Story 4

Hogan's hair was glued to his face. Klink's bald head glistened. His monocle, which kept fogging up, sat on his desk. Sweat stained both men's shirts.

"Crazy weather, considering it always seems like winter here." Hogan wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

"Yes." Klink poured both some water. "Although, it is May." As if that settled the matter.

"We cleared snow last May." Hogan took a gulp of water, then walked to the window. He gazed at the empty compound.

"Why are you here?"

"Showers."

"I added extra privileges," Klink replied.

"The water's too warm," Hogan complained.

"Too warm? What do you think this is, The Hotel Adlon?" Klink had no energy to pound his fist on the desk.

"Do they have air conditioning?" Hogan asked as he turned toward Hitler's portrait on the wall. Sure enough, the photo had warped, which explained the crackling they'd heard over the coffee pot.

"I have no idea," Klink groused. "I've never had the good fortune to be a guest in that establishment."

"With your record, sir? And can we get some ice?"

Hogan's attempt at simultaneous bargaining and flattery failed.

"There is no ice. I cannot make the showers colder, or get lemonade, or procure fans. I cannot do anything about this weather." There was no way to express things in a dignified manner in the middle of a once in a lifetime heat wave. To add insult to injury, Klink slid like a human noodle off the seat of the chair as he leaned back. He caught himself, quickly stood, and wiped down the seat.

"Well, in that case, I'll be going." Hogan grabbed his cap off the desk and took one last slurp of water before heading out the door.

Most of the men in Barracks 2 lolled on their bunks, too hot and miserable to do anything but read or stare into space.

What's wrong with the bug?" LeBeau asked as Hogan stepped inside.

"The picture's starting to crinkle. Newkirk, you and Kinch can fix it tonight." Extras of the right photo were stashed in the tunnel.

"Will do. Oi, it's hot. We Londoners aren't used to sweltering, guv'nor. Maybe it's all these bombings changing the weather. Too many planes. Permission to escape, get caught, and land in the cooler, Sir?"

"No escapes, Newkirk." Hogan surveyed his men. "Garlotti, take someone with you, and let all the barracks chiefs and Wilson know I'm going to let groups of three head down into the tunnels to cool off. Work out a reasonable schedule. Where's Carter?"

"Outside," LeBeau replied as Garlotti and Garth exited. Hogan quirked an eyebrow at that answer as that news as the bunk entrance opened.

"Message from London." Kinch said as he sucked in a breath. "Phew, it's at least 20 degrees hotter in here." He handed Hogan a piece of paper.

Hogan mopped his brow again, and then looked at the note. He was hoping for a distraction, but the weather appeared to have shut down missions and bombing runs.

"Sorry guys. Nothing to do except twiddle our thumbs." Groans rose from the men in the hut. Even the back-ups wanted some action.

A concerned Hogan decided to leave the barracks to find Carter; it was too hot to be outside. He had been so wrapped up in keeping everyone calm and cool, he didn't realize how deserted the compound was, although strangely, he could hear singing in the distance. He spied one guard trying to lead a dog on rounds, but the shepherd dug in and wouldn't budge. The guard gave up, plopped on the ground, removed his canteen, poured water into the cup, and offered it to the animal.

Then he heard it again—voices blending. "Someone's definitely singing," Hogan thought as he turned a corner to find Carter and Schultz together on a bench. Schultz's rifle was propped against the building. The two looked fresh and comfortable. They were singing? Hogan wondered as he approached. Yes. They were.

Carter was laughing. "How did you know that song, Schultz?"

"The movie. As Thousands Cheer." Schultz was telling Carter. "You may have been too young."

"Nah. I remember it. The song is Heat Wave, by Irving Berlin."

"The one time my wife and I went away without the children, we visited France. That's where we saw the picture," Schultz explained.

They had started singing the last verse of the song when Hogan strode up to them. "Ahem."

"Hello, Sir!" Carter reached to grab Schultz's rifle and handed it to him.

"Danke for the conversation and the sing-along," Schultz said. Then he stared at Hogan. "Are you all right, Colonel Hogan? You look…Your hair! It's limp and…"

"I look like I just ran a marathon in Miami in August?" Hogan pursed his lip and blew upward. Normally, this action would move wisps of his hair. Not today.

"Miami?"

"100 degrees in the shade, Schultz. Higher humidity."

"The big shot was complaining about the heat earlier."

"The big shot almost slid off his chair, and his head looks like a wet watermelon."

Schultz and Carter laughed.

"What's your secret?" Hogan asked earnestly.

"Secret, Sir?" Carter looked puzzled.

"This is my last clean shirt. It's clinging to my back! Why aren't you soaked? Especially you, Schultz?" Hogan patted the sergeant's ample midsection.

"Things start to happen when you sing, Sir," Carter said. "Research shows that music plays a role in regulating the hypothalamus. That's the body's thermostat. Gee, maybe you oughta try singing."

Carter stopped himself. He'd heard Hogan sing and he didn't want to be mean about it or anything, but frankly, once was enough. Everyone was kinda miserable already.

"On the other hand, Sir, sweating's good for you too," he chirped. "See, there was this time my Uncle Charlie..."

Hogan nodded as the sweat dripped down his cheeks. It was going to be a long explanation, but at least Carter's lips were flapping, creating a breeze.