Act Two

Scene Two



– Two –

The day went slowly. Outside, the temperature was bitterly cold, the sky overcast. Inside, the mood was scarcely more comfortable. None of them could forget the horrors they had witnessed. LeBeau's cooking did warm things up a bit. Following the doctor's orders, LeBeau set about making a delicious soup. Soon, pleasant smells invaded the small cabin. Smells that helped them forget the stench of the cell as all the men took turns watching the sleeping man.

...

Every few hours, Sergeant Hans Schultz went into the quiet room and changed the bandages around Klink's wrist. Klink rarely stirred when he did so. After he finished changing the bandage, Schultz sat for a few moments, watching his sleeping Kommandant. His eyes strayed to the bruises on Klink's body, the fatigue lining the sleeping face. And he shuddered, remembering the scream he had interrupted. And he remembered the rage and the hate he'd felt when he walked into that cell and saw what was being done to Klink. And saw Hochstetter with that smile on his face as he tortured Klink.

Up until that moment, Schultz had never killed anyone. A batman during the first war, he was fortunate enough to be spared that horror. He would have said he was incapable of killing anyone. Now he knew better.

And he was both ashamed of his deed and equally certain that he had no choice. If he had not shot Hochstetter, they might all have been caught. Worse, his friend would have continued to suffer. So Schultz had shot Hochstetter without thinking.

Perhaps that's what frightened him the most. That he had done it without thought. A life, no matter how despicable a life, had been taken.

Schultz sighed heavily. Now he knew how others killed so senselessly. But perhaps now that he knew, he could better guard against it.

His eyes strayed back to the sleeping man. HE would understand Schultz's dilemma. In the rare moments when Schultz could get Klink to talk, Klink had revealed his abhorrence of killing. And it showed in the missions he undertook. Rarely would any of the Stage's missions end in a death. Much as he abhorred the conditions in his country, Klink knew that most people were pawns used by Hitler and the madmen surrounding him. And that most people were too afraid to do anything but obey those madmen. But Klink also knew all too well that men like Hochstetter existed. And even them, he was reluctant to kill. However, sometimes, as Schultz found out, people did die. And the man who was the Stage suffered.

As did Schultz.

Another sigh. At least, Klink was free and alive. Schultz prayed that they would leave. Quickly.

The question was, would they?

...

Corporal Peter Newkirk entered the darkened bedroom and went to the chair beside the bed. He looked down at the sleeping man; Klink's forehead was wet. Newkirk picked up the towel on the nightstand and carefully wiped Klink's brow. As he did, Klink's eyes slowly opened.

For a moment, Newkirk moved uneasily under the questioning gaze. Then he asked, "Would you like some water, sir?"

Newkirk didn't wait for a reply. He poured water into a glass and offered it to the man on the bed. He had to raise Klink's head up a bit so the Kommandant could take a sip. After a couple of swallows, Klink shook his head.

Newkirk carefully lowered Klink's head back down to the pillow and placed the glass back on the nightstand. Then he looked at Klink. Klink's eyes slowly closed and his breathing soon settled into an even pattern. And Newkirk sat down on the chair beside the bed, his eyes staying on Klink.

Klink — the Stage.

Newkirk still couldn't quite believe everything that had happened. When Hogan had come up with his incredible idea about Klink being the Stage, Newkirk had been sure that Hogan had flipped. Even when Schultz had confirmed it, Newkirk was still tempted to say they were both nuts.

Then they had come to this cabin, and he saw the books, the radio, everything. And Newkirk had been forced to admit that this did belong to the Stage. But part of him still couldn't believe it was the Klink he knew. Until he walked into the cell and saw the man who was chained to that thing.

Newkirk shuddered as he remembered his horror at Klink's appearance, his revulsion at what had been done to Klink. And he remembered his own terror when Hochstetter looked at them, wanting to put them on that contraption. Newkirk had been certain that he would be first.

For years, they had all kidded about being interrogated by the Gestapo. And he had shrugged it off. He'd been caught a few times by the Gestapo or SS during their unauthorized excursions outside the camp. But nothing had ever happened to him. And none of it had ever seemed completely real to him. Until the moment when Hochstetter's eyes had flitted over him in that cell.

Then he knew what real fear felt like, tasted like. He'd thought he had felt it before on their trips outside the camp. But it was nothing compared to what he'd felt at that moment.

Newkirk's eyes strayed back to Klink and he shuddered.

All those years when Klink had been the butt of their jokes or their insults, Newkirk had enjoyed it. Teaching the bloody fool a lesson. Klink and his master race. Hah! That's what Newkirk had felt whenever Klink was being shown up or treated like an idiot.

Then he walked into that cell. And saw what they had done to Klink. Saw the bruises, the blood, the dirt, the exhaustion, the pain. And when Hochstetter lost control and started on Klink as they watched . . . The way Klink was slammed around and kicked. Then when Klink was put on that thing . . .

Newkirk shuddered as he remembered the screams. That's what Klink had saved them from. Maybe not just this time, but in the past as well.

He glanced at Klink's lined face. How many times had this man that he had insulted and ridiculed, this man that he had, more than once, wished dead, saved them?

Peter Newkirk knew they would never find out.

...

Corporal Louis LeBeau walked into the bedroom, carrying a bowl of hot soup. He sat beside the bed, holding the bowl in his lap and waited.

After a while, Klink's eyes opened; his head turned toward LeBeau.

LeBeau gave him a shaky smile. "I brought you some soup, mon Colonel," LeBeau whispered, for the first time using the respectful term. "Would you like to try it?"

He didn't wait for a response from Klink. Moving closer to the bed, he dipped a spoon into the soup and held it to Klink's lips. The man on the bed slowly sipped the soup. LeBeau tried it again. After some five or six spoonfuls of soup, Klink's pained blue eyes closed once again.

LeBeau, still holding a spoonful of soup in his hand, watched as Klink slipped back into sleep. With a sigh, LeBeau put the spoon back into the warm soup. The Kommandant still very tired, and, LeBeau knew, still in pain.

He glanced down the length of Klink's body and shuddered. The bruises were terrible, even worse than what Martinelli had done to Klink. LeBeau had never seen anyone beaten like this before.

LeBeau had been beaten once. Back in France, shortly after the Nazis paraded into his beloved Paris. He'd made some disparaging remarks to some German scum who'd come into a cafe. It hadn't been a particularly bad beating; in fact a German officer stopped it. But the beating only served to make him even angrier with the stinking Boche. Shortly afterwards, LeBeau joined the Free French. Unfortunately, it wasn't too long afterwards that he was captured and sent to Stalag 13. A Stalag commanded by a Luftwaffe officer, Colonel Wilhelm Klink — the man everyone regarded as a fool.

LeBeau sighed. He along with the others had made life difficult for this man. More difficult than they needed to. Almost always treating him with contempt, deriding him, insulting him, every chance they got. To find out that the ridiculous, supposedly incompetent Kommandant Klink was maybe the most courageous and most brilliant resistance leader in Germany had been quite a shock. To realize that he was also in the hands of the Gestapo was an even greater shock.

LeBeau shuddered again. When they discovered Klink in that cell, saw him on that rack, saw the blood running down his arm, LeBeau had thought he'd faint; he never could stand the sight of blood. And when Hochstetter caught them, a terrible fear shook LeBeau as he realized what Hochstetter wanted to do to them. And would have done to them, except for this man.

Louis would have liked to say that he wouldn't break. In the past, he had said it with boasting bravado. But deep inside, he knew better. He knew he could not withstand the kind of torture this man had endured for so long. Few could.

He should have seen Klink's courage, his strength, earlier. At the very least, he should have recognized the pain he saw when he had accidentally hit Klink with that door. But he'd ignored it. Ignored it because it was only Klink. A sad sigh. LeBeau hated the Nazis. One reason was that they treated people as nothing more than objects. People were useful only when they served a purpose for the Nazis. Otherwise, they had no rights, no feelings.

Another sigh. He didn't like to admit it, but that was the way he and the others had treated Klink. Rarely would they give him the respect due his rank. Rarely would they accord him any human respect. For as long as Louis LeBeau had been at Stalag 13, he had ignored Klink as a person. He saw only the hated uniform and nothing else.

Was his behavior really any less callous than that of the Nazis he hated so much? Sometimes, not really. And it made him feel ashamed.

He glanced at the sleeping man. If Doctor Müller were right, Monsieur Klink would be all right. He hoped so. Louis LeBeau had much to apologize for.

...

Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe walked into the room. Klink was still sleeping. He almost looked peaceful. Peaceful. Was that a word one could use to describe a man who had been beaten and tortured for over sixty hours? Hardly. Especially when you looked at the bruises.

Kinch sat down at the side of the bed. The sleeping man stirred and opened his eyes. Kinch picked up the glass of water and held it to Klink's lips. After a slow swallow, Klink shook his head and Kinch gently laid Klink's head back on the pillow.

"Would you like anything, sir?" Kinch asked.

Klink shook his head again and his eyes closed. As Kinch watched, Klink fell asleep. And Kinch shook his head.

Who would have believed it? Klink, the Stage.

Should they have guessed? Maybe. Thinking back, Kinch could remember times when Klink seemed to know exactly what they were doing. But Hogan always managed to twist it around so that Klink appeared to be more confused than ever.

Maybe they should have guessed after seeing what Martinelli had done to Klink and how he behaved. After all, he had withstood a beating that would have had many men cowering in fear. Yet, oddly, Klink hadn't. For someone who was supposed to be a coward, it was remarkable behavior.

At the very least, after the cave-in they should have noticed something. The way Klink had calmed Hogan down while the two men were trapped should have alerted them to the fact that Klink may have been more than he seemed. Then the way he behaved while he was trapped should have been another clue. His courage, the way he refused to give in to the pain, had been in retrospect decidedly out of character.

But no, they hadn't seen it. All of them had been blind, blinded because of a uniform and a brilliant facade. And that made Kinch rather uneasy. All his life, he'd encountered people who saw only the facade of his black skin and treated him accordingly. It was odd, but here in a prison camp he wasn't judged by his skin color. Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter never cared that he and Baker were Negroes. And the really funny thing was that, despite what they'd heard about Germans and the so-called master race, neither did Klink or Schultz. Now that he knew the truth about Klink and Schultz, he could understand it. But thanks to Klink — it had to be Klink's doing — none of the guards were outwardly racist either. But could he honestly say that he had never treated Klink as anything other than the stereotypical Nazi?

Not really. Kinch was forced to admit that there was a little bit of the bigot in everyone. Including himself. Of course, Klink did too well a job playing the inept Kommandant. And he'd paid for it.

If they had guessed earlier, could they have prevented what had happened? Kinch wasn't sure. And he knew that's what was eating Hogan. That they should have seen what was going on. In the end, Hogan did. But by then, it was too late.

Another glance at Klink's unshaven face; fatigue and pain still lined it. But Klink looked a lot better than he did when Kinch and Schultz walked into that cell and saw Klink on that rack.

Schultz had astonished Kinch then. Before he realized what the rotund sergeant was doing, Schultz had shot Hochstetter. Kinch had just barely managed to shoot the other two guards before Schultz fired again, killing Hochstetter. Kinch hadn't thought that Schultz was capable of killing anyone, but considering how Schultz felt about Klink, how Schultz had always really felt about Klink, he guessed it wasn't that surprising. What had surprised him was the bond growing between Hogan and Klink over the last few weeks.

But it shouldn't have. Whether they liked it or not, Klink was Hogan's counterpart. In a way, they were both isolated from their commands. Even the seemingly inept Kommandant knew what a burden command could be. And since the cave-in, the two men had clearly come to an understanding about where they stood. An understanding that solidified with each passing day. No wonder Hogan had been so shook when he realized who Klink was, and where he was. Kinch had to admit to being shaken also.

Another glance at Klink. He was glad he'd missed the beating the others had seen and missed most of the torture. Over the past few years, he'd lain awake a few times in his bunk, thinking about what would happen to them if they had gotten caught. He'd hoped that the worst the Germans would do would be to shoot them. He hadn't wanted to think about the alternatives.

But Klink had faced those alternatives, had faced them ever since he started his dangerous charade. Kinch had never dreamed that Klink had had that kind of guts.

He wondered bleakly if James Kinchloe did.

...

Sergeant Andrew Carter walked into the bedroom and tentatively approached the bed.

Klink was sleeping, but the blanket had slipped down, baring Klink's chest. Carter leaned over and carefully moved the blanket up to Klink's shoulders. Absently, he noted the still fresh scar left from the wound the Stage had received when he rescued Colonel Hogan not that long ago.

In a way, Carter was embarrassed seeing Klink this way. Then he smiled faintly. Weird, he hadn't been embarrassed to play Klink's doctor last year(1). It had been a scheme of Hogan's to get Klink to go into town. Make Klink think he was in perfect shape so the underground could use Klink's car to get a message back to them.

Perfect shape. Now, Carter was startled. While pretending to be a doctor, he'd examined Klink. Not completely, not like a real doctor. But . . .

He just realized something. That entire week, Klink had intimated that he was in bad shape. Hogan had even called him a physical wreck. And all of them had agreed.

But Klink hadn't been. In bad shape, that is. Now that he thought about it, Klink had been in pretty good shape. When he listened to Klink's heartbeat with a stethoscope, the heartbeat he'd heard had been strong, steady. And the muscles under his fingers were firm, not flabby.

Why didn't he notice it then? He could have told the Colonel. Hogan would have been suspicious or at least curious. Maybe Hogan could have guessed what was going on earlier. And if he had, then maybe what had happened to Klink need never have happened.

Carter shuddered, then glanced at Klink as Klink stirred for a moment. Klink had ordered them not to react to his torture after he'd intervened in Hochstetter's plan to torture them. An intervention that had cost him dearly.

A deep sadness swept over Andrew Carter. Sadness at how he had treated Klink in the past. Once while acting the part of a general, Carter had even struck Klink(2).

They didn't need to go that far. They could have carried out their plans and still have treated Klink with more respect.

In hindsight, Klink really hadn't been as bad as they all made him out to be. Schultz had said it best — Klink had tried to do his best by the prisoners. He had never harmed any of them. None of the Kommandant's discipline was ever physical or inhumane. Unlike some of the camps they'd heard about. Some of the stories Carter had heard from the prisoners of other camps had turned his stomach. Klink had only done what he needed to do. And they gave him only contempt in return.

They should have seen it. They should have seen how they were treating him. At the very least, they should have accorded him some modicum of respect. It wouldn't have cost them anything. And it might have made the man who had been fighting for so very long a little less lonely.

Carter hoped that Klink would forgive them. But right now, Andrew Carter was having trouble forgiving himself.

...

Colonel Robert Hogan entered the darkened room as Schultz finished bandaging Klink's infected wrist.

"How's he doing, Schultz?" Hogan asked quietly.

Schultz shrugged. "LeBeau left some soup, Colonel Hogan."

"I'll give it to him."

Schultz nodded and left the room as Hogan went over to the bed and sat beside it. He glanced at Klink's lightly bearded face. The pain and the exhaustion that had lined it finally seemed to be lifting. For a time, Hogan had wondered if it ever would.

Pain.

Hogan shuddered. He remembered how Klink's pain in that cave-in had frightened him. How he didn't know what to do about it. Especially when Klink screamed. But the pain Klink had endured then was nothing compared to what he'd suffered since his disappearance. The few minutes they'd witnessed proved that. And Klink had withstood that pain for nearly sixty-five hours.

Sixty-five hours.

Another shudder shook Hogan. How many times had he and his men talked about what might have happened to them if the Gestapo interrogated them?

Talked? Joked was more like it. Joked as he had joked with the Gestapo men who would sometimes question him. Especially Hochstetter. Once in a while, Hogan had encountered underground agents who were in danger of being caught. He'd heard their fake bravado, those pleasant little lies that people tell themselves when they're frightened and don't want to admit it. Laughing at what the Gestapo would do to them. Denying what the Gestapo would do to them. Denying they could be broken.

So unlike Klink. He had known what would happen to him if he were caught. And had planned for it so that no one else would be hurt by his weakness.

No. Not weakness. Klink knew he was a man of flesh and blood and not the myth that had grown up around him. His courage was immense and born of knowing exactly what he was facing. His tolerance of pain was also immense; Hogan knew he could never have tolerated the kind of torture Klink had endured for so long. But Klink did tolerate it. And he'd saved them from that fate as well.

Memories crowded each other inside Hogan's mind. Memories of other times when Klink had intervened on their behalf. Protecting them from Hochstetter and others. They had thought he was playing the fool when he did so. Now they were able to recognize what had happened. Hogan had never noticed the risk Klink took whenever he stepped in and protected them. Now Hogan knew. He had seen what happens to those who get caught taking that risk.

No, Hogan, like the rest of his men, had never really thought through what could happen to them. Perhaps that's why he didn't really think about what could have happened to Klink when he'd betrayed Klink to the Gestapo last month. It had always been a game to them. With risks to be sure. And danger. But that had made the game more exciting. And to a large extent, their status as Allied soldiers protected them. But what would protect Klink?

Nothing. The Stage's reputation ensured that if the man were caught, the Gestapo would use every sadistic torture they could devise against him. Not just to get information, but also to punish him for what he had done. There would be no easy death for him.

Why hadn't Klink told him who he was? Why?!

Why should he? What had Hogan done to earn his trust?

Nothing. From the first, Hogan had used Klink, used him as a tool, as something less than human. Why should Klink have trusted him?

It wasn't until Martinelli had beaten Klink that Hogan even bothered to consider Klink as something other than a tool. And even then, Hogan ran from the way he felt about Klink. He didn't want to be bothered considering Klink's humanity. He had acted more like a fool than the supposedly incompetent Kommandant Klink ever had. Not noticing how important Klink had become to him. Not caring what Klink had become to him. And when he finally did realize it, he tried to deny it. Deny it to the extent that he wished Klink harm.

And Hogan paid for it. The dreams, nightmares, he'd had after he wished Klink dead. Dreams where Klink would be hurt, bleeding. Dreams where Klink would fall into his arms. Dreams where Hogan would walk away from Klink's pleading eyes, leaving him alone. Dreams where those pained eyes would close, never to open again.

The dreams had scared Hogan. They still did. There were tears on his cheeks now. And the dreams had grown worse after Hogan had turned Klink over to the Gestapo. Hochstetter's voice had floated in and out of those dreams, taunting Klink as his pained eyes looked at Hogan.

Hogan's hands lifted to his face. And he'd nearly ignored Klink again in that cave. It had taken all of Klink's pain for Hogan to finally admit how he felt about Klink. Something he should have admitted a long time ago. If he had, then maybe, maybe . . .

Klink stirred; Hogan looked at him. Klink's eyes were still closed but his breathing quickened and he was moving restlessly. Klink was dreaming, reliving his torture. His hands were clenching and unclenching, his body arching as if still on the rack.

Hogan knelt beside the bed. "Kommandant?" he whispered. He wasn't heard.

There was no hesitation as Klink's bandaged hand lifted. Hogan grasped it firmly in his own. Klink's fingers crushed his in a death grip. And Hogan held on.

Eventually, Klink's body relaxed. The fingers were no longer so biting; his breathing settled down. Slowly, Klink's eyes opened, filled with tears and pain. He tried to focus on Hogan's anxious face.

"It's all right," Hogan said reassuringly, wiping Klink's sweaty face with a damp towel, his voice soothing, low. "It's over. You're safe now. No one can hurt you here." He started to relax his hold on Klink's hand.

A frightened, broken whisper, "No, don't . . . "

A voice from Hogan's nightmares. A voice he'd ignored in his dreams. But not now. And never again.

"No," Hogan vowed. "I won't leave you." His grasp tightened on Klink's hand. "To the end, Wilhelm Klink, you and me. Remember?" His eyes stayed on Klink's tearing ones. "You and me. To the end."

Klink's hand tightened on Hogan's as he echoed, "To the . . . end."

As Hogan watched, Klink's breathing settled and his eyes closed. And he continued to hold Klink's hand in his.


1 "Get Fit or Go Fight"

2"Lady Chitterley's Lover"