Chapter 10

December 5, 1943

"Men," Colonel Hogan intoned solemnly as he raised his cup in toast, "Those among you who aren't Americans may not realize what a serious and important date this is that we honor today." Newkirk and LeBeau fixed wide-eyed, serious expressions on him. Kinch's and Olsen's eyes glittered while Carter just looked baffled. But, then, he often did.

"It's not a day that will live in infamy," Hogan continued. "but, instead, ten years ago this day filled the hearts of our people with untold joy…" Olsen couldn't contain his snort of laughter any longer. Kinch's grin spread wide. Carter still looked baffled. Newkirk and LeBeau exchanged a puzzled glance. "Gentlemen," Hogan raised his cup higher, "to the Repeal of Prohibition."

He gulped a slug of the moonshine in his coffee cup, followed in short order by Kinch and Olsen. Newkirk and LeBeau exchanged another puzzled glance that crumpled into laughter as they, too, downed a slug. Carter choked and coughed on a bare sip of his.

"And to the boys in Barracks Sixteen," Hogan added, taking another gulp.

"And their still," Kinch added. Another gulp.

"And to farmer Braun and his willingness to be paid a mere three times the market price for his rye," Olsen said. And another.

"Is that where you stay, when you're out of here?" Carter asked. Hogan noticed he set his nearly-full cup down. "With a farmer? 'Cause that would be keen."

Ah, homesickness, Hogan thought, the familiar twinge of it hitting him too. He could have been there now. Home. He swallowed down the last of the whiskey and refilled his cup. The boys in Barracks Sixteen had cooked off a good batch this time. Double-distilled and smooth. Well, smooth in a throat-burning, nerve-numbing, brain-deadening sort of way.

"Nah." Olsen's words already started to slur. "They make you work on a farm. I don't like work. There's this bar… pub… Uh, what's the word in German? I've forgotten." He blinked rapidly with a bewildered expression flooding over his face. "My God, I've forgotten German." Olsen quickly gulped a fortifying slug of the 'shine. 'Cause that'll help, Hogan thought, chuckling. Letting off a stream of extremely fluent German cursing, apparently without noticing it was in German, Olsen said sorrowfully, "I'm sure it'll come back to me. Anyhow, there's this bar, and there's girls. And—" he jabbed his finger around the table to emphasize the point, "—a real shortage of men."

"Mmm… girls," Newkirk moaned. "Women. Dames. Broads. Birds." He sighed.

"Don't the local police or Gestapo ever bother you?" Carter asked.

Olsen shook his head, then clutched it as though it might come loose. "Nah," he said. "I mean, it's not like I'm doin' anything but enjoying the girls and the booze, so they never pay any attention to me at all."

Later, Hogan would wish he'd paid more attention to Newkirk's reaction to Olsen's story. Instead, he launched into a story of his own, about a woman, of course. And one story led to another....

"…you were captured by a girl?!" Several of his men burst out in unison, laughing, as Hogan reached the edelweiss, moonlight, and pledging their undying love portion of the story.

"Did I not emphasize the fully cocked, double-barreled, big verdammte shotgun part?" Hogan slurred intently.

The door opening let in a burst of cold air, interrupting the story.

"Schultz, don't you ever knock?" Hogan snapped at the guard.

Holding his hands over the stove, Schultz answered mildly, "No. Do you?"

Hogan chuckled. "What's up, Schultz?"

"The Kommandant invites you to his quarters for a game of chess," Schultz announced formally. "I am sent to escort you."

With a laugh, Hogan said, "The phrase 'sent to escort' kinda changes the tone of 'invites'." He stood, wavering a moment as he reached that whole six-foot altitude. "Whoa." Hogan held the table until the swaying stopped.

Low, Kinch said warningly, "Colonel, you're a bit sloshed. Maybe you ought to skip this one."

"Nonsense," Hogan said, grabbing up a half-filled bottle of the moonshine as he turned to go. "I can let Klink beat me at chess drunk or sober."

"Colonel Hogan, is that liquor?" Klink demanded when he saw the bottle and his senior POW's somewhat unstable demeanor. "You know that's forbidden."

"Ssshhh," Hogan said, holding his finger to his lips. "Don't tell anyone."

With an exasperated sigh, Klink started, "Hogan…"

"We're celebrating an important national holiday, Kommandant," Hogan said, filling a brandy snifter with the pale amber liquor and holding it out. Klink took it and sniffed cautiously. Mein Gott! The alcohol fumes alone could knock a man out. Carefully, he took a sip.

"This is good," Klink admitted incredulously. "But, Hogan, making alcohol…" He paused. He really didn't want to fuss with camp rules tonight. "Well, if it's an important American holiday…" He paused again, considering the date. "Oh," he said with sympathy in his tone, "The attack on Pearl Harbor." Raising the glass of liquor in Hogan's direction, he offered a silent toast.

But Hogan grinned. "That's the seventh, Kommandant. Today's the fifth. Repeal of Prohibition day. Ten years." Hogan raised the glass he'd filled for himself toward Klink with a grin. "To Noble Experiments and their merciful end."

Klink snorted. "Yes. I've heard of your Prohibition. Proof positive that Americans are…"

"Crazy?" Hogan filled in helpfully.

"Yes," Klink agreed. Interesting how Americans didn't mind being collectively called crazy. What a strange, undisciplined, and wild place their land must be.

Hogan sat down at the chess board and immediately moved out the white knight piece with a grand flourish. Trying not to become immediately enmeshed in the game, Klink made a quick, but very safe and standard, answering move.

"They gathered by the thousands in the streets in front of the breweries in Milwaukee and St. Louis that day. A big party in the streets," Hogan commented as he stared thoughtfully at the chess board. It was a novelty to have Hogan be a bit slow on the chess moves, Klink considered. This could be a very enlightening game. And he seemed talkative. Not that talkative was unusual. Not unusual at all. But maybe tonight he'd actually say something.

Hogan moved a piece. It was—to Klink—a seemingly random move of a random piece. Drunk or sober, however, he couldn't imagine Hogan making any random moves. This could be a very interesting game, indeed.

"Were you there," Klink asked casually as he studied the board, "in Milwaukee or St. Louis that day?"

"Hard to remember," Hogan said evasively. Or perhaps honestly, Klink considered as he recalled the occasion for the celebration. "Maybe both."

"Celebrating crowds in front of the breweries in Milwaukee and St. Louis," Klink commented slowly, covertly watching for Hogan's reaction. "German breweries."

Glancing up from the board, Hogan countered, "American breweries."

"German-American breweries," Klink countered back firmly.

Hogan's eyes took on a mischievous twinkle as he peered at Klink. "Yup," he agreed with a cheerful tone in his voice. "German-American breweries." He grinned at Klink. "We got the beer-makers and atomic scientists and you got stuck with the Hochstetters and Burkhalters." He raised his glass in a mocking toast. "Congratulations on that victory, sir."

Klink decided to let that round go to Hogan as he moved another chess piece. "You couldn't possible have been in both Milwaukee and St. Louis in the same day," he said. "They're too far apart."

Propping his chin in one hand, Hogan stared at the board. "Not really. 'Bout four hundred miles. You see, I had this airplane I'd souped up. An old biplane I rebuilt. And I recall there was this girl in Chicago, right on the way. Get her up to about six thousand feet and she had the most interesting way of…"

Klink waved his hand to stop Hogan. He wasn't sure if 'she' meant the girl or the plane. "Spare me the details," he said, but with a faint smile. "What kind of biplane? A Fokker ? You said once you'd flown one."

Hogan shook his head. "No. A Nieuport. One of the planes the Americans flew in the last war." He looked up at Klink and grinned. "When I was a kid I wanted to be Eddie Rickenbacker."

"Ah, the American Ace." Unable to suppress a chuckle, Klink admitted, "I wanted to be Baron von Richthofen. Unfortunately, I got the chance to try." He gave a small shudder.

"You ever meet Richthofen?" Hogan asked, moving a chess piece. "The great Red Baron?"

"Mmm…" Klink studied Hogan's latest move. "Once. Arrogant Prussian aristocrat with a mean streak in him."

"Doesn't exactly make him stand out from the rest of your officer corps," Hogan muttered.

Klink scowled but let the insult slide past. Instead he said, "Your 'Rickenbacker'… I've always wondered about that name." Klink looked up questioningly.

With a chuckle, Hogan said, "Ah, you're on a theme tonight, huh? Yes, Kommandant. It's a German name. He changed the spelling when the last war started. Before that it was 'Reichenbacher'."

"He was from Ohio, wasn't he?" Klink asked casually, returning to his study of the board though he watched for Hogan's reaction. "Like you?"

There was a long pause from Hogan. "Working on another report for Berlin, sir?" he eventually asked.

"Hardly," Klink said with a snort. "Just curious. The Gestapo thinks you're from Cleveland, Ohio. General Biedenbender thought you were from Indianapolis, Indiana. That radio propaganda woman, Axis Annie, thought you were from Bridgeport, Connecticut. And you've mentioned Milwaukee, Wisconsin on more than one occasion."

"You left out Cincinnati," Hogan murmured.

"Ah, yes," Klink said, moving a chess piece forward. "The city the residents call 'Zinzinnati'. Hogan didn't seem to notice he'd made his move. "I understand the telephone operators there were all bilingual. German and English."

"Uh huh," Hogan said, still staring at Klink. "Until you people started the last war and gave everything German a bad name… again."

"How'd you learn to speak German so well?" Klink asked abruptly.

"Took it in high school," Hogan said tersely.

"Not in Indiana," Klink said. "They banned the teaching of German in 1919. So did many other places in America. About the time you'd have been starting high school. So, how did you learn to speak German?"

About to take a gulp of the American moonshine, Hogan hesitated, then apparently thought better of it. He set the glass back down, untouched. With a forced grin, he quipped, "Eavesdropping on party-line phone calls in 'Zinzinnati'. Trying to pick up barmaids in Milwaukee." Hogan shook his head slowly. "Kommandant Klink, I am about five seconds away from starting to recite my name, rank, and serial number. What's up? Is Hochstetter leaning on you to get information from me?"

"I wouldn't tell that man anything," Klink grated. Then he met Hogan's eyes steadily. Hogan looked suspicious, worried, and puzzled behind the mildly innocent façade he wore with obvious effort. "Hogan, you have my word as an officer and a gentleman, I would not pass on to the Gestapo anything you chose to tell me." It was a test moment, Klink knew. On purpose. He'd accepted Hogan's word of honor on numerous occasions. Would the reverse hold true?

Hogan broke the stare, obviously considering what Klink had just said. Reaching to take another drink, he stopped as the glass touched his lips, then set it back down again. "I… appreciate that, Kommandant," Hogan finally said slowly. It was not quite a committed response. Not quite acceptance of Klink's word.

"You know I reported nothing about that Captain Ritter's rather odd visit with you here," Klink insisted.

"Now how would I know that?" Hogan protested. Klink just gave him a 'how dumb do you think I am?' look, then just as quickly tried to erase it from his face. He didn't really want to know how dumb Hogan thought he was.

"The things you said that night should have had you in Berlin for a long, long time trying to explain them," Klink said. Though he hid it well, Klink could see how the suggestion truly scared Hogan.

"Yeah, all right," Hogan relented. "So you didn't put any of that in your official reports. I appreciate that. Still…"

"Where are you really from, Hogan?" Klink pressed. "Where were you born?"

Clearing his throat, Hogan said slowly, "I don't see what difference it makes."

Klink looked up, meeting his eyes. "Exactly. What difference does it make? I understand your reluctance to provide any sort of 'straight answers' to the enemy, but why is this such an obscure point?"

Hogan took a long time to say anything. "What's up with you tonight, Kommandant?"

"I told you," Klink said, trying to sound as frank and open as he could. "I'm just curious." And hoping to somehow bridge this gap between us, he added silently. Trying to force it. It had occurred to him that Hogan probably didn't want him for an ally, even if the offer was made.

Gesturing with his head as he refocused with an effort on the chess board, Klink said, "Go over to that cabinet by the door."

Curious and suspicious, Hogan slowly complied. He picked up one of the books stacked haphazardly there. Klink saw his eyes widen as he saw the title. In rapid succession, Hogan picked up and examined each of the other books, flipping them open to the bookmarked pages to see the contents. Hogan shot a shaken glance at Klink.

"You may take the English language books for the prisoners' library," Klink said coolly. "Except," he added, "the one about American baseball. I haven't finished with that one yet."

Hogan sobered up in an instant.

Klink had a stack of books about the United States. More specifically, about the places he supposed Hogan might be from. There were others—books about the migration of Germans to America, the settlements, the most heavily German-American cities (Milwaukee, St. Louis, and Cincinnati, along with Indianapolis, and Cleveland, Hogan noted). When had it gotten so warm in here? Hogan swiped a hand across his forehead and continued looking through the books. Klink was trying to put together puzzle pieces. Dangerous puzzle pieces. Good God…

There was another stack of German books on the same subjects; their perspective on the distant land so many of their countrymen had left Germany for. And another, on the German-American Bund. Those bastards… American Nazis.

Then, curiously, a book on baseball. A history of World Series games. Hogan gave a faint chuckle as he flipped it open to the bookmarked page. Tinker to Evers to Chance is the play, he read. In fact, it was underlined. So Klink hadn't forgotten that.

Yikes! Klink hadn't forgotten that.

Major Kronman… Hansie Kronman, Klink's erstwhile friend shot by the Gestapo for his part in a plot to assassinate Hitler. Klink had seen an awful lot while looking the other way on that one—Hogan able to arrange to have a hotel safe blown open to recover the list with Klink's name on it from Kronman's safe deposit box? Tinker to Evers to Chance is the play, he'd said to Klink when his men tossed them the contents of that safe deposit box.

"Interesting game, your American baseball," Klink commented in an overly mild tone. "Tinker to Evers to Chance," Klink said. He flicked another glance at Hogan then returned to his study of the chessboard. "A 'double-play'. Without Evers, Chance doesn't get to make his play."

Hogan stared at Klink a long time while Klink studiously stared at the chess board. You're only Evers, I'm Chance, Hogan had said to Klink.

"You've got two choices of moves, Klink," Hogan said harshly. "One mates me in five moves. One mates me in seven. Just pick one so we can end this game."

"Yes," Klink said calmly, not looking up. "I saw those. Very clever planning. Very intricate setup. One might say 'over elaborate planning' of them, even." He glanced very briefly at Hogan then reached out and moved an entirely unexpected piece. Hogan stared as Klink knocked Hogan's last remaining knight over with his piece.

"Checkmate," Klink announced.

To be continued...