Act Three
Scene Two
– Two –
The next few days were a living nightmare for all of them.
Gruber took over the camp, much to the puzzlement of the guards and the prisoners. His explanation was that the Kommandant had been called away unexpectedly and would not return for a few days. But he was plainly uncomfortable in his role as caretaker.
Schultz walked around in a daze, scarcely eating or sleeping. He stayed on duty simply to have something to do. However, he barely talked to anyone. He barely noticed anyone either. Guards, prisoners, everyone stayed away from him, unable to deal with him.
Hogan's men were worried. About Schultz. They liked the rotund sergeant and knew how much he cared for his Kommandant. And themselves — they were preparing to leave the camp under circumstances that weren't very comfortable. And ultimately about Hogan. They had never seen him like this; it frightened them. As for Klink . . . They didn't want to think about Klink. Didn't want to think about the hell he might be facing at the hands of Reiner.
Captain John Witton was worried as well. Hogan had not told him what had happened. All Witton knew was that Klink had gone without warning. And now, Hogan was planning to leave as well. Witton was the senior captain in the camp. He would be in charge of the prisoners after Hogan and his men left. In charge of a camp that would finally have its first official escape.
Witton understood the need for secrecy. But he also wished that Hogan would open up to him. Whatever was wrong was affecting Schultz, the normally genial sergeant was impossible to get near; Hogan's men, they had continually worried expressions on their faces; even Gruber, the normally self-possessed officer was openly uneasy. And as for Hogan . . .
Whatever was wrong, it was tearing Hogan apart. The whole camp could see it. He hardly ate or slept. Hogan avoided everyone, even his own men. His eyes always seemed haunted by some unspeakable horror. There were even times when Witton was certain he saw traces of tears in Hogan's eyes. And that shook Witton even more.
If Witton had to make a guess, he would say it had something to do with Klink. Because he knew what had happened at the fire, Witton had been granted an insight into the relationship of the two men that most of the camp was denied. But he also knew that most of the camp understood that something had happened between Hogan and Klink in that cave-in last year. And what had happened during the fire simply reinforced the feeling.
However, Witton was at a total loss as to what had happened now. No one who knew anything was talking. All Witton could hope for was that the situation would be resolved quickly.
His eyes sought out Hogan. Before Hogan collapsed.
...
Hogan never knew what happened. One moment, Klink was running toward the barracks. Then he tripped and fell forward.
Hogan caught him and held him close. "Kommandant," Hogan whispered.
The blue eyes opened on his face. The pain in them shook Hogan. Bloodied fingers grasped Hogan's shirt, pulling his head down.
Hogan bent over Klink.
"Tell London," Klink gasped as Hogan listened in growing horror. "Tell London, the play is terminated," Klink said in a weakening voice.
"What?"
Klink coughed, blood appeared at the side of his mouth. "The play is terminated." Amazingly a smile. "The Stage is dead. The fools finally suspected."
"No!" whispered Hogan.
Klink's eyes were on Hogan's. "I . . . wish I had told you earlier. We . . . could have been . . . friends longer."
Hogan's voice broke. "We were anyway." He knew it was true.
A smile. "Thank you." A spasm twisted his face. "I would have liked to . . . the end, Robert. I wou . . . "
His fingers slipped from Hogan's shirt as his eyes closed.
"Kommandant? Wilhelm? . . . NO!" Hogan screamed. "Oh God, no." Hogan began sobbing. "No . . . "
His sobs filled the room.
"No!" he whispered. "NO!"
A start. And he woke, tears on his cheeks.
Just a dream. That's all. Only a dream. Only . . .
Then he remembered.
Oh, God, NO!
Turning over on his side, painful sobs shook his body.
The yell had awakened Sergeant James Kinchloe and some of the other men. Kinch was on his feet instantly. He started toward the door of the office and then stopped.
Newkirk bumped into him. "Ouch! Why'd you stop for? Go on in."
Kinch shook his head. "No."
"But he could be in — "
"He's dreaming, Newkirk," Kinch said softly. "Just like after Martinelli died. Remember?"
"He's sure taking it awfully hard," Carter said.
"How would you take it if your best friend was facing certain death and you couldn't do a thing about it?" Kinch said quietly.
"Best friend?" from LeBeau. Then a subdued, "Yeah, I guess he is."
"There must be something we could do," Baker said.
Kinch shook his head. "All we can do is be there for him. When the time is up and Klink hasn't returned, we leave. After it's all over, after we're out of here, that's when it's really gonna hit him. That's when he's going to need us the most." A glance at the door. "Back to bed; we're not doing anybody any good here."
Slowly, the men retreated to their bunks.
...
Wilhelm Klink sat in his car, gazing at the arched gatehouse before him. It was a few minutes until dawn. It had taken him several hours to drive down to the estate, a task complicated by the fact that he had to take secondary roads to avoid the convoys and troops heading for the Western Front. An hour away from the several hundred-acre estate, he had stopped and slept. Klink's sleep was fitful and hardly refreshing. But he needed all the rest he could get to even have a hope of surviving. And right now, the question of his survival was very much in doubt. He wasn't sure if it was his own mind playing tricks on him or if the poison was starting to have an effect on his body, but he knew he wasn't at his best. But then, he was forced to admit, he hadn't been at his best for a number of months now.
Why on Earth hadn't he gone on to London? Or at the very least, stayed away from the camp after his escape from Hochstetter? He had used up more than his fair share of luck over the past few years, more than his fair share with the rescue. Why hadn't he left it alone? Why?
He hadn't. The reasons didn't matter anymore. He had gone back to camp. And now, he had Reiner to deal with.
If he could.
Klink started the car and drove up to the gate. Silently, mysteriously, it opened for him. He drove through the gate. Just as silently, as mysteriously, it closed behind him.
Klink got out of the car. A small, rather odd-looking man limped out of the gatehouse and beckoned to him. Klink followed him inside. The stone interior was gloomy, an appropriate setting to Klink's mind.
He followed the limping man through an arch into a small room. A table had been set with gold cutlery and exquisite china. Wonderful smells from an adjoining kitchen filled the room. The small man pointed at the chair and turned away.
"Wait," Klink began.
The man shook his head and pointed again. He limped out of the room.
Klink sat down. The chair faced the multi-paned window overlooking the grounds. There was some snow on the ground, but most of the dense woods were bare. The tall trees were a mix of evergreens, old oaks and chestnuts. In the summer, it would be beautiful. Now, it appeared to be dead. An illusion? Or reality? Klink wasn't sure which.
The little man came back with a large tray. He placed it before Klink. Eggs, real eggs, done just the way he liked them. Sausages, plump pork sausages, such as he hadn't seen in months. Bread, freshly baked with real butter. And fruits. Oranges, peaches, grapes — fruits impossible to get anywhere in war torn Europe. And wine, a rare, expensive French wine.
The little man had poured the wine into a glittering crystal goblet and held it out for Klink's approval. It would have been amusing, except for the deadly air with which the man performed the act. Klink nodded his acceptance; the goblet was filled with the wine. Then, with a bow, the man left Klink to his meal.
His last meal? Ignoring that dismal thought, Klink began eating, bent on enjoying the food as much as he could.
After Klink finished eating, the little man appeared again and beckoned to him. Klink was led into a bathroom. A tub of hot water was waiting for him. The man pointed at Klink, motioning him to remove his clothes. All of them. For a moment, Klink thought about refusing. But then he shrugged. What was the point? Why aggravate his erstwhile host unnecessarily? Besides, the tub did look inviting.
So, Klink removed his clothes. Then, to his less than pleased surprise, Klink was subjected to a ruthlessly careful and intimate body search before being allowed to climb into the tub.
That he almost refused to go along with. But again, why make things harder for himself? He knew that Reiner would make certain the rules of his hunt were obeyed. So, Klink submitted to the search and then climbed into the wonderfully soothing bath.
The little man left, taking Klink's clothes with him. Subjecting them, Klink was certain, to another thorough search.
Tempting as it was to linger in the hot water, Klink resisted, and left the bath quickly. There was a toiletry kit on the counter; he shaved and put on his clothes which been returned a few minutes earlier.
The still wordless man returned and beckoned to Klink. This time, Klink was led to a paneled room. A room filled with every conceivable weapon he could possibly want. The man held up three fingers.
"Three?" Klink said. "I can take three weapons?"
The man nodded; he walked back to the door, watching Klink closely.
Klink walked around the room, peering closely at the weapons. He rejected the rifles as too large and bulky. His tastes had always run to smaller weapons. He finally chose a handheld gun known for its deadly accuracy and a shoulder holster. He picked up a dangerous-looking knife, an American knife known as the Bowie. That should be useful in the woods. He belted the knife around his waist.
One more weapon. Klink stopped before a display case holding a variety of small knives. That one. Well balanced, almost impossibly sharp, and small enough to conceal easily. Klink picked it up, along with its holder, a holder that was strapped to his right forearm. It would only take a flick of his wrist to throw the knife.
That left only the ammunition for the gun. Klink filled his pockets and a small leather bag that the man handed him. Then he was led back to the entry.
The little man picked up a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. Klink opened it; it was a map of the estate with the castle clearly marked. The castle was near the far end of the estate, not quite in the middle of it. The map had no distinguishing landmarks or topography. But from the surrounding countryside, Klink was certain that the estate had several streams and valleys running through it. And Klink was certain that Reiner had also placed traps around the estate. Getting to the castle would not be easy. Klink folded the map and placed it in his breast pocket. The little man held out a canteen; Klink took it.
"Anything else?" Klink asked.
The little man shook his head, and pointed to the door.
"I have a question," Klink said. "Is Reiner starting from the castle?"
The man hesitated for a moment and then shook his head.
"Another gatehouse?"
The man nodded.
"Danke."
Klink walked to the door and stepped out into the cold morning air.
The hunt had begun.
