Thanks to Marilyn Penner, my patient beta and sounding board.

Thank you, too, to everyone who has reviewed.

Chapter 14

Hogan peeled his crusty eyelids apart, squinting and blinking as the light hit his eyes.

O'Malley leaned into view. "Good to have you with us again, sir."

"Do you need anything, colonel? Some water? Perhaps some soup?"

Hogan vaguely remembered sipping warm broth, then promptly bringing it back up again. His stomach clenched, warning it still wasn't in the mood for food.

"Nothing right now, LeBeau."

Disappointment flashed in LeBeau's eyes, but he nodded and smiled, and went about rearranging the blanket around Hogan's feet.

The door to Hogan's quarters opened and Kinch peeked inside. Hogan forced his hand a full inch off the blanket and curled his fingers, weakly beckoning to him.

"Not too long," O'Malley whispered to Kinch as he and LeBeau left the room.

Kinch settled on the chair beside the bed, regarded Hogan with a compassionate expression. "You look . . . alive, at least."

"That good, huh?" Hogan breathed, making an unsuccessful attempt at their normal banter. His heart just wasn't in it.

Kinch's voice softened. "It's good to actually see life in your eyes again."

"You have nice eyes," Marta whispered in Hogan's mind. His gut churned; his throat suddenly dry as the Sahara.

Kinch sensed his distress and leaned forward, seeking to make eye contact. "Colonel? Are you going to be sick?"

Hogan shook his head, gritted his teeth as the room pin-wheeled. Nausea curled in the pit of his stomach and sweat broke upon his forehead.

"Maybe I should come back later." Kinch made to rise, pausing when Hogan lifted his hand.

"Don't . . . leave." The very effort of speaking left Hogan drained.

Kinch sat back, letting his hands rest upon his thighs.

Hogan peered up at him. "Was there . . . a gunshot?"

"Yeah," Kinch sighed. "That was Klink firing into the air."

Hogan blinked. Klink rarely pulled his firearm and then it was usually only for show.

"A few of the guys had a slight difference of opinion that escalated into a fight. Klink revoked some privileges, but didn't throw anyone into the cooler." Kinch offered a slight shrug in response to Hogan's questioning look. "The guys were just letting off some steam."

Right. Hogan thought Kinch's tone had been just a little too casual. He was about to point that out when a fit of coughing stole his breath. Pain spiked in his side and his vision whited out. Gentle hands braced his shoulders. The coughing ended and he went limp, breathless from the pain and exertion. When he could see again, he found Kinch, O'Malley, LeBeau, Carter, Newkirk, and Olsen crowded around the bed, anxiously watching him.

"Are you okay, Colonel?" O'Malley asked.

Never better, came Hogan's silent, sarcastic response. Aloud, he said, "Yeah." He dragged his hand up to his face and wiped his watering eyes, frustrated by how weak he felt.

O'Malley sat on the edge of the bunk and stared down at him. "Sir, are you having trouble breathing?"

Newkirk came closer. "He sounded wheezy to me."

Quick as a striking snake, O'Malley had his stethoscope out and the metal bell to Hogan's chest. Hogan sucked in a breath to protest, but O'Malley quickly hushed him.

A minute went by while the medic listened hard to Hogan's heart and lungs. Hogan stared straight ahead the whole time, his expression closed.

"No wheezing or crackling," O'Malley murmured, pulling the stethoscope away.

"No pneumonia, then?" Kinch asked, wanting to be clear.

O'Malley shook his head. "Dry throat maybe."

Within no time at all, Carter had a mug of water before Hogan. "Just what the doctor ordered," he quipped, smiling.

More for Carter's benefit than his own, Hogan accepted the water without comment, took several careful sips and then pushed the mug away.

Kinch caught the other men's attention and gestured toward the door. "Give us a few minutes, fellas."

Feeling his strength fading, Hogan mustered what he could, determined to learn what had been happening while he was flat on his back. He glanced up. Kinch was watching him with a slightly wary look in his eyes.

"Fuel depot?" Hogan rasped, conserving breath and strength by limiting his questions to a few words.

Kinch's eyebrows arched. "You heard that?"

Rather than wasting breath, Hogan answered with a blank stare.

"We're hitting it tomorrow night. Carter's got everything ready. Benson, Newkirk, Broughton and Jones are going out with him."

Hogan silently cursed his sluggish mind. "Where?"

Without realizing it, Kinch fell into the same shortened speech pattern. "Breton's been reopened."

"First mission since . . ." Hogan faltered, then pushed on. "My birthday?"

"Yeah."

Hogan's fist curled upon his stomach. "Cancel."

Kinch frowned. "Cancel?"

"Too soon." Hogan locked eyes with him. "Air strike or postpone."

"A trap?"

Hogan's fingers clenched tighter. He didn't know. He couldn't know. Yet everything in him warned it was too soon. The Germans had lost three men in one night. They would be out for blood, primed and vigilant until something else demanded their attention.

"Postpone."

"All right," Kinch's voice was calm, accepting. He doubted London would feel the same.

Hogan's eyes drooped, fluttered, and closed. His side throbbed and his head pounded in time with his pulse. White spots danced and jittered across the darkness behind his eyelids. The nausea swirled faster, flooding his mouth with saliva. He swallowed, flattening his palm upon his stomach.

"Is it bad?"

Hogan pried open the eye nearest Kinch. His friend nodded down at where his hand lay upon his stomach.

"Your stomach. Is it really bothering you?"

Hogan drew his hand down to his side. "Not much."

Kinch nodded slowly, clearly not buying it. The silence stretched and then he softly cleared his throat. "Colonel. About what happened --"

"Hochstetter been around?"

"No," Kinch answered truthfully.

Hogan studied him through half-lidded eyes, wondering. Hochstetter's distorted face suddenly loomed before him, while the Gestapo officer's maniacal laughter rang in his head.

"It was you! You were responsible!"

The memory of Kinch's voice cut through the laughter. "You've got to try! Come on, Colonel! Come with me!"

"Where?" Hogan whispered, shuddering as images and sounds ricocheted about him.

"It was you!" Hochstetter yelled, triumphant.

"Colonel?"

Hogan jerked, his eyes flying open. Kinch was closer, one hand wrapped about Hogan's tensed, sweating forearm. The dark eyes peered deep into his own, as if trying to read his mind.

I wouldn't if I were you, buddy, Hogan thought, enduring another flash of Hochstetter's face. It's not a pretty place.

"Sir? Are you all right?"

Hogan nodded. Kinch held his gaze a moment longer, then released his grip and sat back again.

"I'm here, sir," Kinch said, voice soft, his expression open. He held his breath, hoping – praying – Hogan would accept the offer. The sooner his CO talked about the events of Marta's death, the sooner he could truly get beyond it.

Hogan's face tightened into a mask. "Trouble with Klink?"

Kinch suppressed a sigh, not really surprised by the refusal. "No, sir." He paused. "Do you remember him coming to see you?"

Hogan's focus turned inward. "Are you in pain?" His gaze returned to Kinch. "Morning roll call."

Kinch gave him a steady look. "He came back several times after that, one of those times, he insisted on being alone with you."

"Alone?" Hogan croaked, knowing even Klink could identify bullet wounds if he saw them.

"Maybe ten minutes." Kinch thought a moment, then reluctantly decided to disclose everything. Otherwise, Hogan would never fully trust him again.

"Hochstetter called him the morning after you were hurt, wanting to know how you were. Klink lied; said you'd been to see him that morning, feisty as ever." A wry grin appeared on his face. "Those weren't his exact words."

Hogan stared at him, utterly speechless and deathly pale at the danger his men had been – and still were – in because of his mistakes.

"Nothing's changed," Kinch said, seeking to reassure him verbally and with a casual shrug. "Klink must not have seen anything because he hasn't changed his routine, hasn't snuck out for any secret meetings, hasn't gotten any suspicious calls and no new prisoners have arrived."

The memory of Josef's stricken expression abruptly appeared before Hogan.

"Mein Gott, Robert!"

Hogan lurched for the side of the bed, the water he'd drunk coming back up in a burning rush. Kinch jumped to his feet and to one side, where he helplessly watched Hogan gag and gasp through a round of dry heaves.

The sound brought O'Malley on the run. Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter came in right behind him. Olsen and Parker stopped at the doorway, a mix of sympathy and worry creasing their faces.

Within minutes, Hogan and the floor had been cleaned up. O'Malley tossed a soiled cloth in a bucket of water and turned a scolding look upon Kinch.

"That's enough."

"No," Hogan panted. His eyes stood out in his tightly drawn face like black coals. Lanks of sweat-dampened hair hung over his forehead. Kinch had never seen him look so bad, not even when the fever had been at its worst. He crouched next to the bed, laying a hand upon Hogan's arm.

"He's right. There's--"

"The Metzgers?"

A soft smile curved Kinch's mouth. "They're fine, Colonel." Hogan continued to stare at him. "They're fine," Kinch repeated.

"Doc's been by," Newkirk said over Kinch's shoulder.

Carter nodded. "Much as he's been able to, anyway."

"He has said nothing of any trouble, colonel," LeBeau soothed.

Their faces twirled before Hogan, blending and twisting into a smear of color. His strength was completely gone. His body had reached its limit. He sank deeper into the mattress, their voices fading to a murmur overlaid by the pounding of his heartbeat.

"It was an accident, Robert. An accident."

I should have held my fire until I'd identified my target! Hogan silently raged, just before the darkness took him back.

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

Klink laid his pistol upon the cloth spread over his desk, handling the weapon with the respect it deserved. It was newly cleaned and oiled, ready for use.

He sat back in his chair, letting his eyes skim the weapon's gleaming contours. He had never been fully at ease with it, not even after years of practice and familiarity. Give him a strong, handmade violin with a pure voice any day. Music was the expression – the soul – of life. It was creation. Weapons were the cruel heart of destruction and death, the very antithesis.

He stretched out his arm, lightly ran the tip of his index finger along the cool barrel. He wasn't sure who had been more surprised when he had fired the pistol - the prisoners or himself. The guards were most assuredly surprised. He usually left any show of force to them. But today, when the fight had broken out, the tension that had clung to him for the last week had finally sought release. The pistol was somehow in his hand and in the next instant, he had pulled the trigger.

He remembered that brittle moment of silence that had fallen over the camp as the last echo of the shot had died. That instant when true surprise had flashed in everyone's eyes – prisoners and guards alike.

Such a seductive thing, Klink mused, pulling his finger away from the weapon and dropping his hand to his lap, to hold the power of life and death in one hand. He stared at the pistol, finding no answers in the eyes reflected back at him by the weapon's burnished barrel.

He suddenly stood and with brisk efficiency, picked the weapon up and slid it back in the holster at his hip. Minutes later, his violin was tucked beneath his chin. His eyes closed and with a lover's touch, he put the bow to the strings. Within moments, he was lost in his music, his body swaying gently as he played.

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

"Take me to him."

Kurt spread his arms wide. "Mutter, it is just not possible."

His plan had been to check on his parents before heading off to a twelve hour shift at the Krankenhaus. After that - and if all went well - he had intended to check on Robert. He had not expected his mother to have a plan of her own. His gaze sought out his father, begging him to intervene on his behalf.

Josef set his cold pipe aside and left his rocking chair, moving slowly to buy himself more time. He had feared it would come to this. Romie had been dropping casually worded hints about seeing Hogan for days. He shifted his gaze from his stubborn son to his equally stubborn wife, girding himself for battle. It was Romie, however, who fired the first salvo.

"Surely, it cannot be that difficult to get one small woman inside Stalag 13." Her blazing blue eyes cut back and forth between her uncooperative son and traitorous husband. Her fiery gaze returned to Kurt and it was all he could do not to quiver like the greenest intern.

"Mutter, please," he sputtered. "It is not that simple." He sidestepped to the solid support of his father's side. "Tell her it is not that simple," he whispered out the corner of his mouth.

Josef gave his son – a man used to dealing with life and death crises on a daily basis, of taking charge of an entire room full of nurses without the slightest trouble – a look of pure incredulity. And then he burst into laughter.

Stunned by the unexpected – and in his opinion, traitorous reaction - Kurt turned and gaped at him.

"Vater! What she is asking is too dangerous to even contemplate!"

Josef's chuckles died, but the smile never left his face. "The boot is on the other foot," he intoned, draping an arm around his son's drooping shoulders. "Now you understand how we felt when you came to us with outrageous ideas."

"Outrageous?" Kurt echoed in a slightly high-pitched voice. Josef and Romie glanced at each other, silently calling a truce long enough to share a smile and join forces.

"There was the time when you were five," Romie chuckled. "You wanted to dissect one of the chickens."

"It was an old chicken!" Kurt shot back.

Josef cocked his head, the better to catch his son's wide eyes. "And when you were prepared to walk all the way to the Berlin Krankenhaus to speak with the doktors?"

Kurt straightened and with an air of great dignity, replied, "It was very important that I learn what courses to take for entrance into medical school."

"You were only seven," Romie gently reminded him.

A twinkle appeared in Kurt's eyes, but his tone remained sober. "One can never start too early." The twinkle faded and he grew serious. "I cannot do it, Mutter. Not even for Robert's sake. Nor would he want you to place yourself in danger on his behalf. The risks are far too great."

Romie crossed the room and took his hands.

"I am used to risk."

He shook his head. "Not to this degree." His voice softened. "He is getting better. I would not keep it from you if it were otherwise."

She cupped his cheek, a tender smile crinkling her eyes. "I know, meine Sohn."

Josef rested a hand upon her shoulder. "Then why demand to see him?"

Sighing, she let her hand fall to her side as she turned and walked to the window. Her voice, husky with unshed tears, floated back to them over her shoulder.

"I have been having nightmares." She grasped the edge of the curtain, drew it back, and stared out the window at the barnyard. "It is morning and I am up with the sun. Josef is still asleep . . . ," she sent him a quick, watery grin over her shoulder. "I put on my coat and pick up the basket to gather the eggs . . . and then I open the door . . . And he is there . . ." Tears running freely down her cheeks, she gestured at the window, directing their attention to the barnyard. "lying on his stomach in the dirt, hands stretched toward the house. As if –" She broke off with a sob, burying her face in her hands. "as if he had died trying to crawl to us for help."

Kurt and Josef rushed across the room, white-faced from witnessing her pain and the horrible image. Josef pulled her into his arms and pressed her close, furiously berating himself. There were times that he slept soundly – so soundly that a tree falling outside the bedroom window would not wake him. But his eyes worked perfectly well, and he had watched her grow more pale and weary by the day - and had done nothing to learn the cause.

"Forgive me, beloved," he whispered, tenderly kissing the top of her head.

She nodded against his chest, her sobs slowing, and then glanced from one to the other. "You understand now why I am must see him?" She reached out and grasped Kurt's hand. "Just as I am able to feel your warmth and see the life in your eyes, so I must be able to do the same with Robert. Only then will my heart truly believe."

Kurt bowed his head, struggling for the words to deny her yet again. More than anything, he wanted to banish the horrifying nightmares and take away her pain. But he would not take her into danger. Nor would Robert want him to.

Josef shook his head. "We do understand, Mutter. But what you wish can not be. If anything were to go wrong, yours would not be the only life lost. Kurt and I would die, as well as Robert, his men, and possibly more."

A shuddering sigh gusted from Romie as she rested her cheek against Josef's chest again. Her gaze lingered upon Kurt, envisioning the tow-headed boy he had once been. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. How could she have even considered risking the life of her remaining natural-born child just to take away her own pain?

She left Josef's arms and hugged Kurt as tightly as she could, feeling the reassurance of his steady heartbeat against her cheek. His arms came around her, gentle, yet strong. Romie allowed herself to bask his embrace for only a few moments, then stepped back and smiled into the blue eyes that so closely matched her own.

"Tell him --" she paused as her voice cracked. "Tell him I love him."

"And that we cannot wait to see him," Josef added, sadness softening his smile.

"Tell him--" Romie pressed a hand over her mouth, struggling to complete her message, "that I can't wait to hold him again."

Kurt nodded.

"I will."

TBC . . . Thank you for reading!