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And thank you, Marilyn!
Chapter Nine
Kinch jolted awake, his heart slamming against his ribs. He could never remember the nightmares, only flashes of vague, threatening images and snatches of conversation in distorted, unfamiliar voices. He rubbed his forehead, wishing the nightmares could be wiped away as easily as the sweat on his brow.
"Kinch? You all right, mate?" Newkirk eyed him from the common room table. A plate of uneaten food sat before him, one of their battered tin cups cradled between his hands.
Taking a steadying breath, Kinch sat on the edge of his bunk. He needed a few moments to shake off the nightmare's clinging effects. Newkirk studied him, then left the table and moved to stand before him.
"Another one?" Newkirk prodded, regarding him with compassion.
Kinch nodded, not trusting his voice just yet, and looked toward Hogan's quarters. Through the doorway, he could see LeBeau and Carter sitting vigil at Hogan's bedside. O'Malley stood nearby, a towel and basin in his hands.
"He's not doing so well, Kinch," Newkirk sighed, sitting beside him on the bunk. "The fever's climbing again."
The hollow feeling in Kinch's stomach got a little worse. "The infection?"
"Yeah." Newkirk studied the floor at their feet. "Ben just finished draining and cleaning the wounds again."
"Maybe that'll take care of it and the fever will break soon." Kinch really wished he believed that, but the nightmare was still too fresh. He shuddered; hard enough the bed creaked beneath them. Newkirk's gaze shot up to his face. Kinch stood to avoid more questions, his body feeling heavy and sluggish. What little sleep he had managed over the course of the day had been far from restful. Too many nightmares. He rubbed his gritty eyes, fighting down another shudder.
"He's wasting away before our eyes," Newkirk murmured, looking toward Hogan's quarters. Their CO's cheeks were already hollow, his eyes sunken and dark, as if he had gone without food for a week.
"Ben," Kinch called softly as the medic slowly walked out of Hogan's quarters. "Is he keeping the water down now?"
O'Malley nodded. Setting the cloth and basin on the table, he dropped onto a bench and put his face in his hands. Kinch and Newkirk glanced at each other in concern.
"Do you remember," O'Malley said, so low Kinch and Newkirk moved closer to hear. "When he was in the coma and Kurt told us to talk to him, to tell him how much he meant to us, and how much we needed him so that he'd want to wake up?" He glanced at them from between his splayed fingers. They nodded. O'Malley released a shuddering sigh and dropped his hands to the table.
"What if it's not enough this time?"
HH HH HH HH HH HH
Klink lifted his eyes to the cuckoo clock as it heralded another hour. Giving the ledger on his desk a baleful look, he stood, and after stretching the kinks from his back, left his office. His appearance surprised Schultz, who had been nodding off in a chair against the wall. He shot to his feet and braced to attention, guilt rounding his eyes. Containing a sigh, Klink shifted his gaze to Fraulein Hilda. His secretary's shoulders were sagging from a day of sorting, typing and filing monthly reports. Klink hid a flinch when she threw a slightly accusing look in his direction.
"The rest of the reports can wait until tomorrow, Fraulein Hilda. Schultz, see her to the gate, then return here immediately. Bring Langenscheidt with you."
His curiosity clearly piqued, Schultz threw off a salute, opened the door for Hilda and gestured her through. Klink re-entered his office, closing the door behind him.
The decanter of schnapps on the side table drew his eye. He poured a generous amount of the amber liquid into a glass and carried it to his desk. He stared into the golden depths, seeing Hogan's face, yet hearing Major Wolfgang Hochstetter's rough, angry voice.
The Gestapo officer's mid-day call had interrupted Klink's meal and soured his stomach to the rest of it. Hochstetter's calls rarely contained good news, and this time was no exception. Three members of a Wehrmacht patrol had been gunned down the night before, as well as a man Hochstetter believed was an agent for the Underground. Additionally, a truck had been found abandoned in a roadside ditch with a large amount of blood on the seat. Hochstetter had theorized the blood belonged to the killer. Dogs had been summoned and tracked the scent to a nearby stream, where they had lost it.
Klink tossed back the schnapps, grimacing as the alcohol trailed fire down his throat.
Hochstetter had been furious. There was nothing unusual about that. Hochstetter seemed to always be in a state of fury - at least whenever he was in Klink's presence.
The unusual part of the conversation came near the end, when Hochstetter's fury had suddenly died. Casually, but with the silky lilt to his voice that always sent shivers down Klink's spine, he had thrown out what seemed an unrelated question.
"How is Hogan, Klink?"
"Hogan? The same as always. Infuriating, demanding, sarcastic. Just this morning after roll call, he--"
"This morning, did you say?"
"Yes. He waltzed into my office without permission and actually had the nerve to ask --"
The dead air of a disconnected line had halted Klink's rambling. He had stared at the telephone receiver, attempting to slow his racing heartbeat. What could have possessed him to spin lies to a man who would eagerly welcome the excuse to have him shot?
Klink morosely contemplated the empty glass in his hand, returned to the sideboard and poured more schnapps. After eying the level of liquid in the glass, he tipped the bottle and added more. Setting the bottle back on the sideboard with less than his usual care, he went to the window and pulled back the curtain.
It was just past dusk and stars were starting to appear amongst the low-hanging, pewter clouds. A beautiful night. Klink sighed, rubbing the pad of his thumb slowly up and down the side of his glass.
According to Hochstetter, Hogan was responsible for every act of sabotage that befell the region – and beyond! The allegations were absurd, Klink huffed, unknowingly tightening his grip on the glass. Hogan is a prisoner of war! He lived in captivity, behind high fences topped by razor-sharp barbed wire, with guards and trained, vicious dog patrolling just outside. Wily as Hogan was, he could not come and go from Stalag 13 as he pleased, nor could he access the resources needed to pull off such sabotage.
Hochstetter is unreasonably obsessed with Hogan, Klink mused, letting his gaze drift to Barracks Two. He comes to Stalag 13 any time anything goes wrong, demanding to see Hogan, demanding that he be interrogated, disrupting my camp and giving me monumental headaches.
Klink's lips twitched into a fleeting grimace. No wonder I rushed to deflect his interest from Hogan. Anything to avoid another 'visit' from that fool!
He glanced down at his drink, swirled the liquid in the glass.
Besides, Hogan is deathly ill at the moment, hardly able to withstand . . .
Klink's gaze snapped up; fastened on Barracks Two again.
Hogan is deathly ill. Hochstetter believed the patrol's killer had been badly wounded.
He swallowed nervously. The two can not be connected.
Could they?
He let the curtain fall as he heard Schultz and Langenscheidt enter the outer office. Tossing back the last of the schnapps, he thunked the glass down on his desk and grabbed up his cap and gloves.
Perhaps his visit with Hogan would reveal the answer.
HH HH HH HH HH HH
"Klink is coming!"
Olsen closed the door, ran to his bunk and quickly took up a relaxed position. All around the barracks, men scrambled to hide anything incriminating. O'Malley dove for the medicine Kurt had left for Hogan, concealing it in the crate beside the stove, under a false stack of wood. Parker hopped out of the tunnel, slapping at the hidden lever to close the entrance. It rattled down on its pulleys, coming to rest in the bunk frame just as the door to Barracks Two flew open.
Klink walked inside, accompanied by Schultz and Langenscheidt. Kinch took one look at Klink's expression and knew they were in trouble. Gathering calm about him like a shield, he met the Luftwaffe officer near the woodstove.
"Kommandant. Something we can do for you, sir?"
Klink tucked his hands at his back and looked searchingly into Kinch's eyes.
"I am here to see Colonel Hogan." Maintaining eye contact with him, Klink said over his shoulder, to Schultz and Langenscheidt, "Once I enter Hogan's quarters, you will stand guard outside the door and allow no one to disturb us, unless you both wish to become targets at the Russian Front. Is that understood?"
Schultz nodded, quickly shifting his rifle from his shoulder to both hands to demonstrate he meant business. Langenscheidt swallowed hard and nodded, ready to provide Schultz with backup. Granite entered Klink's tone.
"Stand aside, Kinchloe."
Kinch shook his head. Left alone with Hogan, Klink might discover his senior Prisoner of War was wounded rather than ill.
LeBeau stepped to Kinch's side. "Colonel Hogan is sleeping."
Klink ignored him, his level gaze bored into Kinch.
"You have three seconds to move out of my way. If you are still blocking me at the end of that time, Schultz and Langenscheidt will escort you to the cooler, and I will give serious consideration to the matter of transferring you to another Luftstalag . . ." He sent a significant look around the barracks. "Along with anyone else who might try to interfere."
The tension in the room increased while Klink and Kinch engaged in a silent conflict of wills. As the third second ticked off, Kinch reluctantly shifted to one side, and Klink marched into Hogan's quarters, firmly closing the door behind him. Schultz and Langenscheidt immediately rooted themselves before the door, apology on their faces. The men slowly clustered around Kinch.
"Kinch . . . what do we do?" Carter's whispered, his blue eyes locked fearfully upon Hogan's door.
Kinch had only one answer to that.
"Pray."
TBC . . . Thank you for reading!
