Hochstetter's Stalag: Butterfly Effect
by 80sarcades

Welcome back! Enjoy the chapter!

Disclaimer: Prescribed for ocular use as needed. For reading purposes only. Do not use whilst driving as this may result in injury and a visit from Jack (Warning: visit not guaranteed). Consult your local liquor establishment if any of the following side effects appear: boredom, laziness, or lethargy. Consult a physician if your reading session lasts for more than four hours. Not suitable for politicians or anyone else with a lack of style.

I should have the next chapter out in two or three days...I'm on vacation:-)

From the last chapter:

"As you can see, your influence is far reaching," I commented casually. "Not only with your friends, but with your enemies as well." With an upraised hand, I caused reality to shift. This time, we landed in another drab, if not dreary, office. A familiar one, to be exact.

Chapter 4: Klink & Schultz

"Colonel Wilhelm Klink," my voice solemnly announced even as I waved a hand toward the motionless figure. "By military standards, a colossal failure. One wonders, with his dismal record, how he ever attained the rank of Colonel."

Surprisingly, Colonel Hogan felt the urge to come to the Kommandant's defense. At least partially. "Compared to other Stalags, life here could be worse," he interjected. "At least Klink tries to observe the Geneva Convention. That alone doesn't make him a true failure."

"Really, Colonel," I chided lightly. "And what of this morning? Your battle of the blankets, for instance? Even his single success to date - that of no escapes from this camp - is due only to your machinations. What of his failure then?

Hogan shrugged, yet said nothing.

"Even with his faults - innumerable as they may be - the man standing here has redeemable qualities of note. For instance, did you know that he was once a Prisoner of War himself?'

"No," Hogan admitted, surprised.

"True. Albeit not as long; only a few months, in fact, before the last war ended. However, it was enough to make a lasting impression on the man." I paused for a moment. "Even now, though he cannot show such, he regrets the conditions you live under. Compared to his fellow commanders, his intentions are honorable...although most of his peers have no feelings for the prisoners they guard, other than it being an odious chore."

"I didn't know," the Colonel said, his eyes idly studying the decorations on the nearby Luftwaffe uniform. "You know who he reminds me of?"

"Who is that?"

"Chairwarmers," he replied before noting my puzzled glance. "Pencil pushers," the man explained. "People that deal with paper all day. A bureaucrat. I know his type; find the right lever and you can make them do anything."

"A measure well suited to your talents," I admiringly allowed. "However, such gifts are not unique. Look here."

Hogan watched curiously as I walked over to the Kommandant's desk. For a change, my gifts are beneficial: I quickly pulled the requisite file folder from the right-hand drawer before presenting it to the American Colonel. He opened the cover and peered at the German words inside

"Authorization to release Red Cross goods shipment 43-362-83..." he muttered before his eyes traveled down to the signature line. "Generalleutant Johann Schmidt, Luftwaffe..." He frowned; why did that name sound so familiar?

"Interesting name, Johann Schmidt," I commented. I think you once said it was the German derivative of John Smith-"

"Yeah, I remember now!" Hogan blurted. "I told him to address his paperwork to that guy. Worked, too; got it off of his desk and out of his hair. Well," he said, a quirky grin on his lips, "not that he has any." I chuckled dutifully even as he curiously studied the paper once more. "So what does that have to do with this?"

"For the record, your new blankets were appropriated by a hospital," I explained. "Specifically, the recuperation camp for wounded Luftwaffe personnel just outside of Hammelburg."

Hogan's face darkened in rage before I continued.

"However," I said, "our good Colonel here found out about the intercepted shipment and managed, via paperwork, to divert it to a Luftwaffe supply warehouse. Unfortunately, the officer in charge of that facility is refusing to release the blankets without proper authorization. Hence, the papers in your hand."

"Why didn't he just ask General Burkhalter?" the Colonel asked, perplexed. "He wouldn't even have to sign anything; he'd just make a phone call."

"Because the General is not to be bothered by 'trivial matters' as he kindly put it to your dear Colonel Klink. Such problems, he believes, are unimportant compared to the war."

"Figures," Hogan muttered, his face sour.

"However," I went on, "General Schmidt - or a paper copy, at least - can order the blankets to be released. Few military organizations question the word of a General Officer; the German military especially so."

A dry laugh escaped Colonel Hogan's throat. "Let me get this straight," he mused. "The Kommandant used this Johann Schmidt character to forge some orders. You have to be kidding, right?" he asked, his tone incredulous. "I mean, this is Klink we're talking about!" He pointed a finger towards the motionless Luftwaffe Colonel. "The man can't even get a date without using schnapps! Even then, I doubt he'd get anywhere!"

"Come now, Colonel," I coolly replied, "after all, who would suspect a thing? That a man considered to be an idiot at best could pull off such a feat? Even your recent meeting in the office was part of the 'con,' as you Americans would say. He knew you would eventually ask for the blankets; all he had to do was play his natural part and stall for time until he could get the shipment released. Then everyone would be happy."

I watched as Hogan's mind clicked; suddenly, several earlier events made sense. "He's done this before, hasn't he?" Hogan said rhetorically, his voice normal as he looked at the paper in his hand.

"On a small scale," I confirmed. "Materials for camp projects here; a coal shipment there. All diverted in small enough quantities to unarouse suspicion. In a way, you should be flattered, Colonel: indirectly he finally enjoys success, though not in a way he ever dreamed of. The Kommandant enjoys his secret role of 'General'; your men are taken care of to the best of his ability. All in part to you."

Hogan stared at the unmoving Kommandant for a long minute. "Klink, a con artist," he murmured, a sly smile on his lips. "Who would have guessed?"

"Correct," I replied, my voice dryly calm. "However, it exemplifies the truism: even the best of con men can be taken on occasion, can they not?"

Hogan's head snapped up; hooded eyes met mine as realization slowly dawned. And then, he slowly chuckled. As I watched, the mirth turned into a full-fledged laugh; tears rolled down his cheeks as he doubled over in laughter. Eventually, he was able to catch his breath and calm down; for my part, I wondered what was so humorous.

"War is hell, isn't it?" he managed to eventually choke out. I merely nodded in return.

"That it is, my dear Colonel," I softly replied. "That it is. In more ways than can be counted." At that moment, I snapped my fingers...

...and the lingering traces of Hogan's laughter faded away as our world changed. The square outlines of the office were quickly replaced by the flat landscape of a desolate plain. Save for several trees, the terrain was remarkably bare of life; the sound of a cold wind rustling the empty branches echoed eerily about us.

"Russia," I answered the unspoken question. "And to Colonel Wilhelm Klink's alternate - and quite unfortunate - end."

Hogan, puzzled, glanced at his new surroundings. Then just as quickly, he examined the formless earth beneath his feet. Once again I marveled at how his mind quickly discerned the truth of our presence.

"You are correct, Colonel," I solemnly intoned. "To be specific, we are standing on his grave. Among others."

I watched amusedly as Hogan quickly stepped onto another – and hopefully corpse-free – patch of earth. Even in the modern age, superstitions last; the dead do not care either way.

"Without your stabilizing presence, Stalag 13 became a hive of escapes underneath the rule of Kommandant Klink," I explained. "Eventually he was replaced and sent to the Russian Front. Due to his rank, a small bit of luck came his way: he was assigned to be a courier."

"It didn't last," Hogan prompted. I nodded slowly.

"Surprisingly, he was the only one to survive the crash of his aeroplane. The secret documents he carried proved his worth only until his interrogators found out his true nature."

I paused, 'seeing' the next events. "Even in death, honor was denied the poor Colonel," I continued. "Along with others, he was consigned to this mass grave; their only marker the earth above. In his case, it was as if life and death were synonymous: in life, no one cared to remember him; in death, no one remembered to care."

The Colonel sadly shook his head. "The first time I saw Klink, I thought someone was playing a joke," he remembered. "It seemed everyone at Dulag Luft had a crack at me. When they sent me to Stalag 13, I was expecting the worst. Instead, I ran into a wallflower."

"Not the iron eagle you were expecting," I ventured. Hogan chuckled softly.

"Yeah," he replied. "Like I said, I knew his type. After a while it was easy to push his buttons, though he surprised me at times." He stared at the ground again with a rueful expression on his face.

"I guess I forgot," he said quietly. "It was easy to see the Kommandant as a uniform. Someone to pump up or deflate when I needed him. I forgot he was a man." His hand waved at the empty expanse of buried death. "No one deserves that."

"The measure of a man is found not in strength, but in recognizing his own faults," I lectured gently. "You were not alone in your assessment of the good Colonel; many before you have seen only air in place of his immortal soul. If it helps, you may take comfort knowing that Wilhelm Klink will survive this war. Thanks to you, he will one day have the opportunity to shape his own destiny free of any encumbrances. Shall we return?"

The Senior POW nodded; the office soon reformed around us. His eyes, tinged with regret, landed momentarily on the still form of Colonel Klink before we walked towards Barracks Two. As we walked down the steps of the Kommandtur, Colonel Hogan paused to look at the obese figure of Sergeant Schultz.

"What about him?" he asked, jerking a thumb towards the unmoving man. My eyes glanced at the subject; within seconds I knew all.

"A good man," I judged. "With or without your influence, he dies peacefully in old age," My lips quirked into a small smile as I observed the pertinent circumstances. "Oddly, in both instances he is tending to flowers when he passes on. Given his penchant for toy making, I would have assumed he would have been woodcarving."

"He does love kids," Hogan commented, then sighed. "If there's someone who doesn't belong here, it's Schultz. His heart just isn't in it." He chuckled dryly. "He's about the only guard I know who will hand me his rifle. God only knows where he keeps the ammo for it."

"True," I replied. "If left to his own devices, he would be still be in charge of his toy company. Instead, he plays soldier in an all-too-real war. He took pride in seeing his country return to greatness, yet he quietly deplores the policies of the government he serves. Do you know, for instance, that his wife shelters two Jewish children?"

The Colonel's glance flicked to Schultz, surprise in his eyes. "No," he admitted, his voice shocked. "No, I didn't."

"Not that anyone knows, of course. Ostensibly they are distant relatives; children who were evacuated to the countryside in order to escape the destruction in the cities," I explained. "Ironically, 'experts' have certified them as true Aryans. However, the name of Auschwitz will forever haunt their lives."

I raised my hand to forestall the inevitable question. "Forgive me for straying off topic, Colonel," I said in apology. "At times, I forget what I can truly see. As I was saying, Hans Schultz lives a simple life...with the difference of your influence."

Hogan wrinkled his brow in thought. "You said he had a long life," he pointed out. "That he died peacefully. I'm not sure what, if anything, I could have done to improve on that."

"Ah, but you are far too modest, Colonel Hogan," I casually mentioned. "The part I refer to is the quality of his life. Without your presence, Sergeant Schultz passes a rather uneventful war as a guard of sorts, or training others for that task. Only towards the end is he compelled to take up arms against the enemy. Even then he orders the men - older men, to be sure - under his command to disperse instead of fight. A man of common sense," I said admiringly.

"However, in a world where your paths cross he is a man of authority, albeit minor," my voice continued. "He is the Sergeant of the Guard, in command of men; his camp boasts no escapes presumably to his due diligence. Yet like the Centurion in Matthew, he cares for those in his charge. Even if, despite his boast, he knows more than he should."

The Colonel's face, a trifle pale, looked at my own. "How much does he know?"

"More than the 'monkey business' he speaks of," I said. "Behind his tired facade lurks an intelligent mind. The good Sergeant knows you help prisoners from other camps to escape; he suspects your role in sabotage, not to mention your true identity."

Hogan peered thoughtfully at Schultz for a long moment. At times like these I envy mortals; knowing another's thoughts does seem rather mundane, if not depressing, at times.

"I've never seen Schultz as the enemy," the Colonel admitted, sadness in his voice. "I doubt anyone here would. He's practically one of us, you know. If I could get away with it, I'd have the next airdrop full of Hershey bars." He snorted once before going on. "He's just in the wrong place at the wrong time. No matter what reality you're in."

I smiled. "Perhaps, Colonel," my voice acknowledged. "Then again, he has something else to compensate his soul: pride, and doubly so. His peers recognize his supposed abilities; his uniform enables him to stand tall in importance. Even then, he takes a secret – one might say, almost joyous - pleasure in your numerous actions."

"In us?" Hogan exclaimed, his voice incredulous. "The airmen we send on to England come back to bomb the hell out of Germany! That doesn't count the sabotage we carry out. And he's proud of that?"

"Yes," I replied. "Because in the end, you and your men fight the Nazi regime and not the Fatherland itself. Duty, not hate, is your watchword in battle; your targets of military value instead of innocent lives. He believes that is enough to assuage him of his guilt, as it were."

Hogan was silent for a long moment. At that moment, the calculating mask the Colonel wore vanished; in its place was a look of deep concern. "That's called giving aid and comfort to the enemy," he remarked quietly. "Treason."

"Yes, it is," I said. "Just as you are giving aid and comfort in his life." I raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Not a bad trade-off, if I may say so."

"Maybe," the Colonel allowed, albeit reluctantly. "Maybe." For a moment, his thoughtful eyes studied Schultz before I gently coughed to gain his attention.

I then waved my hand towards the barracks. "Shall we continue?"

We entered the dingy structure once more. Hogan watched intently as I walked up to one particular individual.

Next: Andrew Carter

A/N:

Is anyone really surprised that Klink ended up on the Russian Front? The poor man just has no luck…and I didn't have the heart to do anything bad to Schultz.

In 'Klink and the Gonculator.' Hogan suggested that Klink send all of his paperwork to an anonymous 'Johann Schmidt.'

A Centurion was one of the backbones of the Roman Army (roughly equivalent to an officer). In Matthew 8:5-13 a Centurion came to Jesus and asked him to heal a servant who was suffering from palsy. Because of his faith, his request was granted. What makes that passage all the more interesting is the actual history: a Centurion was in charge of unit discipline…and was usually pretty heavy-handed at it!

The Nazi State had a whole slew of laws pertaining to being Jewish. Among other (godawful) things, 'experts' had tools to determine if someone was Aryan or not. One of these – and I can't recall what it was called – measured the nose, cheekbones, and the like to determine if someone had a 'Jewish' facial structure (and therefore was possibly a Jew, heaven forbid). Thankfully, the devices were flops…a number of masquerading Jewish children were found to be properly German.

As to the laws determining racial purity: I once found an account of a German (I believe he was either a reporter or a lawyer) who had American Indian blood in his ancestry. He documented his family history in his ancestor passport (Ahnenpass), submitted it when required, and waited on pins and needles to see what the judgment would be. He was found to be of Aryan stock. Go figure.

Thanks for reading!