IronAmerica-3

I am such an idiot. I am, without a doubt, the world's biggest idiot. I should never have opened my cell phone. I should never have looked at that text message. I should have stayed my usual paranoid, suspicious self, and convinced myself that the photo was a forgery.

And I should definitely learn to connect my brain to my mouth before I speak. If my dad ever gets this notebook (saying Colonel Hogan doesn't blackball the entire thing), I'd like him to teach me to be a bit more wary of military officers. I should also stop referring to Carter as the kid brother of the group. I want to go home, where I can watch the more familiar, sensible, version of the Heroes. I miss Bob Crane, Larry Hovis, Ivan Dixon, Robert Clary, and Richard Dawson.

Being in a small side tunnel under guard is not my idea of fun. On the upside, I now have all the time in the world to work on drawing people. Colonel Hogan, creepy man that he is, was nice enough to let me keep my backpack and the contents thereof. Where's my mid-term report though? So now I can write, draw, and stare into space to my hearts content. Oy vey.

Carter stopped by today on his way to build some sort of bomb, and I realize that he is definitely not the loveable child-like person Larry Hovis portrayed him as. Or loveable like I picture him. I want to go home. I hate this place.

Mom, if you get this, I want to apologize for using your sewing scissors to open up a packet of icing. I know how touchy you get about us using your sewing scissors on something other than fabric or thread.

Devon, sorry for being such a needy, annoying sister. Heavens know how you put up with me all the time. Being stuck in World War Two does give one a new perspective on life, though. Good luck with getting your job at a game-design company. I know you want to do that after college.

Dwyn, I don't have anything to apologize to you for. I do have a few things I want to say to you though. Good luck with college, be the valedictorian for me. Find a nice guy (no repeats of John), and name one of your kids after me. If you use my middle name, however, my ghost will haunt you for eternity.

Dyan, same thing. Nothing to apologize for. But some advice- loosen up a little. Listen to some Celtic music once in a while, even though you hate it. Maybe become a kindergarten teacher. Wait! You already want to do that. Never mind…

Ugh. I put down my pencil, and wonder how I became such a sap. I hate that, and people who get overly emotional, and I'm turning into one. What has the world come to? I look up, and see that it's Kinch's turn to be on guard. I give him a weak smile, which he doesn't return. I guess it's because of my insinuation that I could go to Klink or the Gestapo.

Maybe I could cause a tiny teensy weensy little temporal paradox, and tell him about Martin Luther King Jr. It'd do him some good to know that racism gets toned down a little, even if it doesn't go away completely. Ah, heck, I'm doing it again. Convincing myself that I know everything (even though Pe... err, Newkirk, was rigging the deck). Figures. Now I can't think of the guy I am possibly in love with by his first name. It seems like a privilege I don't deserve.

Oh good God, I'm becoming broody. That in itself is frightening. Though possibly not as frightening as my desire to see the three twerps again. I find it hard to believe that I could find myself missing Brandon, Tyler, and urgh, Nathan. My pencil needs to be sharpened again. Pity I didn't bring my clicky pencils with me.

"Hey, Mr. Kinchloe?" He looks up, staring at me with those slightly creepy brown eyes. "Um, could I have a pencil sharpener please?" He takes my pencil and sharpens it for me, and I thank him again. Kinch seems like a nice guy, and he really should have an inferiority complex. It seems that no one's ever been polite to him. Hogan and white company are all right to him, but not overly polite, like mom taught me.

I open my notebook to a page I've been working on for a while. I look at Kinch again, and than back at my paper. I wonder if I showed it to him, if he'd be offended. After all, a teenage girl drawing pictures of guys in tights… Well yeah. Not exactly normal. Especially for this day and age. But there is a distinct lack of African-American superheroes, and I haven't even read that many comics. I really need to straighten my priorities out.

Onto my problem of Colonel Hogan. How do I convince him of anything? None of my fellow writers know that I'm here, I think, and I don't want to drag anyone down with me. If anyone else did arrive. Though the clerk did make it seem like the others, if there were any, were disappearing left, right and center. But I have got to get out of these tunnels. They aren't cramped, like the tunnels at Tour-Ed mine, but they still induce feelings of claustrophobia. Tunnels and me are like gasoline and a lit match. I'm surprised I haven't gone nuts yet… Oh wait. I AM! I'm in Hogan's Heroes, with no way out.

Spring break must be over by now, unless my personal timeline froze when I left. That's a theory to explore, since Mugi-chan hasn't shown up yet. Or maybe the gold thingy only affects HH writers? Possibly. I wonder what my dad is thinking, if my PTL hasn't frozen? Maybe he's getting the USMC to look for me. He is a lieutenant-colonel, but he's not important for anyone to think that terrorists have come after me for revenge. Okay, now that that is in writing, it looks really stupid.

"Mr. Kinchloe, can I ask you a hypothetical question?" Kinch looks at me, slightly bored. No one wants to guard the psychotic teen, and he got stuck with the job. "Mr. Kinchloe, if you knew that segregation was going to end in, oh say, the next, umm, twenty to thirty years, what would you do?"

Kinch looks at me, and I can imagine the wheels turning in his head. "It would depend-" he started slowly. I wait, wondering what he's going to say. "-why should I care? I had to go all the way to Tuskegee just so I could fight for my country. Does that make any sense?" Uh-oh. I think I accidentally touched a nerve.

"Mr. Kinchloe, this is all hypothetical you understand, I'm not going to say anything is definite. I'm just saying that yes, segregation, and a large chunk of racism will disappear. Now, racism won't disappear entirely, unfortunately, but it will become just a tad more… Psychological, rather than physical." Now he's looking at me as though I'm pulling a joke on him. Sigh, Doesn't anyone trust me? Um. Oh yeah! The Gestapo and/or Klink thing. Hmm. Cause a paradox or not. Choices, choices… On second thought, I won't. I mean, after reading "Weapons of Choice" a few dozen times, I just get a headache trying to think things, like causing paradoxes, through. "Um, Sergeant Kinchloe? I just weighed a ton of possibilities, and I'm gonna go with something a bit safer." He looks at me strangely, and I feel like kicking myself. To repeat myself, yes I am the world's biggest idiot.

"Okay, here goes. I have had some personal experience with the racism thing. Not like you must have though. But people in my school, they see me as the source of bets, or someone to help them with their homework." He still looks skeptical. "I only have four friends, and two of them are kinda social outcasts as well. One of my friends, Richelle, she likes to hunt, and she and Mr. Mossgrove go hunting together. Brooke, or as I like to call her, Mugi-chan, well, she's got a lot of other friends. She's also a writer, but she doesn't know about Hogan's Heroes, apart from what I've told her. I also have classes with at least four other African-Americans, three Asian-Americans, and two kids from Saudi-Arabia. As near as I can remember."

Kinch looks at me, and I see something in his eyes I've never seen before. On the show, or here, in "Real Life". He looks like he's regained something. That, or he thinks I'm yanking his chain. Looking in his eyes, it looks as if he's found something that he's been missing for a long time. Probably not, but I'm not a serious pessimist, so I'll hold out hope.

Uh-oh. While making Kinch feel good about his possible future, with a small bit of remaining racism was a good thing I can't help but think that I've done something terrible. I immediately make him swear himself to secrecy. Hopefully, he never tells. I won't hold my breath though. I'm not that optimistic though. I'm jinxed when it comes to things like this.

Kinch stands up from his stool, and walks over to where I'm sitting. He sits down across from me, and I feel slightly nervous. He smiles at me, and I see a bit of Ivan Dixon there, which makes me feel better. "Well, it certainly is food for thought, miss." I blush. Oh God, I can't believe it. I'm blushing like a love-struck teenager. Oh, I am one, just with Newkirk.

"Mr. Kinchloe, call me Dasha. Miss makes me feel way, way too old." Oh man, not again! Kinch looks like he's had another heart-attack. Go figure. White girls, or guys, don't ask anyone outside of their race to call them by their first name. In this time period at least.

To compound this problem, Colonel Hogan has appeared. And he's not looking like the loveable teddy bear Hogan from the TV show. My blood instantly freezes, and Kinch is looking slightly guilty as well. I now have another person to apologize to at a later date. Joyfulness.

"Kinch, your shift is over. It's mine now." Kinch takes the hint, and leaves. Hogan turns his gaze onto me, and I hope that he isn't going to shoot me. I wouldn't put it past this version of him. I miss Bob Crane.

Hogan looks at me, and I wonder what he's thinking. I wish I could remember the name of my great-uncle Whitis cause I really need to convince him that I am indeed an ally. Maybe Aunt Winnie? No, Australia, and she's not that old. Still great-uncle Whitis was in the Allied military, as a Seabee, and he might help vouch for me. Not likely, seeing as technically I don't exist yet.

"Miss, while I appreciate your wish to make all my men at ease, I do not appreciate that you threatened to turn us in to Klink, or the Gestapo." Yup, here it comes. "Regardless of your motives, if you put any of my men, or this operation at risk, I will not hesitate to kill you. And no one will ever find your body." Yup, I'm dead.

"Sir, may I speak frankly?" I've stood up, and am now standing at a passable imitation of parade ground attention. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, and I see that as my cue to continue. "Sir, I realize that I may have put your operation at risk. I had no intention of doing so, however. My original intent was to find a way home as fast as possible, and leave all of this… here. I never wanted any of this to be more than fiction. I understand fiction, but not people. My parents have tried to teach me to keep my mouth shut at the appropriate times, but I have never learned to do so. If I were to go anywhere near the Gestapo, or Hochstetter, it would be because I was dead. I have studied this time period extensively, to try and make things that I write make sense, and I have tried to avoid using the Gestapo. Sir, they terrify me. If you ever get the chance, go to Auschwitz, or Dachau, or Birkenau. I apologize for any harm I may have caused your operation, and were I in the military, I would ask that you discharge me, as fast as possible. I am not, however, so I'll give you my word of honor, as the daughter of a Marine Corp officer, that I will not knowingly or willingly do anything to put you and your men at risk."

I think I've finally gotten through to the human or military part of Hogan. He produces a key from his pocket, and I finally am released from the shackles. Took long enough. Oops, trying to stay on Hogan's good side. "Well, ma'am, for the moment, you're free to leave the tunnels. But if you try anything…" I nod, and draw my finger across my throat. I understand perfectly.

I relish in the fact that I am now out of the tunnels. While I don't often spend much time outside anyways, I do like to be able to see the sky. Apart from still having a guard, whose objective is to keep me from going anywhere near Klink's office, I'm enjoying myself.

Someone comes up behind me, and taps my shoulder. I immediately turn around, socking the offender. I take a moment to ask myself why I asked Devon to show me Tae-Kwon-Doe moves. I look at the man I socked, and turn a lovely shade of crimson. Why is it that I always have bad luck with men? I've just punched Peter Newkirk in the stomach, and he's starting to look a little red.

"Oh my god! Are you okay? I am so sorry, Peter!" Oh lord, I've done it again. I'm babbling. He nods, looking pained, and keeps hold of his stomach. Am I really strong enough to cause damage? I really should stop hitting people. My escort is starting to look a little jumpy, and I have to wonder if I'm cursed. I probably already have a tunnel floor with my name on it already.

Newkirk nods, still doubled over. I need to do something about my reflexes. I touch him on the shoulder, and when he looks up, I tell him I'm sorry. He nods, and walks away, limping slightly. I try to follow him, but someone ELSE comes up to me. It looks like an unnamed extra. "Colonel Hogan wants to see you." Uh-oh. What have I done now?