Chapter 14

Always a tricky concept at Stalag 13, 'normal' had stepped even further out of reach than… well, normal, Klink decided.

Bidding Teppel good night, Klink caressed his violin for a moment as he contemplated the door closing behind the Abwehr major. The major had complimented his playing enthusiastically, even requesting encore after encore. Absently stroking the violin, Klink considered the only other person ever to do so: Hogan. But only when he was scheming.

With a final tender stroke, Klink laid the violin back in its well-worn case. Major Teppel had laughed heartily and applauded Klink's (not too shabby even if he had to say so himself) rendition of the American Air Corps' Wild Blue Yonder song. Such a pleasant, agreeable man.

To Klink.

After a last, fortifying gulp of their after-dinner schnapps, Klink surrendered to the inevitable. Straightening his uniform jacket, Klink stepped through to his office and started to send for Sergeant Schultz. On second thought, he called for two other guards—two of the very few the prisoners didn't consider 'tame'. Thanks to the demands of Hochsetter for heightened security, there were plenty of guards on duty to choose from. These two had been assigned to temporary duty at the stalag from the garrison in town. They weren't the sort Klink would normally keep around for long—too likely to be trigger happy. Still, sometimes, in certain situations, a 'Schultz' just wouldn't do.

"Bring Colonel Hogan," Klink ordered the two when they reported, then sat down at his desk to wait.

It seemed a long time before a knock sounded at his door. A knock.

"Enter," Klink called. Standing, he braced himself. Nervously, he fussed with the papers on his desk.

Hogan stepped into the office, flanked by the two goons… uh, guards, Klink silently amended himself. Hogan wore as tight an expression on his face as Klink had ever seen. It surpassed the look he'd seen on Hogan in the presence of the Gestapo, even beyond that he wore earlier in the confrontation with Teppel. Did Hogan know what was coming? He had to at least suspect. Had Teppel told him when they'd been in Hogan's quarters alone?

Matching Hogan's uncharacteristically proper salute, Klink peered closer. Curious. If he wasn't mistaken, Hogan was scared.

Once before Klink had used the "how would you like to spend a few weeks in Berlin?" threat on Hogan to stop him down when he'd become insufferable. Indeed, it had stopped him cold. The jab, a counter to Hogan's incessant Russian Front taunts, hit Hogan even harder than the Russian Front comments hit Klink. He'd never said it to Hogan again. Not even as a joke.

This time it was no joke.

"Colonel Hogan," Klink began, his voice less stalwart than he would have wished it, "tomorrow morning you and your men are being taken to Berlin for questioning by Abwehr."

Klink waited for the reaction. There was none. Or, perhaps, there was, but so slight, so controlled, it barely registered. Still, Klink couldn't get over the impression Hogan was simply and frankly afraid to a height Klink had never seen in him before. Hogan? Certainly, he'd seen Hogan get briefly scared before—war was a terrifying business, no matter the role one played in it. But Colonel Hogan? A more brazen, fearless, cockily confident person Klink had seldom before met. Oh, not the 'laugh in the face of death' sort like some of the Luftwaffe fliers he knew, nor like the lunatics in the SS. True, Hogan feared the Gestapo. Decidedly. Who didn't? That only said Colonel Hogan was still reasonably sane. Klink had seen that kind of worried fear in him before, but this… This was…

Panic. That was it. Tightly contained. Rigidly controlled. But there it was. Klink fidgeted with his papers on the desk again. Something about this situation had the indomitable Colonel Hogan on the raw edge of outright panic. Gott im Himmel! What on earth, or in the flak-filled sky above it, could have Hogan frightened to that point?

A resonance of Hogan's fear echoed through Klink. It didn't strike him as hard, though. Fear was a familiar acquaintance of Klink's. Even panic was an old, recognized comrade. What did give him a new twitch of unease was that Hogan seemed not fully in control of this situation.

"I, umm… will be accompanying," Klink went on after a moment's silence, "and will be present at the interrogations." This could be rough for you, but it won't be any Gestapo torture chamber. The Luftwaffe still has overriding custody. At least for now. Unless the Abwehr major's report recommends you be turned over to the Gestapo for the attempt to free Hochstetter's Underground prisoners. Teppel seemed so pleasant. To Klink…

Still no reaction from Hogan.

"Have your men ready," Klink said, struggling not to babble to fill the void. "We leave for Berlin at dawn."

He waited.

Finally, Hogan stirred. "Yes, sir." He seemed acutely aware of the two guards—real guards—flanking him. Klink suddenly couldn't decide if they had been a mistake or not. No, it didn't matter. Not even teddy-bear Schultz could have soothed this situation. The tension was a solid, undeniable presence in this room. "Will that be all, sir?" Hogan asked tautly.

Klink stared a moment. "Yes. You are dismissed."

Another proper military salute passed between them and Hogan and his escorts were gone, leaving Klink to stare in worried puzzlement at yet another closed door.

Crossing to the window, Klink watched the spotlights track Hogan and the guards back to Barracks Two. It looked like a prison out there. A real prison. Klink repressed a quaver of what the prisoners must feel on a constant basis.

The lights were on inside the barracks. Tonight he'd let the forbidden after-hours use of precious electricity go. There'd probably be little sleep taking place in that hut tonight. With a glance around the camp, and the fence perimeter, Klink realized any talk of escape in Barracks Two tonight would be just that—talk. This may be the point at which Colonel Hogan most wanted to escape, but—thanks to Hochstetter—was least likely to be able to do so.

Hogan had to feel trapped.

Klink knew that feeling all too well.

Turning away, he switched off the office lights and returned to his quarters. Settling down at his table, he opened again the large folder about Colonel Hogan. Once more, Klink tried to work out the puzzle.

On the one hand, there was the dark and mysterious Colonel Hogan who was a spy and saboteur operating a secret base and escape center from within a POW camp. Klink so thoroughly believed the truth of it he'd even dared front an offer of cooperation—an offer either misunderstood or outright rebuffed. This was the view of Hogan that Klink, in his heart, believed the most likely. Hochstetter did too, much as Klink hated to agree with the evil little Gestapo thug. But Hochstetter had been unable to prove it, so far at least.

Then shone the other hand… There was the Hogan who got caught in a clumsy attempt to free Underground prisoners from Stalag 13's cooler by smuggling them out in mattresses. He'd been caught red-handed. As well he might have, so sloppy and unimaginative was the attempt. Now he was in direly serious trouble over this blandly ordinary… well, it hardly merited the word 'scheme'. If this was all that really was going on here at Stalag 13, beneath all the bizarre activities, then Colonel Hogan was just a downed pilot, captured and out of action. This view also made Hogan the world's worst escape committee chairman and far, far from being the 'most dangerous man in all Germany'.

Which Hogan was the real one?

Hogan and Berlin… There was something there, something beyond a generally ominous 'enemy prisoners in the heart of the Reich' fear. Memories of the Gestapo? Of his two dark months in their custody? Had that affected Hogan so deeply that just the thought brought to the surface what Klink considered might best be described as 'shell shock'? Having seen more than enough of that in the Great War, and among colleagues after, Klink knew better than to just dismiss such a thing as weakness or cowardice. Hogan was no coward. Never. Was Berlin, somehow, his Achilles Heel, though?

Maybe. Klink leaned back and toyed with his monocle as he pondered. It just may be.

Flipping rapidly through the papers, Klink went again to the scanty reports of Hogan's time in Gestapo custody. Line by line he went through every word, not that there were many. The Gestapo were not an organization noted for sharing. Well, now… This didn't quite match… He flipped back to the Luftwaffe evaluation center's final reports, and to Burkhalter's transfer orders that brought Hogan to Stalag 13. Hmm… Hogan hadn't been taken to Berlin Gestapo Headquarters at all. Those two months had apparently taken place in Düsseldorf. So the panicky fear of a trip to Berlin wasn't due to memories of the Gestapo.

It was Berlin itself.

Bomber pilot… spy… saboteur… trapped POW… Inept escape artist… American cowboy finally in over his head?

Hogan spoke fluent German. No pretense there, anymore. That fact had been included in Klink's not-terribly-informative reports. But Klink had also suggested that Hogan probably learned it after arriving at Stalag 13 (he hadn't quite lied outright in the report, only suggested). Hochstetter certainly knew Hogan spoke German; had heard him do so on many occasions. But Hochstetter only heard Hogan speak German with that egregious American accent. As much as anything, that probably helped hold Hochstetter at bay in his quest to apprehend the 'most dangerous man in all Germany'. With half the words mispronounced, and his accent screaming 'foreigner', Hogan would never be able to pass as a native—certainly not play the role of master spy Hochstetter believed him to be.

And Klink knew him to be.

Thought he knew.

Maybe thought he knew.

Certainly suspected. Deeply suspected.

As often as not Klink thought he knew with certainty until something came up that explained it all away and presented an entirely different picture of Hogan.

Klink shook his head and rubbed his temple. On one hand… On the other hand…

Klink heaved a sigh. Berlin. If they survived this trip—if Hogan survived—maybe Klink would finally, finally, know the answers for certain. Today Stalag 13, tomorrow Berlin…

"Sir… you have to sleep," Kinch said, almost plaintively.

Hogan turned from his pacing, rubbing his hand through his hair. He gave Kinch a hollow look. "Doesn't seem likely," he said.

Kinch frowned. "Colonel. There's nothing to be done tonight. You have to be sharp tomorrow." Wind down the rpms, for heaven's sake, Colonel, before you blow a gasket!

"Yeah. Sure," Hogan said shortly in his get-out-of-here-you're-dismissed tone. "Thanks, Kinch." He turned away, resuming the quick, nervous pacing.

Kinch watched a minute more, then quietly slipped out, closing the door on Colonel Hogan.

There was a scene missing, Klink decided as the gates of the camp closed behind them. It was the scene where he told Hogan they were being taken to Berlin for questioning by Abwehr and Hogan protested. Vehemently. And invoked the Geneva Convention (a real or made-up section, it didn't matter). Then should have come the scheme or ploy to divert the trip. Or Teppel should have blown up or disappeared or defected. Instead, when he'd been told, Hogan merely acknowledged the information with a grim sort of resignation. That puzzled Klink more than anything.

Watching Major Teppel watch Sergeant Schultz search the prisoners before they left added to the puzzle. Only Schultz as a guard rode with Langenscheidt driving the truck. No guard vehicle followed the open-backed truck. And, ignoring (again) standard policy, no handcuffs on the prisoners. Teppel made no comment. Anyone who watched Schultz search a prisoner—if it could be called that—should have raised an alarmed protest. Teppel made none. He only observed the blatantly slack security without comment.

If Hogan needed an opening to escape the situation with Hochstetter, or Teppel, Klink let it stand clear before him. Klink had not even asked for the usual word-of-honor pledge not to attempt to escape. Hogan had not seemed to notice the omission from their normal routine. Honoring the decision he'd made some time before, Klink had done what he could. The situation was now in Hogan's hands. If Hogan chose not to take the openings, that would tell Klink even more. Well, maybe. With Hogan, he could never be sure.

No, Klink thought with sudden clarity, Hogan would not take the openings to escape. Klink couldn't define to himself exactly how he knew that, but the truth of it was absolute. Somehow, some way, there was something going on here beyond the Hochstetter problem. Something had occurred when Teppel and Hogan had spoken alone. Whatever it was had Hogan almost unnerved, yet by the same token, it was something he would face. Wasn't that the definition of real courage? Klink squinted as Major Teppel made some idle comment about what a pleasant day it was for January. Pleasant for you, Klink thought.

As Teppel's car and the following truck turned on the road toward Berlin, Klink recalled his own suspicion that the Allies had agents more deeply entrenched within Germany than anyone suspected. Teppel? Could Teppel be an Allied agent?

Ack! He was starting to see conspiracies were none existed. That didn't exactly set him apart in Nazi Germany, Klink allowed. No, Hogan was grim because he knew there was no way out of this. And he didn't protest because he knew the alternative was time with the Gestapo. Klink gave a small shiver on Hogan's behalf.

But Teppel did seem rather too pleasant. To Klink.

And rather too nasty to the prisoners. No. Hogan's reaction to Teppel at the first had been honest. Of that much, Klink was certain. But, then, what had they spoken about in the privacy of Hogan's room? There was more to all of this than met the eye. There was. With Hogan there was always more to every situation.

Major Teppel listened to Klink's chatter with an agreeable patience beyond rare amongst his colleagues. He'd agreed Klink could, maybe should, make general.

Teppel had applauded his violin playing with exactingly precise sincerity. A smile crept over Klink's face.

Yes, indeed. Teppel was an Allied agent.

Clasping his hands together joyfully, Klink grinned at the major. Teppel an agent. American, perhaps? One of those German-Americans he'd been reading about? Hmm… Klink abruptly bit his tongue on the question that absurdly leapt to his lips: Have you ever been to Milwaukee? Instead, he decided to test his theory, by testing the major's patience. With a genuinely cheerful smile, Klink launched into a long story about the first time he should have been promoted to general. This could be a fun, fun trip.

This was not going to be a fun trip, Kinch thought, observing Colonel Hogan closely throughout the long drive. You'd never know the colonel was on the edge. Except, Kinch allowed, that he was quieter than normal. While the others engaged in time-killing chit-chat and tall tales about girls they'd known, Hogan didn't participate. Instead he sat perfectly still, with a turned-inward stare at nothing.

"Hey, Colonel," Carter called to him as the laughter died out over a story about a girl in one of Newkirk's stories who may have been the same girl as in one of LeBeau's stories, or more likely had been made up entirely. "Tell us the one again about that girl that captured you. Goldilocks."

"Oh, righto," Newkirk injected. "Lisel. That there's a good one."

"Ah, yes," Schultz said with a sigh. "Moonlight, edelweiss and undying love…"

Carter laughed. "Yeah, Schultz hasn't heard the shotgun part. Tell him the rest, Colonel."

Kinch saw Hogan start as if jerked out of a dream. Or a nightmare. "Huh?" Hogan glanced around at the men as if surprised to find them there with him. "Uh… maybe later." He turned away again, staring at the floorboards.

Awkwardly, Newkirk tried to patch the uncomfortable silence with another story of his own. Schultz joined in with strained enthusiasm. Kinch knew how they all felt; felt it himself. They all wanted to help, to share the colonel's burden, but couldn't. Colonel Hogan's worries and responsibilities were his alone to bear. Still, he had to try.

Shifting closer to the colonel, Kinch gently nudged Hogan. "You okay, sir?"

Shaking his head, Hogan muttered, "Sure. Fine."

Repressing a small smile at Hogan's mixed message, Kinch quietly prodded, "Sir…"

With a long, sideways glance, Hogan met Kinch's eyes for a moment. Suddenly it was Kinchloe who was scared, scared because he'd never seen his commanding officer quite so close to the ragged edge as he suddenly appeared. Kinch gulped. That Hogan could feel that and yet keep it contained as well as he did spoke volumes about the man's capabilities. Yet… it was undeniably there.

"Colonel…" Kinch said slowly, in a murmur none of the others could overhear, "I know I can't help much on this mission. In Berlin. But let me help now." He hesitated before he went on. "Sir, you've gotta get some of this out… release some of this pressure… Or you're gonna blow." And make a mistake at a crucial moment. "Talk to me, sir," Kinch ordered firmly.

Hogan looked sideways up at him for a long time. Kinch saw flickers of anger at Kinch's audacity flash into glimpses of a deep sorrow and even a trace of outright gratitude. At least the panicky fear seemed to have retreated into the mix. Then Hogan's eyes twinkled with his old humor, that cheerful sense of the absurd that carried him, and all of them, through so many times that otherwise would have been nothing but horrifying and grim. A hint of a smile played across the colonel's mouth.

"Always trying to play my Jiminy Cricket, huh?" Hogan asked with a chuckle.

Kinch gave a small laugh and nodded. "Guess so, sir." He shifted on the hard bench and glanced at the others, making sure they were fully engaged and not trying to listen in. "Listen… My mama always said that a burden shared was a burden lightened. She'd say to take it to the Good Lord and let Him carry the load. Now, you never seemed particularly religious, so…"

"Oh, I've been doing some praying lately," Hogan cut in emphatically. "Believe me on that."

With a smile and nod, Kinch went on, "It still might help to share out what's got you so… tense," he chose the word judiciously. "Let me share the burden. At least as much as I can."

Hogan shook his head and gestured out the front of the truck where a road sign came into view—Berlin 200km. "When we're on the other side of that sign. Leaving. When we leave. If we leave." He gave a faint shudder. "Right now, the less you know the better."

Now Kinch had to swallow down his own reaction. If. And the colonel was afraid of what they could tell if the Germans really got a chance to work on them. If they got caught. If they broke. If. No, when. "No one holds out forever, not if they live," Hogan had once said of the Gestapo. "Yes, sir," Kinch whispered. "I understand." You can't tell what you don't know.

Expecting the tight silence to descend again, Kinch was surprised when Hogan began talking again. He spoke low, looking out the front of the truck at the road to Berlin as he did so.

"One thing every man in the camp has in common," Hogan said softly, as though speaking to himself, "is that we all know what it's like to be in a crashing plane. That's how every one of us ended up at Stalag 13." He shrugged, then his look turned even more dark and inward. "But when you're in the pilot's seat, looking out the windshield, you can see the crash coming. You can see the ground rushing at you. You see it coming long before it happens. Maybe you can pull up. Stop it. Maybe not and you just have to fight 'til the moment you slam into the ground."

Kinch listened intently, striving to discern what Hogan was trying to tell him—or himself—as the colonel went on, "I put a plane into the ground once, way back. An experimental plane. Untested. Doing what had never been done before. Taking a huge risk." He cocked a quick grin at Kinch, acknowledging his presence. "It's kind of compelling. That sort of danger. No, it's a lot compelling. If you can keep control."

Now Kinch understood. Nodding, he said, "Like what we do at Stalag 13."

"Right," Hogan said. His grin faded. "But sometimes you can't pull up in time. The controls are gone. Or you made an unrecoverable mistake. You can't bail out. And there's nothing you can do but fight the controls. Watch the crash coming. And hope you survive."

"Did you?" Kinch asked teasingly, trying to lighten the mood.

Hogan chuckled. "So far. That crash wasn't the first. Nor the last." His expression looked distant and lost again.

Kinch held his breath, waiting to see if Colonel Hogan would go on.

Finally, he did. "January '33… Berlin. Just a visit. A tourist. For real. Visiting Rudy and the others. I was…" He paused to calculate, "…about twenty-seven. Cocky kid. Had the world by the tail. Just out of the service and looking to pilot with Pan Am or some other airline. Depression or no, I'd be making piles of money. Great career. Flying." A wistful smile. "Had a girl waiting for me. In Ohio. Sweet and round and soft…" Hogan cleared his throat. "Even had a house picked out. Names for the kids. The American Dream was right in front of me, just waiting for me to grab hold."

"Then Berlin." Hogan punctuated the comment and Kinch wasn't sure he'd say any more, but he did. "January of '33… Then I stayed through February. Then March. And I could suddenly see it coming. I could see the ground rushing up through the windshield and there was no way to pull up."

Kinch stared at him and Hogan met his eyes. Concentrating, Kinch suddenly closed his eyes with a sigh and turned away. "January '33," Kinch said dully, "Hitler became Reich Chancellor. The Nazis took power."

"Kee-rash," Hogan whispered.

"And you couldn't look away," Kinch went on. "Just had to keep fighting the controls."

"That was a bad day in Berlin," Hogan muttered. He glanced again out the front of the truck at the road taking him back to that city. "And now we're in for another."

To be continued...