Chapter 4

Author's note: Sorry for making you all wait so long. Hopefully this nice long chapter - seriously, get a sandwich - will make up to you. And my many, many thanks to GSJessica, who beta'ed this chapter for me. (Sorry though, Jess. I kept the diaries in the original format. The only changed that's changed is that I couldn't get the plus signs to work. What is with the disappearing punctuation on this site? )

Also, I was unsure as to whether or not to change the rating for language and racial terms. I've decided to let it simply stand with this warning, but if any of you feel it should be upgraded, please let me know.

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Four aggravating nights passed before Hogan could sneak down into the tunnels. London was to blame for the first two and leftover tension had kept him awake for the third, which would have might have been the prime opportunity if it also hadn't done the same for his men. He had gritted his teeth and felt his blood pressure go up each time he tried to sneak out of his quarters and was thwarted by one of the guys rolling over or getting up for a drink of water. Asking himself why he didn't just go down and fob off some excuse if one of them questioned him - after all I'm in charge here, he reflected - he realized it was because he still felt a little bad about what he was doing, not to mention a touch embarrassed. As for the fourth night, worry about the diaries being in the tunnels and the crazy itch that was making him read them both took a back seat to simple exhaustion.

So now he'd had four days and nights - well, really five days - to ask himself why he hadn't just burned the books. And five days and four nights had brought him no closer to the answer.

It didn't help that he felt like he was digging himself in deeper by reading the diaries of the other three. Even if they never found out - and he'd only told Kinch he'd taken Carter's diary, not that he'd read it - he still felt antsy and half-ashamed at the very idea of invading the his men's privacy this way.

Fate seemed to agree as the light bulb in the radio room shorted out with a popping snap when he hit the switch. Already aggravated by his mental back-and-forth about the notebooks, Hogan swore, and rooted through their meagre supplies with less gentleness than was wise for hard to get radio parts and bulbs made of glass.

So why are you doing this? Why not keep the notebooks locked up until you figure out why the hell you haven't got rid of them?

Because I haven't found the answer yet - that's why! And it's not going to come with me sitting on my damn hands, now is it?

After screwing in the new bulb, and discovering that he was muttering to himself, he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat on the cot in the radio room to get his irritation under control. A few minutes and half a cup later, he had to laugh at himself: Mom was right. This is what you get when you know you're doing something you shouldn't.

Yet, strangely, admitting this to himself made him accept the fact that it had to be done. Or at least that he was going to do it, so why bother feeling bad about it anymore? He put his coffee down gently and reached over to his left, to where he'd dropped the diaries on the cot when he'd first come in. Looking at the three of them, he decided to start with Kinch's. He didn't know why, other than the fact Kinch had voluntarily told him about his own diary. Perhaps that made some unconscious part of him feel less like a snoop.

"Why did you tell me about this?" he had asked Kinch when Kinch had first told him.

Kinch shrugged. "Considering all of the things you said to Carter, it seemed like the right thing to do."

Hogan smiled despite himself. It was easy to see why Kinch had really done it. "In that case, you know, you could have just burnt this yourself and never needed to tell me about it," he'd pointed out.

"Guess I didn't think of that," was all Kinch said, but it was enough. Hogan had the whole story without even asking. Kinch hadn't wanted him to think Carter was the only one who had done something stupid. If Carter had to take the blame for something they'd both been doing, then Kinch intended on taking his share.

Now, five days later and hiding down in the tunnels, Hogan started reading.

----

As luck would have it, flipping through Kinch's writing the same random way he had Carter's, the first entries he stumbled on were in many ways the same sort of thing: innocuous, typical prisoner of war fare.

// The weather's beautiful here today. I almost didn't notice it. I'm beginning to wonder, that what with how busy things have been lately, and how dismal and bleak this cesspool usually is, if I've stopped noticing beautiful days.

Well, that ends now. I don't get to see enough daylight to be able to afford ignoring it, and missing a day like today would be a downright sin. It's warm out and the trees are turning. It may not be the same blaze of color that I'd get back home in Michigan, but they're wonderful to look at all the same. In fact, it's so beautiful out today that I don't even care that winter is coming. //

A sudden feeling of homesickness seemed to burst right in the middle of Hogan's chest. Never mind that it was night outside, and bucketing down rain, he could see the trees back home - literally see them - all ablaze with colour and glowing in glorious sunlight. The intensity of the feeling surprised him; Kinch hadn't gone into any great description. Hogan realized he must be missing home more than he'd known.

But he forcibly pushed the thought away and flipped the page. Personal sentiment was a thing he couldn't really afford to waste time on. He turned his concentration back to Kinch's familiar handwriting.

// Mail call today. Only one letter this time - from Aunt Ruby - and most of it has been so blacked out by the censors there was almost no point in opening it.

Now, I ask you, what in the world is a sixty-three year old colored cleaning woman possibly going to write that would threaten national security? How backed up the toilets get at Conroy's Window Cleaning? How many corns she's got on her feet? That old Bert Lewis at Kostova's Lamp Store keeps hitting on her? It's ridiculous! Those black marks got me so fed up today that paranoia took over and I started to wonder if that little pissant censor who always seems to get my letters is persecuting me personally and not just swiping that black pen around out of an inflated sense of self-importance.

Lord, I miss being able to write a good honest letter! The stories I make up for Aunt Ruby in order to make her think everything's okay are beginning to feel like disrespectful lies. And if something were to happen to me over here, I hate the thought of her believing the last thing I ever did was try and deceive her. But what else can I do? I can't place another burden on her, and even if I wanted to tell her the truth about the operation, or even the real day-to- day conditions here, it wouldn't get through the censors.

I suppose I'm just tired of the constant constraint of always having to watch what I say. I'm not a talkative man by any means, but not being able to write a simple letter in which I can express myself freely to my own family…well, it's become one very surprising irritant. //

Hogan was taken aback; he'd never realized Kinch felt that way. With Lebeau or Newkirk, or even Carter, something like this wouldn't have thrown him a bit - they were extroverted and impulsive by nature. But thinking before he spoke had always appeared to come so naturally to Kinch. Realizing that things obviously got to Kinch the same way that they got to anyone else knocked him off-kilter, not to mention made him feel a touch stupid.

Of course things get to him, Hogan cursed himself inwardly as he opened the notebook to a new page. Just because he doesn't complain as often doesn't mean he isn't being affected.

// The mail came today - at long last//

Hogan grimaced at another entry about the mail, but he told himself it had to be common theme with POWs.

// Got five letters - a veritable bonanza. One from Dexter, two from Althea, and two from Marty. Dexter didn't have much to say, mostly family gossip: his Aunt Val and his mother-in-law are still making things hot for him and Sarah over the whole casserole incident; he's applied for a construction job with the city, but he's worrying they won't take him because of his foot; his Dad's having more trouble with his neighbors. The same old, usual, everyday stuff. (And never in a million years did I ever think I'd be excited to hear it! )

I haven't read Althea's yet - I'm saving those for tomorrow; she always writes a good long letter. Marty's were interesting, though. He's still working at the VA hospital. I knew the service would turn him down - he's forty-three years old for Pete's sake. What was he expecting? And precisely what job did he envision the military giving him that would be more important than helping people as an orderly? I've seen with my own eyes how over-worked some of those doctors are; a lot of the time Marty's the only one those boys have around to take care of them.

However, it seems as if he's come to terms with it. They've moved him onto the mental ward. That doesn't surprise me at all - Marty was always good around nervous people. Strong, patient, soothing, and - except for being a damn fool who thinks he's not doing his duty by not being in Army - smart. He would have made a good psychiatrist in another place and time.

On the other hand though, he's always said the same thing about me. According to him, I've got a good listening ear. And, as he always reminds me, at least I'd be starting out with a high school diploma and a year of college under my belt. "Not like me with only seventh grade, Jimmy. By the time I got my education over and done with, I'd be nothing but an old colored man with a grey beard down to my feet."

The irony of it all is now that I believe there's a possibility of things changing and it would be worth trying, this is when I'm stuck in a prisoner of war camp. I'm 32 now, and who knows how much longer my life's going to be on hold while this war drags out? Even if I'm only 35 or so when it's done, then it's a matter of getting the money together, finishing college and medical school, then developing a practice that will accept me, let alone give me enough to live on. Heaven only knows how long all that will take.

Perhaps in the end, I simply don't want it enough. It's an intriguing idea, but struggling for years to build a career in a field I'm not even sure I'd care for… I think I'd rather concentrate on the simpler things. A family, a home. And if I want the time to really enjoy them, I guess I'll have to settle for a job that's simply a job. //

Hogan put the notebook down on his knees for a moment and sipped at his coffee. He knew this was common problem for POWs: the whole idea of your life coming to a standstill for an undetermined length of time, but it bothered Hogan to think of it affecting the men closest to him. He'd never really worried about himself. True, the rate of promotions slowed down after a war, and if knowledge of the operation never came out he wouldn't have much to work with. However, he knew he was a persuasive man - he'd find a way. As for a wife and kids, well, he'd never really pictured that for himself. It wasn't a matter of giving up his freedom or being tied down, it simply wasn't what interested him.

But the others…how long would it take Lebeau to get the backing for a restaurant in a country already over run with them, not to mention one that was financially devastated by war? How many years could Newkirk keep doing sleight of hand at a professional level? Hogan didn't know much about magic, but even he realized only a very lucky few managed to make a life long career of it. Newkirk's prime opportunities to really break out of the pack were probably gone anyway. As for opening a pub, Newkirk would be facing the same problems as Lebeau would with his restaurant.

Carter would probably be okay, Hogan reflected, but even he would potentially have lost his most productive years. Besides, it wasn't just about careers - it was about time lost for family, for dreams, for everything. Hogan could only thank God that at least here they had the operation to keep them busy and distract them from constant drumbeat of each day and month and year that was being robbed from them. Still, he turned the page rather quickly, anxious to stop thinking about this topic.

Hogan read a few more entries and found that - again, like Carter's - they displayed the personality of the man who had written them. Kinch's thoughts showed the careful consideration, the attentiveness to detail, the intelligent and thoughtful examination of life in general, he and the rest of the team were familiar with when it came to their most unflappable member.

But when he happened upon a long entry near the middle of the book, Hogan remembered that, out of necessity, Kinch had had a lifetime of practice in keeping a cool head.

// Yesterday in the tunnels I found Lebeau listening to Carter fret about something. I don't know what made me stop and listen - instinct maybe - but I stayed back and hid around the corner, despite the warning Mom was always giving me about eavesdropping. //

One side of Hogan's mouth twisted a bit. Fine, fine. I get it. No need to point fingers, he thought.

// "It's only going to upset him for no reason Lebeau," Carter was saying.

"He's a grown man Carter - he deserves to know that he has been insulted."

"Why? It's not like he's got to work with either of them," Carter argued back. "Look, either it'll make him mad and he'll do something that'll get him into trouble, or make trouble for the Colonel, or he'll hold it in and it'll do nothing but eat away at him. Why put him through that?"

"He has had to face such things before, non? He - "

"But it's different here, Lebeau! He's got no way to get away from it!"

"Kinch deserves better than to be treated like that." Hearing my own name gave me a sinking feeling.

"Of course he deserves better than to be treated like that!" Carter hissed at Lebeau. But then he sounded frustrated and I heard him say, "Look Lebeau, you just don't understand. You've never been to America. You've never seen what it's like for Negroes over there. Mitchell and Long aren't ever going to change and stuck here in camp, there's nothing Kinch can do about it." I don't think I'd ever heard Carter sound so pessimistic before.

"They will say something to him eventually."

"Maybe not. They know the Colonel will step in if they actually did anything to Kinch. Maybe they'll just keep avoiding him like they always do."

"What if they don't?"

"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Why make problems for the poor guy now when you don't have to?"

"It is wrong Carter."

"Well, Newkirk doesn't want us to tell and it's his decision." //

Hogan went back and looked at the date. His knuckles tightened to the point where he was in danger of ripping the notebook apart. Newkirk. The fight with Mitchell and Long.

// "All right Carter. We won't say anything to him," Lebeau told him. But the damage was already done. After I heard Carter leave I cornered Lebeau.

"Tell me," I said. But I didn't really need him to. Newkirk got himself thrown into the cooler last week for fighting with Mitchell and Long from Barracks 8. I should have guessed then, but I didn't. I didn't even figure it out when Newkirk refused to tell the Colonel why. Colonel Hogan got so mad he stopped trying to work on Klink and left Newkirk to stew for the whole five days. But now I realized that it wasn't that Newkirk didn't want to tell the Colonel, it was because I was there too and he didn't want to talk in front of me.

"Kinch, it is nothing," Lebeau tried to convince me.

"If it was nothing then you'd be looking me in the eye. Tell me - it was Mitchell and Long, wasn't it?"

"They are not worth bothering about, mon ami. They are foolish and ignorant boys."

"I'm not going to say it again, Lebeau!" I shouted at him.

"What does it matter, mon ami?" and I swear he was almost pleading with me. "It was nothing nice, you know that. You can guess the sort of things people like that say. Why do you need to hear them?"

"So I don't have to guess."

"They called you names," Lebeau told me softly. "Nigger. Coon. Also one I have never heard before: jungle rabbit."

"Jungle bunny," I corrected him. I felt my throat growing tight and I was having a hard time keeping myself from driving my fist into the tunnel wall. But for some reason I didn't want to show my rage in front of Lebeau. "What else?" I demanded.

I heard him sigh. "They were saying how wrong it was that good men were having to kill and die for you and your kind." //

"Oh Goddamnit!" Hogan shouted out loud. "How much longer do we all have to deal with this crap?" He raised the notebook over his head, but just barely managed to stop himself from whipping it to the floor. Instead he dropped roughly on the cot. "Dammit," he swore again. "I knew those two bigoted sons-of-bitches had more to do with it than Newkirk let on!"

Simmering dangerously, Hogan sat there for five whole minutes before he could pick up Kinch's notebook again.

// Lebeau was right when he said that I'd faced this sort of thing before - I've been dealing with this garbage from the day I was born. I thought I'd learned to get past it, but this time… I don't know. It's been a hell of a long time since I've been this furious.

"Good men." That's what they'd said. As if I and "my kind" aren't in that group. As if we aren't men at all, are not even human. Like we're nothing more than a group of animals that actual, real, human men were having to degrade themselves or risk their lives for. Apparently, it's never penetrated through their thick, cracker skulls that my people could say the same damn thing! Only with more reason! Why are we letting the white man force us to kill for him, why are we laying down our lives for a people and country that hates us? Because we believe so deeply in a democracy that can't even take part in. Yet they still can't see us as human!

But the thing that's really bothering me now is that it's been two days and I'm still fuming. The Colonel came back to the barracks this morning after talking to the Kommandant and he started steaming to me about having to make a show of kowtowing to someone like Klink. I can usually see how something like that might stick in a man's craw, but just this once I couldn't work up any sympathy for him. All I could think was, "So you've had to kiss up to someone beneath you for a year now, simply because he's the one in power. So what. We win this war and you'll never have to do it again. But me and my kind will be doing it the rest of our lives." //

Hogan stared at the notebook in his hands, speechless. He'd never once thought about how inconsiderate his griping about Klink might be to someone like Kinch. What made it even worse, was that usually Kinch was the only one he complained to.

// What I don't understand why I'm still so upset. I learned long ago that if I got angry over every S.O.B in the world I'd go crazy. So why can't I let it go this time?

It don't think it's because I have to face those two jackasses every day. As galling as it is to meekly keep quiet, I've swallowed nastier comments before from employers and people I've had to work with. I will admit, though, that it's harder now, when I don't have the same option of returning home every night to my family and friends. To people who look like me.

Maybe it's the awkwardness it's caused between my friends and I. (As if I needed yet another reminder the distinction between us.) Poor Carter and Lebeau; they've been doing everything they can to make it up to me and Carter doesn't even know that I know. Yet all the time they're ashamed to look me in the eye. They've been made to feel bad for something they didn't even do. And all they're doing with their little favors - besides getting in the way - is reminding me of the very difference we're all trying to ignore.

I think the real problem is that I allowed myself to get complacent. For a little while, working with these four loonies, I'd started to believe that things would eventually get better back in the real world. That things would change after the war because enough people would have be forced to look at our abilities and maybe even managed to be grateful for our contributions.

But all I know now is that I'm angry. I'm angry at Mitchell and Long. I'm angry at Newkirk for getting himself into trouble over me. I'm angry that he had reason to. I'm even angry at myself. Partly for my irrational resentment towards my friends simply because they're white, but also - sadly - for letting my guard down.

I just don't know anymore. Right now, I think I've lost any real hope that my people will ever be taken as equal by more than a few good individuals. The worst of it is, though, that even with them, we might not be left alone to be friends without interference from bigots like Mitchell and Long. //

Hogan exhaled nosily, closing his eyes as if in pain. What did you think - that it would all be as simple as making him your second-in-command? he asked himself. That as long as you set a good example and kept the men in line, they'd all accept him?

No, but he had assumed he could deal with the problem when it came up. Of course, he had also assumed he would know about it when it did. Not that he had expected Kinch to come running to him every time someone called him a bad name; he knew the man. He knew Kinch could handle the little things without letting them get to him. And Kinch had his pride. Hogan was sure that Kinch not only wouldn't expect his constant butting in, he wouldn't want it. But couldn't Kinch have confided in him if he was feeling such a crisis of hope as this?

And how was it making Kinch feel in relation to the four of them? "All it's doing is reminding me of the very difference we're trying to forget,"he'd written. Hogan desperately wanted to believe that Kinch's feeling had been temporary, but being forced together with white men and developing deep friendships with them was more than likely a completely new experience for him, one that was probably utterly unexpected. It's one thing to be sure of who you are, but crossing such an entrenched barrier as this… who mightn't feel a little unsure?

It worried Hogan and for the first time he started to follow the diary day by day instead of skimming it randomly. Only a few days after the events with Mitchell and Long, Hogan came across an entry describing Newkirk and Lebeau returning from a pick-up mission. It was something that didn't alleviate his fears at all.

// I think they understand the waiting. I mean, at one time or another, we've all been there. A few months ago, when Carter and Lebeau went out to pick up the fake diamonds that we used to bribe Hegel, I swear, Newkirk was asking the Colonel and I what time it was every five or ten minutes until they got back. So yeah, they get that. I might do it the most often, but we've all been through it.

But I don't know if they really understand the other part. The part where night after night I watch them come back wound up and bouncing off each like pin balls, almost drunk on triumph and adrenalin. Either that or shakily re-hashing their desperate escapes from yet another danger as they stand there, huddled together in the tunnel right under the emergency entrance. They're there, panting and shivering, and I tell myself that I should be grateful that I wasn't out there with them. That is, until I see that matching look of amazement, of mutual congratulations, slowly dawning on their faces. The way they pat each other on the back, breathlessly laughing while all the while telling one another to get a hold of themselves. All the signs that just scream out, "We did it - we survived another one!" Only I'm not part of the "we". I'm the one holding out their uniforms or a cup of coffee.

Maybe that's too harsh. The fault isn't theirs. I know how they feel. And I know that I'd be going out in a heartbeat if color wasn't an issue. I'll admit sometimes I even do feel grateful; not to be spared the risk or the work, but only because I've never enjoyed the idea of acting out a part or deceiving people. I can live with it over the phone or the radio, but it's a different kettle of fish to have to do it in person.

And it's not as if I haven't had some of those triumphant moments myself. It's just that they're fewer and farther between. There have been times too, when one or more of them were kept back here with me. But for them that's only the way the Colonel hands out assignments and not because theycan't go on a specific job. So, more often than not, I'm the one patiently listening as they try to explain excitedly what it was like to fool the enemy right to their faces. I know that they're doing more than trying to blow off steam, that they're trying to make me feel included. But whether they're doing it consciously or unconsciously, in the end it doesn't really matter. It always comes down to "you had to be there".

As for the holding out uniforms or a cup of hot coffee, they've never demanded that, or even asked. I do it for them the same way they do it for me, or for each other. It's only there are times when I can't help remembering what a female friend in London once said to me about working with all men: "No matter what qualifications I've got, as far as they're concerned, I'm still only there to fetch the bloody tea." I know the guys aren't like that - they're not even within shouting distance of that - but being the one who is standing apart and holding out the hot drink most of the time, I find I can't escape the occasional stab of resentment at how things are.

But the thing is, since I can't blame or make a legitimate complaint to any particular person, I'm left with no way of solving the problem. Maybe that's what's got me so down tonight.

Or maybe it's nothing more than picturing our future reunions, where we'll all get together and they'll start saying "remember when" and I won't. //

Hogan silently put Kinch's diary back in the cabinet with the others and made his way up top. Some things he just couldn't do anything about.