Bean Sidhe's Cry
Hogan sat in the darkened room after Kinch had left, eyeing the case where he left his gun. Years ago, he would have never dreamed of doing what he was about to, but times had changed. . . He closed his eyes in exhaustion. At least Kinch had left. Kinch had tried visiting a few times before, trying to raise his spirits, but every time Hogan had kicked him out in a drunken stupor. No, Kinch didn't respect him now, not after he had become this. . . This broken man.
He crawled forward on hands and knees from where he had slid down the wall. His jeans scraped against the carpet until he reached the case. Gently caressing the wood, he opened it, touching the cool steel of his gun. It had been a present, from the guys back at Stalag 13 after the war; it was a beauty in prime condition, never been shot.
His face twisted into a half-smile at that, and he snorted quietly. Fitting, that he should use it now. He held it up to his mouth, placing it in and grimacing around the bitter taste of gun oil.
Screwing his eyes shut in a wince, his last thought echoed in his mind: Goodbye.
A few days later:
Kinch looked around at the men who had showed up at Hogan's funeral. Despite what the man had become, there was still a heavy crowd to pay their last respects. The coffin was closed shut, flowers on top. It was depressing, was the only word for it, really. Another funeral for another great war hero.
After the funeral, Kinch sat heavily on a chair next to Newkirk. His hair had streaks of gray in it now, and his face was more lined, but the awful thing was his eyes. They were normally sparkling with mischief, but now they were dull. Next to him, crusted tears drying on his face sat LeBeau, hands dangling between his knees.
Baker stood by a post, looking down at the ground.
'It should have been raining,' Kinch realized. 'At least then it would have fit.'
Instead, the clouds were nowhere to be seen, and the sun shone down brightly as if it didn't realize that Colonel Robert E. Hogan had just died.
Someone cleared their throat, and Kinch turned to see who. Newkirk looked up at him, eyes wide. Blinking a few times, he cleared his throat again before quietly talking.
"You were with him at the last, Kinch. Did you-" He stopped. There was no easy way to put this, and he tried to think of something to say so it wouldn't sound bad, but no words would come.
"No." That was Kinch, blunt, and always knew what he was trying to say.
"Why not?" LeBeau's voice came; not angry, just curious. He knew why not, but no one wanted to say it, because that would make it true. And if it were true, they couldn't avoid it.
Kinch hesitated. It was more complicated than they realized. After the first try, when Hogan had kicked them all out at a visit, they had given up, preferring to write falsely cheerful letters that were never answered. Kinch was the only one who persevered, who kept on visiting despite the results each time. He had never admitted it, but he only did it because his conscience forced him to.
"Because he didn't want me to," he found himself answering. "Because I couldn't have, even if I tried."
All of them looked away, and the man talking cringed at the unspoken reason. 'Because I didn't want to.'
Slowly, Baker shook his head. "I have to go, wife's waiting for me." Newkirk didn't even try to make a joke out of it. Passing by with long strides, the radioman paused by the coffin, and quietly whispered, "Goodbye, Papa Bear."
Each of the old soldiers stood up, one by one, paying their respects to one of the legends, until only Kinch was left. He shook his head to clear it, and kneeled in front of the coffin.
If anyone had been left, they would have heard a choked sob and watched as tears fell down Kinch's face.
"It should be raining," was all he said.
Flashback (Kinch's POV):
I don't think any of us will forget even the slightest detail about that day. It wasn't any different from the rest, at least the start of it. I was down in the tunnel when London came a calling on the radio. I transcribed the message, like always, then went upstairs to give it to Colonel Hogan.
It was HQ, asking us to deliver some coordinates to the Underground. For a munitions dump.
All of us joked around, didn't London realize we had a busy schedule? Hogan, though, he had grinned and said he didn't mind if it was Tiger we were to deliver it to.
Normal. Like nothing was going to happen. No stormy weather, no bad feelings, no warnings at all, just. normal. So Hogan picked Carter and himself to go (Newkirk made a crack about getting all the pretty agents anyways, and he would always get the old men). Hogan grinned. I think, really, that's what made me blame him, later on. He grinned. He couldn't have possibly known what was going to happen that night, but later, we all remembered that he grinned, and it just gave us another reason.
Anyways, we all sat around, playing cards. . .We even made up a cover story, just in case they didn't get back before Schultz took bedcheck. We were always prepared for everything, you know. Everything that could possibly happen, and some things that couldn't but might, we were always ready for those. But we were never ready for that night. I don't think if you had given us a year in advance, we would have been ready for that. We had years, actually. We had plenty of time, plenty of warning, but none of us ever paid attention, because, you see, we were Hogan's heroes. Nothing could happen to us. Nothing could touch us.
Hogan got back early that night.
I remember he climbed out of the tunnel, panting and shouting something about getting out of there quick, packing up. . . None of us really heard, because by then, Baker had asked where Carter was. And that's when Hogan stopped. He just. . . stopped. No big scene, screaming at the injustice, or even quietly sobbing, it's just like everything came crashing down on him and he didn't know what to do.
We led him to the table-we didn't know what happened, though we suspected something bad-and he sat down. Collapsed, really. Just put his arms folded on the table, and dropped his head on them.
I was the one who took charge. Told everyone to get ready to leave, because that's what the Colonel had said to do, and well, we always did what the Colonel said. Looking back, the Colonel had probably not been thinking about it, or avoiding it, or just acting on instinct alone, and when Baker asked, it had hit him. Looking back, that is.
Newkirk finally couldn't stand it, and again asked the Colonel where Carter was. He just sort of moaned, like this weird keeling wail. One of the Irish soldiers later said that's what they expected a Banshee to sound like, announcing the dead. It was. . . appropriate.
By the time we were ready to go, Hogan looked up. He had been crying, we just couldn't tell. And I think it shocked us all dumb. I mean, the strongest man we knew was crying.
We all sort of figured it out by then. Maybe we had before, we just didn't want to admit it to ourselves.
Carter was dead. We didn't know how, but we knew that. If he had just been captured, the Colonel would have been thinking of a plan, not crying; he wasn't wounded, otherwise the Colonel would have stayed, and found a way to get help. But no one said it. I guess if we said it, it'd be true, and you can't avoid the truth.
We got home, somehow. Home-home. America, or England, or whatever, respectively. We also found out what happened.
Apparently some Underground agent had ratted us out. Hogan created some confusion so the agent he was meeting could get away, and in the meelee. . . Carter was shot in the heart. Hogan got away.
For the next few weeks, the Colonel was awful to be around. If only we had helped him, maybe. . . but we didn't. You see, we had never really expected any of us to get hurt, and for it to be Carter, it just hurt. More than anything physical would. I'd rather be shot than have come home without Carter. Because it wasn't just a teammate who died, or a friend, it was what kept us going. We'd all been touched by the war, some of us more than others. But Carter hadn't. He was bright, cheerful, always making jokes (intentionally or unintentionally), and innocent. It was like we had lost what we were fighting for. And so none of us ever outright blamed the Colonel, but all of us were thinking it. I was too, I think. I'd always felt like sort of an older brother to Carter, and kept him in line a bit, and the Colonel. . .
We needed someone to blame it on. The Gestapo, we could blame it on them, sure, but that wasn't good enough. We needed someone to take it out on, and the Colonel was convenient. We all knew he didn't do it, that there was no way he could have done anything, or even somehow gotten the body back, but he was there. He was easy to blame.
Sorry if I say that a lot, but I'm regretting it, like we all are. Hogan was quietly discharged, because the great Papa Bear spent all his time drinking nowadays, or carousing in bars. That was another thing we could point at. Say he was disrepectful to Carter, but we all knew inside it's because he hurt so bad he didn't know what to do, other than try and forget.
So you see, we were all kind of expecting it. We had tried reaching out to him, but none of us could get through to him, maybe because none of us really tried.
Out of all of us, not one of us forgave him, until after he died and it was too late. It was never his fault. Not now, not then. It should've been raining.
Hogan sat in the darkened room after Kinch had left, eyeing the case where he left his gun. Years ago, he would have never dreamed of doing what he was about to, but times had changed. . . He closed his eyes in exhaustion. At least Kinch had left. Kinch had tried visiting a few times before, trying to raise his spirits, but every time Hogan had kicked him out in a drunken stupor. No, Kinch didn't respect him now, not after he had become this. . . This broken man.
He crawled forward on hands and knees from where he had slid down the wall. His jeans scraped against the carpet until he reached the case. Gently caressing the wood, he opened it, touching the cool steel of his gun. It had been a present, from the guys back at Stalag 13 after the war; it was a beauty in prime condition, never been shot.
His face twisted into a half-smile at that, and he snorted quietly. Fitting, that he should use it now. He held it up to his mouth, placing it in and grimacing around the bitter taste of gun oil.
Screwing his eyes shut in a wince, his last thought echoed in his mind: Goodbye.
A few days later:
Kinch looked around at the men who had showed up at Hogan's funeral. Despite what the man had become, there was still a heavy crowd to pay their last respects. The coffin was closed shut, flowers on top. It was depressing, was the only word for it, really. Another funeral for another great war hero.
After the funeral, Kinch sat heavily on a chair next to Newkirk. His hair had streaks of gray in it now, and his face was more lined, but the awful thing was his eyes. They were normally sparkling with mischief, but now they were dull. Next to him, crusted tears drying on his face sat LeBeau, hands dangling between his knees.
Baker stood by a post, looking down at the ground.
'It should have been raining,' Kinch realized. 'At least then it would have fit.'
Instead, the clouds were nowhere to be seen, and the sun shone down brightly as if it didn't realize that Colonel Robert E. Hogan had just died.
Someone cleared their throat, and Kinch turned to see who. Newkirk looked up at him, eyes wide. Blinking a few times, he cleared his throat again before quietly talking.
"You were with him at the last, Kinch. Did you-" He stopped. There was no easy way to put this, and he tried to think of something to say so it wouldn't sound bad, but no words would come.
"No." That was Kinch, blunt, and always knew what he was trying to say.
"Why not?" LeBeau's voice came; not angry, just curious. He knew why not, but no one wanted to say it, because that would make it true. And if it were true, they couldn't avoid it.
Kinch hesitated. It was more complicated than they realized. After the first try, when Hogan had kicked them all out at a visit, they had given up, preferring to write falsely cheerful letters that were never answered. Kinch was the only one who persevered, who kept on visiting despite the results each time. He had never admitted it, but he only did it because his conscience forced him to.
"Because he didn't want me to," he found himself answering. "Because I couldn't have, even if I tried."
All of them looked away, and the man talking cringed at the unspoken reason. 'Because I didn't want to.'
Slowly, Baker shook his head. "I have to go, wife's waiting for me." Newkirk didn't even try to make a joke out of it. Passing by with long strides, the radioman paused by the coffin, and quietly whispered, "Goodbye, Papa Bear."
Each of the old soldiers stood up, one by one, paying their respects to one of the legends, until only Kinch was left. He shook his head to clear it, and kneeled in front of the coffin.
If anyone had been left, they would have heard a choked sob and watched as tears fell down Kinch's face.
"It should be raining," was all he said.
Flashback (Kinch's POV):
I don't think any of us will forget even the slightest detail about that day. It wasn't any different from the rest, at least the start of it. I was down in the tunnel when London came a calling on the radio. I transcribed the message, like always, then went upstairs to give it to Colonel Hogan.
It was HQ, asking us to deliver some coordinates to the Underground. For a munitions dump.
All of us joked around, didn't London realize we had a busy schedule? Hogan, though, he had grinned and said he didn't mind if it was Tiger we were to deliver it to.
Normal. Like nothing was going to happen. No stormy weather, no bad feelings, no warnings at all, just. normal. So Hogan picked Carter and himself to go (Newkirk made a crack about getting all the pretty agents anyways, and he would always get the old men). Hogan grinned. I think, really, that's what made me blame him, later on. He grinned. He couldn't have possibly known what was going to happen that night, but later, we all remembered that he grinned, and it just gave us another reason.
Anyways, we all sat around, playing cards. . .We even made up a cover story, just in case they didn't get back before Schultz took bedcheck. We were always prepared for everything, you know. Everything that could possibly happen, and some things that couldn't but might, we were always ready for those. But we were never ready for that night. I don't think if you had given us a year in advance, we would have been ready for that. We had years, actually. We had plenty of time, plenty of warning, but none of us ever paid attention, because, you see, we were Hogan's heroes. Nothing could happen to us. Nothing could touch us.
Hogan got back early that night.
I remember he climbed out of the tunnel, panting and shouting something about getting out of there quick, packing up. . . None of us really heard, because by then, Baker had asked where Carter was. And that's when Hogan stopped. He just. . . stopped. No big scene, screaming at the injustice, or even quietly sobbing, it's just like everything came crashing down on him and he didn't know what to do.
We led him to the table-we didn't know what happened, though we suspected something bad-and he sat down. Collapsed, really. Just put his arms folded on the table, and dropped his head on them.
I was the one who took charge. Told everyone to get ready to leave, because that's what the Colonel had said to do, and well, we always did what the Colonel said. Looking back, the Colonel had probably not been thinking about it, or avoiding it, or just acting on instinct alone, and when Baker asked, it had hit him. Looking back, that is.
Newkirk finally couldn't stand it, and again asked the Colonel where Carter was. He just sort of moaned, like this weird keeling wail. One of the Irish soldiers later said that's what they expected a Banshee to sound like, announcing the dead. It was. . . appropriate.
By the time we were ready to go, Hogan looked up. He had been crying, we just couldn't tell. And I think it shocked us all dumb. I mean, the strongest man we knew was crying.
We all sort of figured it out by then. Maybe we had before, we just didn't want to admit it to ourselves.
Carter was dead. We didn't know how, but we knew that. If he had just been captured, the Colonel would have been thinking of a plan, not crying; he wasn't wounded, otherwise the Colonel would have stayed, and found a way to get help. But no one said it. I guess if we said it, it'd be true, and you can't avoid the truth.
We got home, somehow. Home-home. America, or England, or whatever, respectively. We also found out what happened.
Apparently some Underground agent had ratted us out. Hogan created some confusion so the agent he was meeting could get away, and in the meelee. . . Carter was shot in the heart. Hogan got away.
For the next few weeks, the Colonel was awful to be around. If only we had helped him, maybe. . . but we didn't. You see, we had never really expected any of us to get hurt, and for it to be Carter, it just hurt. More than anything physical would. I'd rather be shot than have come home without Carter. Because it wasn't just a teammate who died, or a friend, it was what kept us going. We'd all been touched by the war, some of us more than others. But Carter hadn't. He was bright, cheerful, always making jokes (intentionally or unintentionally), and innocent. It was like we had lost what we were fighting for. And so none of us ever outright blamed the Colonel, but all of us were thinking it. I was too, I think. I'd always felt like sort of an older brother to Carter, and kept him in line a bit, and the Colonel. . .
We needed someone to blame it on. The Gestapo, we could blame it on them, sure, but that wasn't good enough. We needed someone to take it out on, and the Colonel was convenient. We all knew he didn't do it, that there was no way he could have done anything, or even somehow gotten the body back, but he was there. He was easy to blame.
Sorry if I say that a lot, but I'm regretting it, like we all are. Hogan was quietly discharged, because the great Papa Bear spent all his time drinking nowadays, or carousing in bars. That was another thing we could point at. Say he was disrepectful to Carter, but we all knew inside it's because he hurt so bad he didn't know what to do, other than try and forget.
So you see, we were all kind of expecting it. We had tried reaching out to him, but none of us could get through to him, maybe because none of us really tried.
Out of all of us, not one of us forgave him, until after he died and it was too late. It was never his fault. Not now, not then. It should've been raining.