Requiem, for a Memory
by 80sarcades
This one features an unlikely pairing: Kinchloe and Klink. Klink acts slightly out of character in two instances, but justifiably so. Rated T for one word of offensive language. Enjoy!
Arlington National Cemetery
September 6th, 1962
What did you think of me, Hogan?
Silence was the man's only answer. Then again, he didn't expect one.
Gripping his cane tightly, he leaned forward and put the bouquet of flowers in front of the headstone before straightening back up. His eyes traveled to where the date was etched in the white marble.
1954. March 13.
Wilhelm Klink stood silently by the grave, his mind a jumble of thoughts:
What did you really think of me, Hogan?
I suppose I know the answer to that. A fool. An idiot.
Looking back, I probably was both. Then again, all I wanted to do was survive the war. Can you understand that, Hogan?
The former Kommandant barely noticed the soft breeze that touched his face; he sighed heavily.
I admired you, you know. Not that I would say anything. I couldn't. But I could think it. You stood up to people like Hochstetter and smiled. In many ways, you were more of a man than I ever was.
So why aren't you still alive?
I didn't even know you were dead, Hogan. Plane crash, they said; mechanical error. A tragic end to such a stellar career. Do you know how I found out? One of your men - from Stalag 13 - told me; his family does business in Germany and hired my firm for their accounting. Of course I didn't know him, but he knew me.
I was actually surprised that the man didn't hate me. It was odd, doing business with a former prisoner, but it went well.
You should have finished your career, Hogan. Finished being a General, then gone on to do something else. I'm sorry that you didn't get that chance. I'm also sorry that I didn't seek you out sooner.
Perhaps it was shame, but I doubt it. By that point, I had survived; I would live past the Third Reich to an unknown future. Learning of your operation was dismaying, but I didn't care. I was alive; more so, it would be on my terms.
No, the real reason I couldn't face you was for a simple fact: I didn't know what you thought of me.
So what did you think of me, Hogan?
Klink shook his head. What was the point, now? Hogan was long since dead and past caring for such things. Yet he, Wilhelm Klink, cared.
"If it helps, Kommandant, he didn't hate you."
The voice startled the former Luftwaffe Colonel out of his thoughts as he looked to his right and saw a black man standing nearby. His dark tailored suit was no less finer than Klink's own. After a moment, he recalled the man's name. Kinchloe. Yes, Sergeant Kinchloe. Hogan's right-hand man. I never really met a black man in person before Stalag 13; even after, I was intrigued. Certainly he represented the prisoners well before Hogan arrived, and Hogan trusted the man implicitly; he told me so himself at the end.
Then again, war is strange, isn't it? There were Germans, then everyone else. People adapt. I remember that Major…what was his name?… at Stalag Eight telling me that some of his huts would almost fight over the incoming black prisoners; it was the only way they could make sure there were no informants.
Strange, indeed!
Klink eyed the former prisoner for a moment before returning his gaze to the marble headstone. "A fool, perhaps," he stated flatly. "Someone easy to manipulate."
"At first, yeah," Kinch admitted honestly. "Anyone else, and our operation would have failed. With you, however…"
"I am painfully aware of that fact, Sergeant," Klink said, annoyed. "I was there. And what brings you here?" he said, somewhat sarcastically; he hadn't expected to be interrupted.
"Oh, I just got here, really," the black man said. "I was going to go on and visit my mom and dad when I saw you. And it's Kinch, sir, not Sergeant. No one's called me that since Korea."
No one really called me sir - and meant it - before I started my own business. Then I was someone, not just another uniform with officer's rank. And you didn't have to say it to me.
"All right…Kinch," Klink said. "I apologize. It's just…" His voice trailed off; he waved a hand at the grave.
Kinch nodded. "Like I said, Kommandant…"
"It's just Klink now," the other man said, interrupting. "Or, if you prefer, Wilhelm. I have grown rather weary of titles." A hint of a smile appeared on his face.
The American chuckled. "Yeah, I can understand that. Like I said, the Colonel - General, I mean - didn't hate you. At first, all of us thought you were…well, an idiot," the man sheepishly admitted.
"I probably was," Klink admitted reluctantly. "And I played right into Hogan's hands." His eyes dropped to the ground. Even though he was glad to be alive, a part of him was secretly shamed that the American Colonel had used him that way.
"For what it was worth," Kinch said, his voice interrupting the moment, "you helped to save a lot of American lives, even if you didn't know it at the time."
"At what cost?" the German challenged. "What little respect I had was gone. Do you know how many American soldiers made the connection between me and Hogan in the years after the war? The comments they made?" Klink shook his head. "Really, I didn't care about being made a fool. The Nazis were gone; I had outlived them. But to be reminded of it at every turn…"
He waved a hand through the warm air. "What's done is done. People see me differently now. It was fortunate that I was able to start a business and watch it grow into something. At least I didn't fail in that."
"But you weren't a failure," Kinch countered. "At least not when it counted. Do you remember a man by the name of Benny Marks?"
Klink frowned. He didn't remember the name specifically; there were too many men that passed before his eyes as the Camp Commander.
"He remembers you," the black man went on. "Told me that he thought he was about to die until you saved his life outside of Düsseldorf. You might not remember him…"
But Klink suddenly did.
He had gone to Stalag 10 for something…what?…he couldn't remember. On the return trip, they had just made it to the southern outskirts of Düsseldorf when they had to pull off and take shelter from a bombing raid. Afterward, they had driven on; it was a miracle that the car was undamaged, though they had to take care as they picked their way through the ruins.
It was only after coming around a bend in the road that Klink and his driver saw an astonishing sight: a group of civilians had cornered another man - obviously an American; that much he could tell from the man's flying gear - and were yelling and screaming at him. Some were even throwing rocks at their prey. As the enemy airman cowered before the mob, another civilian - this one carrying a meat cleaver that gleamed in the midday sunlight - caused Klink to react.
"Driver! Stop the car!" he ordered. Even before the machine squealed to a stop on the smooth pavement, Klink had already forced the door open. A pistol appeared in his hand; the Kommandant didn't even remember drawing his weapon from its holster or working the action. What he did remember, however, were the looks of panic on the assembled faces as he fired three shots into the air.
"What is going on here?" Klink demanded in a loud voice, though he knew the answer.
"An American terror flyer, Herr Obrest," one of the men spat. "Leave us be. We will give him the justice he deserves!" The other men and women added their own voices in agreement. Klink looked at the American - a boy, really; he didn't look any older than eighteen - who stared at the crowd, then the German Colonel, with frightened eyes.
He understood the crowd. Understood how they felt to see their homes bombed to fragments. Each side did it to the other; it was war. However, this wasn't war that the crowd wanted. It was barbarism. It was murder, for revenge.
"As a representative of the Luftwaffe, I am taking charge of this prisoner," he announced, hoping his voice sounded more sure than he actually felt. "Corporal," he said, looking at the driver, "take the American to the car. I believe there are some handcuffs underneath the seat; put them on him." Most of the crowd obeyed, accustomed to order. One man did not.
Even as the driver moved forward, the man holding the cleaver stood forward. "Why should he survive as a war prisoner, when my wife is dead? No, this is not right," he snarled, then moved toward the airman. A puff of dust kicked up from the ground in front of the civilian, causing him to stop; the noise from the shot startled the onlookers.
The Kommandant then leveled his pistol on the man before shaking his head. "No one dies today, sir," Klink said, his voice tinged with anger. "Not for what you have in mind."
Keeping his eye and weapon on the crowd, the Colonel waved his free hand; the driver rushed forward to take the airman into custody. The civilians were silent as the car was loaded. Klink watched them stare in their direction as the vehicle drove away.
"Yes, I remember," Klink said. "I also remember that I did what I was supposed to do. I was a Luftwaffe officer, after all; the man was a prisoner."
Kinch nodded. "True," he said. "But you could have just driven by and let the crowd kill him. Instead, he survived the war. You might be interested to know that he has a wife and three kids; I saw him again when I went to Korea. Like I said, you stood up when it counted."
"How can one be counted, if they are a coward at heart?" Klink softly said. He had no idea why he was talking about something so personal, yet he had a strange desire to release it. "In the First War I survived the trenches, praying only to live. In the second…in the second, I trembled before everyone from Generals to the Gestapo. As well as playing the fool."
The black man shook his head, disagreeing. "Not a fool. Just someone with a conscience. The General used to say that if more people like you were around there would be no war."
"I doubt that, Kinch," Klink scoffed even as his tongue stumbled over the other man's name. "Hogan was excellent at waging war, whether inside or outside of a POW camp; he would never say such a thing!" he exclaimed.
"Just because you're good at war doesn't mean you have to like it," Kinch argued in a calm voice. "I was probably the only one outside of his wife that knew about the nightmares he had. Even with that, he did his duty anyway."
The former Sergeant's words gave Klink pause. Even up to the end, Hogan was cocky. I would have never thought…
And what of your nightmares, Wilhelm? Dreams so real that you can smell the stink of the trenches, see wounds and severed limbs in detail….
Corporal Baumann's empty eyes. He saved me from myself yet…I can't remember his face. Just the eyes.
He sighed. "For what it is worth, I wish he had been able to finish his duty. To live, instead of this."
"We all did, sir," Kinch said. "At the same time, he went out doing what he loved." He paused for a moment. "He did think highly of you, sir."
Klink wearily shook his head, then held up his right hand. "Please, no more."
"It's the truth," Kinch continued doggedly. "You could have been a hard man, the way the other Kommandants were. But you weren't. Towards the end, when everything was breaking down, you could have looked out for yourself and the guards. But you didn't."
The German shook his head. "I was doing my duty. What was expected…"
"No, sir," Kinch said forcefully, cutting Klink off. "Schultz told me everything. The black market. Arguing with the Luftwaffe for supplies. Other stuff. If you hadn't done those things, that last winter would have gone bad. Real bad. What with that outbreak and all…"
Klink shivered. As it was, the winter of 1944-1945 was not one he cared to remember. Germany was disintegrating; by that time it was obvious that the shoe would be on the other foot. His eyes, unwilling to meet Kinch's, looked back at the headstone even as the other man continued to speak.
"Point is, you took care of us as best you could. Even the General knew that. Who do you think got you that approval to start your business?" Kinch asked.
Klink looked up, startled. He did that? For me? Then that explains…
His mind drifted back to a time not too long ago.
He wasn't a Luftwaffe Colonel anymore; instead, he was just another old man trying to start over in war-torn Germany. At least he was fortunate; his mother's old house was undamaged and, for some reason, unoccupied by American troops even though it lay close to the town center.
Even at that, life was difficult, Supplies were few to nonexistent and the cold winter of 1945 was hard to bear. Yet, he was alive, though it depended on your definition of life.
Hopefully things would change, and for the better. He didn't want to think about the alternative.
When he was called in to the small office after a long wait, the American Sergeant - not even an officer! - eyed him with contempt before pulling a file from his desk.
"Let's see…" he drawled in a thick accent, "Wilhelm Klink. That your name, boy?"
Klink swallowed the indignity of being addressed as 'boy' and kept his temper in check. Instead, he managed a polite, "Yes, Sir."
"Uh, huh," the American said. "You want to start an accountin' business of some sort. That right?"
Again, the German managed another 'Yes, Sir." Idly, he wondered how a great nation like America could produce such an idiot. Then again, Germany had its own share of that type; look at where it had gotten them!
The man continued to study the file for a long minute before looking up. "Weren't you that Klink that got fooled by that officer…what was his name? Hogan?" he asked.
"Colonel Robert Hogan, yes," Klink said. Although he kept his face calm, his hands - out of sight - were shaking slightly in anger.
"Must have been a real kick to realize you'd been fooled all that time, weren't you boy?" the American chuckled, enjoying Klink's discomfort. "Course, you were probably a lousy officer to start with; no wonder your side lost the war."
Klink said nothing, though his lips tightened. It was clear that the Sergeant would not approve the application. He would have to start over. Again.
Yet he refused to run.
"Ain't you gonna say something to that, boy?" the Sergeant challenged. "Or are you a coward?"
German eyes met American ones as Klink's anger boiled over. Surprisingly, he kept his voice calm as he began to speak. It was a trait that he had learned from Hogan, strangely enough.
"I survived the Nazis, Sergeant, as I will survive you. Either approve me or not; I don't care," Klink said, his voice deadpan. "Until then, to use a fascinating phrase I learned from you Americans, why don't you go and fuck yourself?"
For a moment, the Sergeant was speechless; then he doubled over in laughter. It was a moment before he could speak again.
"Well, you may be a German, but you're no coward, ain't ya?" the man said, smiling. He continued to leaf through the folder. "On the other hand, you uppity Krauts need to learn your place, so-"
His voice trailed off as he reached another document in the file. The Sergeant gave Klink a funny look before his eyes returned to the paper. For some reason, he appeared puzzled.
"Is there something wrong, Sergeant?" Klink asked innocently. The other man looked back at him; this time, his eyes were filled with questions. Instead of asking them, however, he shook his head even as his fingers turned the folder back to the original application.
"Looks like this is your lucky day, Kraut," he said in a low voice as he signed his name to the bottom. He reached across the desk for a rubber stamp and rubbed the end on an inkpad. The small 'thunk' sound as the paper was stamped echoed in the small office and to Klink's future…
"That was him? I never knew…" Klink said, his voice trailing off.
"I guess he might have told you, had you met," Kinch said. "But you didn't. He had no idea where you were, you know, but he knew you'd probably need help one day. Told me it was probably one of the better things he ever did as a General. I'm glad it worked out."
Klink shook his head in disbelief. Something else I owe Hogan…
"Point is, he thought you were a good man. Otherwise, he wouldn't have done that; he'd have left you out to dry." He paused. "If I didn't think so, I wouldn't have come over here. I'm sure - no, I know - he would have told you the same thing. Just think about that."
The German nodded absently, his eyes retuning to the headstone.
I wish that I would have gotten to know you better, Hogan. Not as German and American, but as friends.
Perhaps Kinch is right. I can only hope so.
For a long while he stood by the grave, lost in his own thoughts. When he looked up, Kinch was gone.
Klink looked around. The surrounding cemetery - save for a few distant people - was empty. A truck, obviously a maintenance one, silently passed by on the nearby asphalt road. All was quiet. With a start, he checked the time; he had been there more than three hours!
No wonder Kinch - it felt right, somehow, calling him that - was gone. Didn't he say something about visiting his parents? Still, Klink wished he had gotten the man's address; it would have been nice to write a letter and thank him. Maybe someday…
In the meantime, life beckoned. He had a plane to catch tomorrow, and meetings to attend. Still, it was beautiful here; he paused to take a deep breath. For the first time in a long time, he felt good; he looked at the sky and smiled before he glanced over at Hogan's tombstone.
Goodbye, Hogan. Rest in Peace.
You, of all people, deserve it.
With his spirits lifted, Wilhelm Klink walked back towards the land of the living.
The maintenance truck - the same one that Klink had seen earlier - slowed to a stop on MacArthur Drive.
After a brief conversation, the younger of the two men in the cab got out and walked into the cemetery. It didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for. He took the card out of the metal holder and studied it for a moment before he raised the walkie-talkie he carried and keyed the switch.
"Okay, I'm ready," he announced.
The other man, meanwhile, waited in the back of the truck. When his own device went off, he picked up a clipboard in one hand before keying a similar switch with his right.
"Go ahead," he said.
"Section 68, Grave 449," the man in the cemetery announced, his voice a monotone as he read the words off the card. "Kinchloe, James. Master Sergeant, United States Air Force. Date of birth, April 15, 1920; date of death, May 6, 1962."
"That's it," the other man announced, putting the clipboard down. He picked up a nearby pry bar and began to take the lid off of a wooden box while the younger man walked back to the vehicle. After preparing the ground - which required another trip to the grave site - the two men carefully lifted the headstone from the back of the truck, carried it carefully through the cemetery, and erected it into place.
With their work done, the two men left, leaving the graves of the military dead at peace.
[fin/ende]
A/N: Grave 449, Lot 68, was chosen specifically; it appears that the grave contains an unknown soldier. Somehow, Arlington National Cemetery lost the record of who was buried there and didn't discover the mistake until 2003 when they went to bury someone else. You would think that if they could ID the Unknown Soldier from the Vietnam Era they could also identify this one, but no; this poor soul has a grave marker with 'Unknown' on it. RIP.
I actually had to write a story where Klink succeeds, for once. Think about it: he goes through the First War and survives (which is a miracle in itself). Then he becomes a Colonel (never a General!) and ends the Second War as a middle-aged man with no country and (presumably) no future. So, in this story, he wins.
All reviews, of course, are gratefully accepted; I hope you enjoyed the story!