Chapter 2
Kommandant Wilhelm Klink stared with dismay at the huge file General Burkhalter's messenger delivered. Donnerwetter! Why was the General saddling him with a high security prisoner considered so troublesome he'd been singled out for special handling? Maybe he should start packing for the Russian Front right now and save time. Klink shivered with dread. There was so much at stake and this one single enemy officer could bring it all crashing down into flaming wreckage.
Klink flipped open the file. This was more than the standard prisoner file. Much more. Paging through he saw complete records of dossiers, investigations, interrogations… Donnerwetter. He contemplated the bulk of the file. Who was this officer? An American colonel being sent to an enlisted men's camp… Odd enough on its own. He must be someone's special pet... or hostage.
Klink sorted out the standard prisoner file folder first. And sighed extravagantly. It was marked with a red tab.
Starting with the least distressing of the papers, Klink scanned them. Hogan. An English name, if he wasn't mistaken. Possibly Irish. No matter. Americans were a mongrel breed. Peasants. Home… family… the colonel had provided no information on the 'official' Red Cross forms; appeared to neither speak nor understand German. That wouldn't help keep him in the fence but would make him easier to recapture. Of course, if he was a smart man he'd be learning the language soon enough. Maybe Klink could just keep him locked in the cooler. He seemed a likely candidate to spend most of his time there anyhow. What was it the Geneva Convention said about that?
Four escape attempts in the first month. Three in the first two weeks alone. Splendid, Klink thought bleakly, a red-flagged escape artist.
Shot down near Hamburg… Klink blinked and read the date again. Three months ago. Three months? Where had the colonel been all this time?
Flipping rapidly through the pages, Klink reached the ending pages. Dear Lord… this man had been two months with the Gestapo. Klink swallowed hard. Ah… yes. On his last escape attempt, the American had gotten as far as Düsseldorf before being arrested by the Gestapo. The Gestapo held him for a time before returning him to Luftwaffe custody. Apparently, the Gestapo took advantage of that time to interrogate the colonel themselves. Klink shuddered in blind sympathy.
Records of exactly what took place during those two months were incomplete—the Gestapo kept to their own—but one thing was clear: In two months they had failed to extract any useful information from the colonel.
Klink leaned back and contemplated. They hadn't tortured him. At least not in any way that left marks. He wouldn't have been left alive were that the case. A German civilian, yes, but a high-ranking American officer, no. Not even the Gestapo dare go that far. At least not yet. How rough they could be to the place that stopped just short of what undeniably could be called 'torture' though… Klink shuddered. Two months. Fingering his monocle thoughtfully, Klink considered this might be the reason Burkhalter stepped in to pull the American out of Gestapo custody. Maybe they had sought authorization to resort to extreme measures.
Maybe Klink was not meant to be jailer so much as protector.
From the Gestapo.
Wonderful.
What's more, General Burkhalter had suggested Colonel Klink continue questioning this American! Klink could almost feel the Russian snowflakes falling.
Shuddering again, Klink almost dropped the file. So thick. Glancing through, he saw there were included transcripts of the American's interrogations at the Luftwaffe evaluation center. Interesting… Talkative fellow. How could a man talk so much yet apparently say so little? Curiouser and curiouser.
He sorted out the standard prisoner forms and put them in a separate file, which he set on his desk. The rest he tucked back in the large folder. That folder would not be going into the camp records, Klink decided. He expected he'd be spending many an evening going through it, trying to decipher the mystery of this Colonel Hogan.
Klink watched the Gestapo pull up in front of his office promptly at noon the next day. Two autos. From the first stepped a major and his aide. From the second, several guards and the American prisoner.
Retreating to his desk, Klink waited nervously for the knock at his office door. The Gestapo major didn't wait for Klink's "come in" before striding into the office.
"Ah, major, a great pleasure…" Klink blustered. He trailed off as the American colonel was led in and brought to a halt in front of his desk. Sergeant Schultz hovered anxiously in the rear.
While the Gestapo major launched into a tirade about the uncooperative prisoner and security precautions Klink was to take, Klink surreptitiously studied the man. His clothes were clean and he was clean-shaven. Of course… The Gestapo and SS liked their prisoners clean. Klink tried to catch the prisoner's eye to get some measure of him. Had they broken him? Quite well he recalled the look in the eyes of some of the soldiers he knew in the Great War… After the defeat… After Versailles… Would the American have that hollow look? But the colonel kept his eyes downcast. It was then Klink had the stunning revelation the American didn't have his eyes downcast merely in beaten submission… He was reading Klink's desk!
As the Gestapo major ranted on, Klink fidgeted with the papers, shifting one to the side while revealing the one that stated the prisoner appeared to have no knowledge of German. So slight was the American's reaction, Klink thought he might have imagined it. But paying closer attention, he realized not only was he correct in believing the American was reading the German documents on his desk—upsidedown, no less—but he understood every word being said around him.
What Klink knew from years of dealing with foreign prisoners, that apparently the Gestapo—used to dealing only with terrified German civilians—didn't, was the look of someone hearing a conversation in a language they didn't understand, or only partially understood. Maybe, just maybe, Klink would be able to extract information from the American where so many professionals had failed.
Starting to feel a bit smug about his discovery, Klink came in awkwardly late with his echoing "Heil Hitler," which earned him an unnerving scowl from the major.
Before stomping out, the Gestapo major paused by the American colonel, glaring at him threateningly. The American raised his head, and Klink saw him fix the major with a look of pure, venomous hatred. The American colonel and the Gestapo major held their looks for a long moment before the major snorted and stomped out.
The outer door slammed so hard the office shook. Automobile doors slammed. They were gone. Preparing to launch into his 'tough but fair' speech, Klink turned toward the American. Colonel Hogan closed his eyes and let out a short sigh.
Was that real? Klink wondered, aborting the speech before he started. Or a master manipulator already playing his new keeper? It didn't exactly reveal a great deal about a man, other than basic sanity, to know he feared and dreaded the Gestapo. And this man looked exhausted. Maybe he'd drained his last reserves of will holding out against the Gestapo. Now might be a perfect time to question him…
Klink took a deep breath. No. Not just now.
Schultz fumbled with the handcuff key handed to him by the Gestapo guards. Stepping around his desk, Klink snatched it from his pudgy fingers. As he took hold of the chain between the American's wrists, Klink looked at him again. Would his eyes be filled with the same abject hatred toward Klink that he'd directed toward the Gestapo major? No. Colonel Hogan only looked at him with a controlled apprehension. No doubt he had good cause to worry about his new situation. Yet, still, defiance shone in those sharp eyes.
Unlocking the cuffs, Klink tossed them distastefully onto his desk. It didn't used to be this way. In the Great War captured enemy aviators were treated with the respect and courtesy due officers and gentlemen—members of the same elite fraternity, though they fought on different sides. They were guests, almost, not… criminals. Who had changed? His people? Or the enemy? Or the world? For all he knew, this American flier was nothing more than a plumber's assistant suddenly transformed into a bomber pilot, not a proper aviator at all. Yet, he was a colonel already, with America only months into the war? And quite young, too. No, probably a career army pilot. A genuine flier. A colleague…
Crossing back around to stand behind his desk, Klink straightened and said, "You are…"
"Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, 0876707."
Klink blinked. "Yes. I know that. What I was saying is that you are again in the custody of the Luftwaffe." He added seriously, "We are not the Gestapo."
Did this Colonel Hogan almost laugh at him? What a strange reaction.
"Sit down, Colonel," Klink said, turning away. Regaining his sense of composure, Klink reached to pour himself a sherry, thought a moment, then poured two. Heaven knows the American could use a drink. Rounding his desk, Klink perched on the corner, facing the now-seated Hogan. He held out the small glass.
"This is Luft Stalag 13," Klink said, watching Hogan. The American stared suspiciously at the glass being presented to him, then took it hesitantly. Klink noticed he examined it as one might examine a land mine in his path. Two months with the Gestapo. Klink hid a shiver. Then Hogan downed the sherry in a gulp and handed the glass back. There was a certain sort of fatalistic, condemned-man-having-his-last-meal air to it, Klink decided. He set the empty glass on the edge of the desk, without comment, sipping his own slowly.
"I am the Kommandant, Colonel Wilhelm Klink," he continued, studying the American officer more closely. "Sergeant Schultz," he nodded toward him, "is sergeant of the guard. You are the ranking officer among the prisoners—" The only officer "—therefore you will serve as Senior POW officer and liaison between the German staff and the prisoners. Do you understand?"
Hogan stared at him, eyes narrowing with a wary glitter, but still showing distinct apprehension. And now Klink found himself being the subject of measurement and appraisal. "Luft Stalag…" the American echoed. "Liaison…?"
Klink sincerely doubted the Gestapo had informed him of their destination. Probably he had been led to believe he was being taken out to be shot. Or worse. Did he know this was a Luftwaffe POW camp and not a concentration camp? Almost gently, Klink said, "They didn't tell you where you were being taken. Did they?"
"No, sir," Hogan said. The defiance slipped a bit, Klink saw. The American took a shuddering breath. "I thought…"
Waving his hand to stop him, Klink said very softly, in German, "It's over." Hogan let out the smallest of relieved sighs, incidentally confirming Klink's assessment of his knowledge of the language. Shifting back to English, Klink said at normal volume, "It is camp policy to isolate new prisoners for… a brief time." Suddenly he didn't want to commit himself to an exact number of days. "Sergeant Schultz will escort you. We will talk again later." He stood, waving Schultz over.
Taking the American colonel by the arm in an almost fatherly way, Klink watched Schultz lead him into the outer office. "Schultz," Klink called.
"You wait here," Schultz told Hogan, almost as though speaking to a child. He hurried back to Klink's desk.
Low, Klink said, "Not an isolation cell, Schultz. One of the barred cells."
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Schultz answered, appearing distinctly grateful.
"And, Schultz…" Klink hesitated. "See to it he has adequate bedding. And a decent meal. Get something from the guards' mess. And stay on duty in the cooler," he said, staring at the figure waiting in the outer office. Waiting? Wait. Was Fräulein Helga giggling? Was the frightened, cowed prisoner smiling?
Schultz beamed, then tried to quell it. "Thank you, Herr Kommandant."
Klink continued to stare thoughtfully at the spot Hogan stood, even after he was led away. Stalag 13 was about to change. The question was 'how'.
"Did the American arrive, Klink?" General Burkhalter demanded as soon as he stepped out of his staff car, barely acknowledging Klink's salute.
"Yes, Herr General. He's in the cooler now," Klink told the back of the General's head as he scurried behind him on the way into his office. "I've taken every precaution to…"
"Shut-up, Klink," Burkhalter snapped as Klink closed the office door behind him. Klink shifted rapidly from foot to foot as the General settled in at Klink's desk. "How did he seem?"
"Seem, sir?" Klink asked.
"Yes, 'seem', you imbecile," Burkhalter shouted in that endearing way of his. "What sort of condition was the American in? Insolent? Defiant? How did he seem?"
"Alive," Klink said, low and flat.
That took some of the bluster out of the General, Klink decided. Burkhalter settled back in Klink's chair and harrumphed thoughtfully. "Yes," Burkhalter said after a moment, "I suppose that's something. And now it's your job to keep him that way. To keep him here, contained, and out of trouble."
Klink sighed extravagantly. Russian icicles forming on his ailerons…
"Herr General…" Klink began cautiously, "I don't know how I can be expected to keep this American here at Stalag 13 when he's already escaped four times from a far more secure facility than this. Unless I keep him locked in the cooler permanently, and begging the General's pardon, I think that would cause unrest among the other prisoners." And be unforgivably cruel, Klink thought. He added sorrowfully, "Sir, my guards aren't the most…"
Burkhalter cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "But you have an advantage, Klink."
"I do, sir? What?"
With a wicked smile, General Burkhalter leaned forward and peered at Klink. "Don't you see, Klink? This Colonel Hogan was just handed command of nearly a thousand men. As Senior POW officer in this camp, he's responsible for all the other Allied prisoners here. He won't escape. He can't."
"It's the duty of every officer to escape," Klink recited hollowly. "I don't see how…"
"An officer's duty is also to the men under his command," Burkhalter snapped. "Hogan is effectively under my command and now I've assigned him a new command."
"I didn't think Germans could make American command assignments," Klink said faintly, trying to decipher the General's reasoning.
"It's wonderfully ironic, isn't it?" Burkhalter said chuckling. "In this case, I can."
"But surely, Herr General," Klink said, trying not to stammer, "if he's such an important prisoner, someplace more secure, like Colditz…"
"Even Colditz has escapes. Hmph. Successful escapes, unlike you, strange as that is to say. And there's nothing at Colditz to keep Hogan from trying. And trying. And trying, until he either succeeds—which is unacceptable—or the Gestapo shoots him and," the General's voice rose to a near-shriek, "I don't want them to have the satisfaction." He settled back, some of the red draining from his face. "Here, there is something to keep him from trying to escape. Willing or not, Colonel Hogan now has a new command. He can't abandon his responsibility to that command, to these prisoners. That's why I assigned him here, Klink, to an enlisted men's camp. There are no other officers Hogan can turn over his duties to. He's solely and exclusively responsible. He's stuck." Burkhalter smiled smugly. "Your fence could be made of cobwebs, Klink. Hogan won't leave."
Shameless fraternization. Shameless fraternization, and coddling. There were no other words to describe it, Klink thought as he entered the cooler building and heard Schultz's voice. Of course, he would overlook it. But. Just. This. Once. Ahem… just this once, again.
The outer door of the cooler stood open, a flagrant breach of security yet one Klink understood—Schultz was letting the air in. It could indeed be stuffy down in the cells. Still, the cooler was meant to be punishment. Yet he wasn't trying to punish the American colonel… Klink rubbed his temple. Not even a day and already this new prisoner had him confounded. Burkhalter sent him here because of Klink's record of no successful escapes, yet at the same time suggested that didn't matter at all. Klink was supposed to get information from the prisoner, yet in three months the best (and worst) interrogators in the country had gotten nothing from him.
Quietly descending the stairs, Klink kept back toward the wall so Schultz and the prisoner wouldn't see him, yet he could hear what was being said.
Shameless fraternization. The conversation was wholly one-sided. Schultz rambled on about his family, the weather, food… Then Klink heard an answering chuckle to one of Schultz's comments, and Klink realized Schultz had again earned his role as sergeant of the guard. He may be an inept soldier (distinctly), and as a prison guard, less than fierce (definitely!), but he created a rapport with the young men—some scarcely more than boys—in his charge. Schultz kept the prisoners controlled and contained simply because they didn't want to disappoint him or get him into trouble. That trait made it possible for Klink to overlook the fraternization, probable bribes, and dozens of other infractions of rules and discipline Schultz engaged in. Still, he couldn't let either Schultz or the prisoners know that.
Backing up, Klink creaked the outer door, then stomped loudly down the stairs, marching up to the cell. The American colonel sat on the bunk, one leg drawn up, in a very unmilitary posture. Schultz scrambled to his feet from the stool he'd drawn up to the bars. Klink snatched up the sergeant's rifle (leaning between the bars, donnerwetter!) and thrust it toward Schultz who saluted repeatedly.
"The colonel's personal property is in a box in the outer office," Klink said. Burkhalter's driver had brought it in. "Go get it," he ordered.
As Schultz scurried off, Klink turned toward the new prisoner. "Colonel Hogan," he said by way of greeting.
"Kommandant," the American responded. One word. One simple word and yet he managed to fill it with—what was it General Burkhalter had said?—insolence. Worse, he remained seated, studying Klink with overt curiosity.
"It's customary, Colonel," Klink grated, "to offer salutes to enemy officers. It's also required by the Geneva Convention."
Hogan didn't even seem to attempt to repress the smirk he aimed at Klink. "Don't think that applies if there's bars between us," he said, belatedly adding, "sir."
It was easy to hide his amusement behind a glower of irritation. The irritation was real enough, but the sense of amusement surprised Klink. This was the first American officer he'd met and Klink had to admit he lived up to the typecast—cowboy. Cocky, self-assured, and with that brazen lack of adherence to proper manners and decorum. Interesting. Interesting…
Mein Gott, Klink thought, how am I going to keep this man contained and controlled? "Yes," Klink said, staring dismally at Hogan. "Well, I have enough paperwork to contend with without reporting every minor infraction of the rules to my superiors—" There, I've let him know I'll be slack in some areas; can't really expect an American to know proper military behavior, anyhow. They're a chaotic people. That's why we'll win. "—yet in important matters I rule with an iron fist and will tolerate no lapses in discipline." He made his 'iron fist' gesture. Hogan appeared irritatingly amused.
"I trust Sergeant Schultz has informed you of the basic rules of the camp, Colonel," Klink continued, though he doubted it. Best repeat them. "Stay away from the fence. Don't cross the warning wire. Obey the guards' orders. Don't cause any trouble, and you may be able to sit out this war in relative comfort and security." Both of us. Please.
"Of course, Kommandant," Hogan answered in what Klink noted was an acknowledging but not-agreeing way. Oh… he was going to be trouble. Trouble every moment. Klink glanced around the cell and for an instant reconsidered keeping him locked up in here permanently. Considering where Hogan had been, this probably was relatively comfortable.
Straightening a bit, Klink flicked his riding crop against his boot. "Do not attempt to escape," he said firmly. "You've seen for yourself the perils of falling into the Gestapo's hands after this fourth failed attempt of yours…"
"Fourth?" Hogan cut Klink off mid-sentence.
"Yes. Fourth," Klink repeated, confused. "Your record shows four attempts to escape, with the fourth ending with your arrest in Düsseldorf by the Gestapo…"
"Are you telling me the truth, Kommandant? Is that what your records show?" Hogan demanded.
The prisoner had cut him off again. And now was interrogating him! The audacity. How had the Gestapo resisted the urge to shoot him?
"I have no reason to lie…" Klink began.
"So that's how they're covering it," Hogan said, seemingly more to himself than to Klink. "Bastards."
Klink flinched. Cursing a German was another charge Klink could have the prisoner brought up on. Best not to notice that indiscretion. It, no doubt, was well motivated.
"What are you talking about, Colonel Hogan? Is that not what happened?" Klink demanded.
Giving Klink a dark smile, Hogan said, "No, sir. I did not escape a fourth time. Three times. Caught right away each time by the Luftwaffe guards."
"Then how is it you were arrested by the Gestapo in…?" Klink started slowly, a chill starting to seep into him as his realization grew.
"The Gestapo didn't arrest me while trying to escape," Hogan said coldly. "I was handed over to them. For their own special brand of interrogation. Handed over to them by your Luftwaffe, Klink."
Klink barely noticed the impertinent use of his name, or the personal slur on his branch of service. He stared at the prisoner, his mouth hanging open. Dropping down to sit on Schultz's stool, Klink silently mouthed the American's curse word. In a whisper he said, "That's… not right."
"You're telling me," Hogan muttered in agreement. Louder, he said to Klink, "So, if I protest to the Protecting Power, the cover story is all in place. Probably the witnesses all properly intimidated, too. That's really what your papers say, Kommandant? Arrested by the Gestapo while escaping?"
Klink nodded. "Yes. It is. I'll let you see them, if you want. That wasn't, I think, among those papers you were reading off my desk." He gave the American a brief, triumphant glance.
"Oh, hey…" Hogan began to protest. Klink enjoyed having managed to fluster the prisoner, at least a small amount. "I couldn't read anything there, sir. I was just looking…"
"Of course," Klink cut in, pleased to be the one back in control of the conversation. "So you heard what the Gestapo major told me about your security arrangements here. I have no intention of taking his suggestions. There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13 and I trust there shall never be one." He flicked his riding crop sharply against his boot, staring sternly at the prisoner. Please.
Hogan grinned. Klink resisted the impulse to whimper as he held his stern expression. He fervently hoped Burkhalter was right about the American officer staying here out of duty.
"It's every officer's duty to attempt to escape, Kommandant." Hogan sounded almost apologetic. Had he seen the pleading look in Klink's eyes?
"I understand that, Colonel," Klink said. He had to reinforce the warning he'd given Hogan; had to make certain he understood the risks of being outside this protective ring of wire… uh, steel. "However, you must understand something, as well. Did you happen to notice the red marking tab on the folder about you on my desk?" Hogan shook his head slightly. "That means you have been 'red-tabbed', or 'red-flagged' might be the better word, by the High Command. You've been marked as 'Deutschfeindlich'. Do you understand that word?"
Hogan grinned broadly. Apparently he did understand, and enjoyed the definition far too much for Klink's comfort. "I should think, Kommandant, that all enemy soldiers would be considered 'hostile to Germany'."
Again, Klink had to hide his unexpected flare of amusement behind a stern scowl. "Yes," he said, waiting until he had it controlled. "However, in this case it means you have been flagged as a unique enemy of the Third Reich." He paused, staring the American in the eyes. "They have you marked, Colonel. Remember that."
The grim stare broke when both men heard the outer cooler door open and the huffing of Sergeant Schultz climbing down the stairs reached them. Klink hid his fond smile. Hogan didn't.
Rifle butt dragging on the floor, as he carried the box in, Sergeant Schultz came to a puffing halt. He leaned his gun against the cell door and shifted his grip on the box to have a free hand to salute. Klink snatched the rifle from between the bars before tersely returning the salute. He didn't missed Hogan's chuckle.
"Give the prisoner his property," Klink ordered.
Item by item, Schultz handed them in through the bars. Wallet… Klink noticed Hogan latch onto his watch with some intensity. No sense of time locked in a Gestapo cell?
"Wait a moment." Klink stopped Schultz handing the next item in. "Keys?" he asked of Hogan.
Hogan glanced up from winding his watch. "Yeah. For my motorcycle back home."
"Prisoners are not allowed keys of any kind," Klink said, dropping them back in the box. Hogan stared at him questioningly. "This is a prison. The guards carry keys, not the prisoners." These innocent keys could easily be refashioned by the clever prisoners to open the locks here.
Hogan just shrugged. "Doesn't start anyhow," he muttered. He looked up. "What time is it?"
Schultz dug for his pocket watch. "Two thirty-seven," he answered after squinting at it far too long. Klink added bad vision to the traits he didn't think were high on the list of qualities to have in a prison guard.
"And the date?" Hogan asked, still twisting knobs on his wristwatch, setting the calendar.
"The second," Klink answered.
"Of?"
He didn't know the month? An odd and troubling thought occurred to Klink. "Colonel Hogan, do you know how long you were held by the Gestapo?"
Hogan just shrugged without looking up, but Klink saw a hint of tension rise in him. "Three, four months, I guess."
Klink blinked. "It was two months," he said. "It's the second of September."
Looking up to meet his eyes, Klink suddenly saw another, brief, unguarded moment from the prisoner. What Klink had said clearly unsettled him.
Then the control slipped back in place and Hogan refocused on his watch. He commented lightly, "Well, they say time flies when you're having fun." Klink saw him swallow hard before he added, "I guess the reverse is true, too."
Striding across the compound toward his quarters, Klink decided he'd release Hogan from the cooler in the morning, after roll call. Let the man have one good night of rest before he had to deal with the thousand-odd rowdy characters for whom he was now responsible.
Two months of lost time… two months that seemed like four…
The thought went around and around in Klink's head as he marched into his quarters, slamming the door shut behind him. It wasn't right. The Luftwaffe was supposed to protect the prisoners in its charge, not hand them over to the Gestapo when their own questioning failed. No wonder Hogan looked so suspiciously at Klink. He had no reason to trust Klink, or anyone else.
Settling into a comfortable chair, Klink pulled out the large folder again and sorted through it. Dossiers… There'd been intelligence investigations done on the colonel. Agents in England had tried to uncover information about him with limited success. Klink scanned their summaries. 504th Bomb Group. B-17s. U.S. Army Air Corps. Very successful bombing runs personally noticed by the High Command. Some handwritten notation by a General Biedenbender that Klink couldn't make out.
Place of birth… somewhere in America. Hmph. As he understood it, that was a big place. Possibly somewhere in Connecticut or Wisconsin. Those were states in America, Klink decided. Then he pulled out the summary of the Luftwaffe evaluation center interrogations that he'd glanced over earlier. Born possibly in Ohio or Indiana. Hogan had said, or alluded to, either, or both, or neither. Why the contradiction? Why the confusion? Place of birth—such a simple question, meaningless, almost, why the uncertainty? Indiana… Indians? Oh! Indians! Klink suddenly remembered the American cinema he'd been fond of. Cowboys and Indians. Maybe this Hogan really was a cowboy from the Wild West. Indiana, hmm… He'd have to find a map to see where these alien places were.
Information on Hogan in England was slightly more clear. He'd apparently flown for some time with the RAF before the U. S. entry into the war. Fighters in the Battle of Britain. Whew… one of the fighters protecting Coventry that horrible and deadly (glorious and victorious) night. It said something to Klink: Hogan wasn't just serving his country. He wasn't just fighting as assigned, where assigned. He was actively dedicated to fighting Germany, whether his own nation was in the fight or not. Now, what did that mean?
This Hogan wasn't going to sit back quietly in a prisoner of war camp and wait. If Burkhalter was right and Hogan would see it as his duty to remain here, not escaping, then the other portion of officer's code would take priority—to harass the enemy and cause as much damage and disruption as possible. What were Klink and Germany in for with Colonel Hogan entrenched behind their lines?
So much to lose. So much at risk. So many silences that could not be broken. What does it do to a man to witness horrible things and not be able to do prevent them? Or to have done what you could and still have it be too little? Wilhelm Klink knew something of that feeling. You do what you can do. If Klink crashed and burned—if Hogan shot him down, intentionally or in the crossfire—the wreckage would fall more places than just Stalag 13. Enemies. Allies. Prisoner. Jailer. So very, very much to lose if the silence was broken.
Klink tucked the papers back away, closing the folder. He'd have wine with dinner tonight he decided. A good bottle for the last quiet evening he may know for quite some time to come. Yes, a nice bottle of wine, then he'd take out his violin and play. He'd play and think about the days when there was trust and friendship and all those other things gone away. Yes, he'd play his violin and hear, again, the sweet music of its maker.
To be continued...
