Mrs. Allen," he read. "We deeply regret to inform you your husband, Cpl. Walter D. Allen, A.U.S., was killed in action on January 15 in the performance of his duty in the service of his country. Please accept our heartfelt sympathy. Letter to follow."

A horrible wail grated on my ears. It took me a moment to realize it was coming from me.

"Margaret!" Mom said sharply. "Margaret!"

The world faded into darkness as consciousness mercifully slipped away from me.

oOo

I don't remember much of the weeks that followed, other than a haze of faces offering their condolences at Walter's funeral. I got a letter from Walter's commander, which I hardly looked at before throwing away, and one from Robert that I shoved in a drawer without opening. He was the stronger one between the two of us—he never felt sorry for me through any of my childhood crises like skinned knees or broken hearts—so any sympathy from him was more than I could bear. The kids and I moved in with Mom and Dad after I started throwing up when they tried to take me home. I said little and ate even less, preferring to pass the days lying in my old bedroom, where Frank carried me after I fainted. Normally I would've been mortified at my hysterical reaction, but, as I watched the world go on as if the love of my life had never existed, I didn't give a damn what I looked like anymore.

Finally, a month and a half later, Mom forced me to face facts.

"Margaret," she said one morning, coming in my room without knocking. "I brought you some porridge."

I yawned and rolled over. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

She set the bowl on my nightstand with a loud clatter. "I'm awfully tired of bringing you breakfast in bed and having you not eat it."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, Mom, please leave me alone."

She went awfully quiet, which, for Mom, means she's winding up to let you have it. "As you like it, your highness!" she snapped.

I studied the daisies on the bowl. "What do you want from me? My husband's dead. That's not like losing a pet or breaking a piece of great grandma's china."

Mom's round face wrinkled like a burnt apple. "You think you're the only woman who's lost her husband in this war? You're not. The only difference between them and you is they get up every morning and go on with their lives as best they can."

I sat up, scowling. "What do you think I'm trying to do?"

"What you've always done, hide from the world."

I straightened up, my shoulders tensing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What would you call not getting out of bed for weeks?" She sighed and sat on the bed beside me. "Margaret, you're a wonderful mother and daughter, but you're going to drive yourself to an early grave if you keep going like this."

I buried my face in my hands. "You think I enjoy being this way? I hate it, but I don't know what else to do! I'm a 38-year-old widow with three children and no future."

She shook my shoulders. "Listen to yourself! How do you think Walter would feel if he heard that, or saw you moping around like a silly child?"

I stared at her. She had me and she knew it.

She took my hand. "You're better than this and you know it. You just don't give yourself enough credit. You never have. It's like Robert got a second helping of confidence and left you with nothing when you two were born. Maybe I'm partly to blame because I let his getting into mischief and Frank's debate team and track and field competitions take my attention away from you when you needed me."

I groaned. "What does that have to do with anything? It happened so long ago, it doesn't matter anymore."

She smiled. "Exactly. Eventually, we have to put the past behind us, whether it's something that happened yesterday or a long time ago. You have children who love and need you, Margaret. The longer you hide, the more you'll hurt them. If you can't pull yourself together for your own sake, do it for them."

I opted to lie back down and pretend to sleep instead of reply. After a spell, I felt the mattress shift when she stood up and listened as her footsteps drifted away. Once she'd gone, I peeled back the covers slowly and ate the porridge.