My thanks to Marilyn for her help!
Chapter Twenty-one
"I . . ." Hogan sighed, looking up the ladder to the open entrance above. "Am an idiot." Down had been taxing enough, but up would really test him. He glanced to the side, where Kinch was waiting patiently, one eyebrow cocked, shoulders relaxed and hands deep in his pockets. "Anything you'd like to add?" Hogan mock-growled; holding back a smirk.
Kinch, however, gave his smile free rein, teeth gleaming beneath his black mustache. "Nope."
Hogan took another look up the ladder, and for a moment, wanted to just sit down right there. Instead, he kept his hands locked on the ladder and lowered his pounding head onto the rung in front of him. He'd really thought he was up to it. Even though he hadn't slept as everyone insisted, he'd stayed off his feet all day, and ate and drank everything LeBeau had put before him. So why couldn't he catch a break?
Heat surged into his cheeks and he pressed his forehead hard against the rung. He sounded like a plebe after his first day of basic. Zip it! he fiercely ordered the self-pitying voice in his head.
Kinch moved close, his hand a warm weight upon Hogan's shoulder. "Just take it slow, Colonel. I'm right with you."
Hogan's eyes opened and slid toward him. "You always are." He raised his head and after a deep breath, began the laborious climb to the barracks, his good arm doing most of the work. He thought scaling Everest might have been easier. But he made it, nonetheless. O'Malley was waiting at the top and reached out a hand, steadying him as he stepped over the railing and back onto the blessedly level barracks floor.
"Come sit for a second, sir." O'Malley steered him over to the table and gently urged him down onto the bench. Hogan didn't fight him. He needed time to catch his breath and give his rubbery legs a chance to recover. His chest and shoulder were throbbing again, but it wasn't the lancing pain of before. His head, though, felt as if it were swelling with each beat of his heart.
Carter took a seat to his left, thoughtfully not crowding him. "Your bunk is all ready for you, Colonel. Blankets are turned down and pillow all plumped up." A slight frown creased his forehead. "Plumped as much as possible, anyway. There wasn't much there to work with." His expression suddenly brightened. "You could have mine, too."
Hogan smiled. "You keep it, Carter. Mine will be enough."
"I have hot chocolate for you, colonel." LeBeau set the cup on the table near his hand. A tiny curl of steam lazily rose above the rim, lending credence to the hot part.
O'Malley nudged the cup closer when Hogan didn't make a move to pick it up. "It'll chase the chill from the tunnels, sir."
"Made with real chocolate," Newkirk chimed in from the other end of the bench, adding further encouragement.
Hogan had a good idea where LeBeau had managed to find the key ingredient. "Your stash down a bar or two, Newkirk?"
Warmth flooded Newkirk's expression. "Won't miss them a bit, guv'nor."
"Well," Hogan smiled, wrapping his hand around the metal cup. "I can't let your sacrifice and LeBeau's work be for nothing."
Behind him, Kinch frowned, a tingle of unease going down his back. Hogan's behavior seemed off, somehow. Kinch sent a glance around the table, wondering if anyone else had noticed it. O'Malley was watching their CO with a thoughtful expression, but didn't seem concerned. Carter, however, wore an intense look and after a moment, broke his study of Hogan and glanced up at Kinch. The moment their eyes locked, Kinch knew Carter was just as concerned.
Hogan blew into the cup to cool its contents, then took a careful sip. The sweet drink did taste good, and he licked his lips, savoring the rare treat. It wasn't long before he'd drained the cup, his body pleasantly suffused with a flush of heat. He set the empty cup back on the table and glanced around the low-lit barracks. Not one man was sleeping. Sitting or lying down, propped on elbows or leaning against the wall – they were all looking his way, though trying not to be too obvious about it.
"Colonel?" Kinch said at his elbow, startling him. "You need sleep."
Hogan gave him a tight smile. "So does everyone else." Bracing his good hand on the table, he managed to stand without falling. He let Kinch and O'Malley walk him to his quarters, hoping he didn't look like a man on his way to an interrogation session.
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Benson flopped onto his side, ground his teeth in frustration and then flipped onto his back again. Meyer, the man occupying the bunk directly below him, sounded off with a guttural growl of warning. Benson grimaced and cringed, shoulders hunching reflexively around his ears. The Bronx native was usually mild-mannered - unless his sleep was disturbed. Then he was as cordial as a wounded grizzly.
Benson rolled toward the outer edge of his bunk. "Sorry, Meyer," he whispered. His bunkmate made a low noise of acceptance, turned over with enough force to rock their bunks, and moments later, was snoring again. Sighing, Benson carefully shifted onto his back and tucked his hands beneath his head. He couldn't shake the conversation he'd had with Tivoli from his head.
After leaving Hogan and Tiger, they'd walked back to the locker room to clean up and change back into their uniforms. Tivoli had been oddly subdued and upon reaching the locker room, came to a sudden stop, put his hands on his hips and bowed his head. Benson opened his locker, didn't see Tivoli beside him anymore, and turned back in surprise.
"You all right?"
Tivoli looked up, his brows drawn into a frown. "Yeah. But the colonel's not."
Benson tossed his gloves and cap into the locker and started unbuttoning his shirt. "That's kind of obvious, isn't it, Tiv? You know how bad he was wounded. He almost died. A guy just doesn't bounce back from something like that."
Tivoli's eyes lowered again. A long silence ensued and then he straightened with a jerk, chin going up and jaw firming.
"You're right." He stalked across the room to his locker and yanked the door open so hard Benson swore it would come off its hinges. Tivoli stared into the open locker, still gripping the door's handle. Benson's gaze swung from the white-knuckled grip to the Roman-nosed profile.
"What's going on with you?"
The swarthy jaw bunched and a few seconds passed while Tivoli continued to study the inside of his locker. Benson stayed quiet as well, giving his friend time to come to grips with whatever was troubling him.
Tivoli finally blew out a deep sigh, his eyes cutting back to Benson.
"Have you ever thought about it?"
A flippant remark sprang to mind, but Benson stifled it. His friendship with the fiery Italian was still new, and he could count on one hand – and still have a few fingers to spare – the number of times Tivoli had opened up about something even remotely personal. He didn't want to damage that trust, and so made certain his voice remained mild.
"I could answer better if I understood what 'it' is, Tiv."
Tivoli swallowed. "How do you think you'd react if you killed a kid by mistake?"
Benson sucked in a slow breath. "I don't know. And I hope I never get the chance to find out."
"Yeah," Tivoli said softly, looking back into his locker. "Me, neither."
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Klink rolled over in bed, threw back the duvet and groped in the dark for the pull-chain to his bedside lamp. Blinking in the bright pool of light, he grabbed his boots, threw his coat on over his nightshirt and hurried out of his quarters.
Langenscheidt met him outside at the base of the steps. Klink fired off a hastily prepared story for why he was out in the middle of the night, waved off the guard's offer of an escort, and quickly walked across the yard to his headquarters.
It took him three tries before he managed to put his key in the lock. Stomping a foot in frustration, he wrangled the door open, quickly shut it and crossed the dark outer office to his own. He didn't bother turning on any lights. The room was small, he had a direct path to his office, and in all the time he'd been there, the furniture had never once been rearranged.
Once in his office, he shut the door, flipped on the lights and rounded his desk, stooping to grab up the metal waste can without breaking stride. With a glance at the cuckoo clock, he sat behind his desk, yanked the ledger from the center drawer and slid the journal pages out.
Dropping the pages onto the desk blotter, he reached into his coat pocket for the lighter he used to light the cigars of generals, majors and visiting dignitaries. A grim smile twisted his lips as he glanced at the shiny, silver case. It would serve another purpose this time.
Shifting the waste can to set between his feet, he sent a quick glance at the door and window –making doubly certain they were closed – then flipped the lighter open. It lit with the first flick of his thumb. He hesitated a brief moment, hypnotized by the flame's flickering dance.
The magnitude of what he was about to do struck him again and his stomach lurched. With a deep breath, he shook off the sensation and squared his shoulders. He'd lain awake for hours thinking and finally made his choice. Now that he had, he would see it through.
Picking up the journal pages, he held them over the waste can and put the lighter's flame to the corner. The fire fed greedily upon the paper, leaping high. The pages separated and curled, charred bits falling into the waste can, their edges flickering feebly as the embers gasped their last.
Klink dropped what remained of the pages into the waste can, watching carefully until every last bit had been consumed. He looked up at the clock opposite his desk. Barely three minutes had passed since he'd entered.
He checked the waste can again and nodded in satisfaction. Nothing remained of his notes and the fire was dead. Returning the waste can to its customary place, he shoved the ledger back in the desk, grabbed a file and hastened out of his headquarters.
"Did you find it, Herr Kommandant?" Langenscheidt peered up at him from the base of the steps. Klink held up the file for him to see.
"It was right where I'd left it," Klink huffed, pretending to be disgusted with himself. He stepped off the porch, moving at a more leisurely pace than when he'd arrived. His task accomplished, he felt almost giddy with relief.
An earnest expression fell over Langenscheidt's angular face and his voice grew hesitant. "I would be most happy to walk you back to your quarters, Herr Kommandant."
Langenscheidt was always so eager to please that denying his offer a second time seemed almost a punishment. Klink turned to him with a bright smile, knowing he'd made the second right choice of the night when the guard instantly smiled back.
They started back to Klink's quarters, walking side by side at a sedate pace. Langenscheidt glanced overhead.
"It is a beautiful night, is it not, Herr Kommandant?"
Klink looked up at the stars shining against a pristine black sky. "It is indeed, Langenscheidt. It is indeed."
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Hogan fought his way out of the nightmare, stifling a scream before he woke everyone in the barracks. Using his good arm, he slowly pushed himself upright, grimacing at the clammy feel of his pajama shirt sticking to his skin. The stitches in his wound itched, the hot chocolate was a sour burn in his stomach, and his ear stung. He touched it and wasn't surprised to find his twisting and thrashing had knocked the scab off. Grabbing a handful of blanket, he wiped the blood away, hoping O'Malley wouldn't notice anything in the morning.
Resting his forearms on his bent knees, he covered his face with his hands. The nightmares were changing. Marta wasn't always the sole focus now. His men were starting to appear, too, each one meeting a grisly end before his eyes. And each time, he was the cause of their deaths.
He pressed a fist against his lips, his body quaking from the effort of staying silent. Tears slid, unnoticed from beneath his clenched eyelids.
There would be no more sleep for him tonight.
Thank you for reading. To be continued.