No Peace Palace glorifies

Peace better than the human brain:

even while burned by hate and lies

its ruins can dream of Paradise.

Its turn will come and it shall rise

and learn of love again

Leo Vroman

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Robert Hogan surveyed his messy living room and sighed deeply. Again he had failed, failed, failed. The terrible word echoed in his head. The tear filled eyes of the women would not disappear from the front of his eyes. Why? Why? Why?

Today´s events had thrown over the barricades he had built so carefully over the years. The barricades he needed to be a normal person, if only on the outside.

A young boy, barely fifteen, a car accident. While he was walking on the pavement, he had seen a boy on a bicycle, who did not look and crossed the street. The car could not brake. As if in slow motion, the car made contact with the bicycle. The boys eyes widened in shock as he was thrown of his bicycle. His body curved and fell onto the street. Hogan watched, in horror, unable to do anything.

Then, the world had moved again. He had run toward the boy, ready to try whatever first aid he knew. He had been too late. The boy had looked, sighed and the lights in his eyes went out. The rest had been like a film, the attempts to reanimate him, the ambulance and yet nothing mattered.

There, in his dark living room, Hogans broad shoulders shook under the load of grief he had never allowed to get to him. Now in the dim darkness, where nobody could see him, he could grieve, not only for the boy in the accident, but for all the boys, who by accident got into a war and never returned home.

He reached for the table and ran his hand lightly over the dust, which covered the cap he was holding in his hands. It was his crush cap, which he had worn for almost three years, back there in Germany. When he held it close to his head he could almost smell the dusty Barracks and hear the shouting of his men, out in the camp yard.

Only in his dreams could he go back now, back to that period of adventure, where his life and that of his men had been on the line on a daily basis. Why would he be longing for that time? Yet he knew he was. Life had been dull and filled with grief since that day in June 1945 when their ways had parted.

Maybe it was better this way, maybe it was better for everyone of them to live on, to try and forget, but Hogan knew, that for him this would never be true. In all those years, he had had something to fight for, now everything he cared about was gone, his parents, his brothers. He sank onto the sofa and suddenly, his life seemed to be so senseless. Why was there a need to live?

He had fought these depressions ever since, tried to find something good in life, tried to live again. Yet he was faced with the dilemma, that many faced when they returned from war. When the war has guided your path for so long, normal life is difficult to retain and for the first time in his life, Robert Hogan felt not strong enough to deal with it.

If his men could have seen him, they would have been shocked, certainly. He knew, that for them, he was still superman, Superhogan, who saved them, who put his life in front of theirs. For them and especially for Carter he was the superhero they had all dreamed of. And yet, he could not even save his own hopes and dreams, from the demons of the past.

Again, he looked into the mirror, at the lined face, the grey streaks in his hair. Fourty-three and yet an old man. Behind the grim mask of bitterness and grief, his handsome, youthful face was hidden, hidden behind the worries and pleasures of the past.

He looked at the picture of him and his men, no his friends and knew. There was only one way to re find his will to live, it was to re find his friends.

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BOOOOOOOM!

Yet another day, yet another explosions and for the utmost time, Andrew Carter was watching his garden shed explode.

Monotonous it might seem to be to some people, but for him, every explosion was different, every BOOOM a different sound. He studied explosions and named his science explosology. That nobody recognised this as science did not bother him much. He did not need fame, he did not need to work in famous laboratories. Happy enough he was, with the world around him.

He lived from what the woods surrounding the little village provided him with, together with the vegetables out of his own garden. Never did he need more. He had gotten used to this life in the years preceding the war, when he lived with his relatives near Bullfrog. His father had taught him how to hunt and his uncle had taught him the art of gardening a vegetable garden. Water he obtained from a small river, flowing right beside his house. His house, bought, with the heritage he had gotten when his parents died in spring 1948.

Although he had seen the terrible truth of war, had felt the grieve upon losing family members to and after the war, Carters compassionate, innocent nature had not changed. Sometimes people wondered, how he could have remained like this, while stationed in the heart of the evil Germany presented at that time.

With a laugh and a smile, he lived on. But some days, he wished that his friends would come and walk into his house. When he heard footsteps outside, his heart raced with delight, but they never came. Still, optimistic Carter did not lose hope. They would come, someday, or he would go and seek them when it was his destiny.

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Newkirks life had never been one of hopes and dreams and this did not change, even now. Reality was everything left for him and he was happy with it as he stroke the hair of his third girlfriend in two months.

"Sarah, you know I never met a girl like you before?".

The girl laughed at him. "Peter, we´re to old for this, don´t you think? It´s not like you never said this before. Saying you love me would suffice.".

Peter grinned. "Okay Sarah, I love you.".

He cradled Sarah in his arms. Her smell reminded him of spring, of calm days in the sun. Maybe there were some dreams left in him, he decided.

"How would you like a house, with a white, wooden fence, a rose garden and a few children?". Peter whispered in her ear.

She pulled his nose, playfully. "I like geraniums better.".

Shocked, Peter jumped up. "Geraniums?".

She grinned mischievously. "I love them, just like my father.".

Peters eyes grew wide. "Father?".

She jumped on him and pulled the blanket over the two of them. "Edward Rodney Crittendon.".

Peter raised his eyebrow. "Crittendon? You know a Rodney Crittendon by any chance?".

"My brother.". She chuckled as she saw Peters expression.

When he looked back at her, his face softened. "If he wants to be our best man, I don´t care.". He nibbled her ear and stroke her back.

As she kissed him, he asked himself whether Rodney might not be so bad as he had seemed.

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"Mon Dieu, Schultzie!". LeBeau smiled broadly as a man entered his restaurant, a man about as wide as he was tall.

"Cockroach!", Schultz called out their familiar greeting. "Is there any Strudel left?".

"Always, Schultzie, always.". LeBeau shoved a giant platter in front of the ex-sergeant.

Schultz was in Paris to search for another location to open a second company. After the war, his toy company had been rebuilt and now, business was flourishing, something which became apparent in the giant jacket, Schultz hung over the chair. LeBeau could swear, that it consisted of at least three normal jackets, sown together.

"Delicious, delicious. LeBeau, ther is no one in this world, who makes better Strudel, no one.".

LeBeau smiled and served him another platter.

Suddenly, Heidi ran into the restaurant and jumped next to Schultz. The giant German was very surprised.

"Heidi!". He began stroking the dog gently. "LeBeau, I always knew, the dogs liked the prisoners more than the guards, but is all of this true?".

"What, Schultzie?".

"Papa Bear, the Underground. Colonel Hogan, he was really?".

LeBeau nodded. "Yes Schultz, le Colonel was Papa Bear.".

Schultz shook his head and stuffed another bite of Strudel into his mouth.

"Have you heard anything from them?".

LeBeau shook his head. "Not since the last letter from Carter, three months ago.".

"LeBeau, I think we should have a reunion, here in Paris, with Strudel and everything.".

LeBeau nodded absent-mindedly. Schultz had spoken out, what he had been thinking for months. Maybe it was time that someone else than Colonel Hogan took the initiative for a last, come together mission.

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Another days hard work had ended and James Kinchloe was sitting in the living room, reading the newspaper.

Nothing happened, nothing had happened, nothing would happen and some part of him was grateful for it.

Blindly, he picked up a book from the shelf behind him. Crime and punishment. He sighed. Everything reminded him of the war, but even more of his life after it.

Isn´t segregation a crime? At least it should be.

A piece of paper dropped from the book into his lap. He picked it up and saw, that it was a letter. He did not know how the piece had come there, but as he opened it, he recalled the smell of his parents house, the warmth of their love, for they loved him for what he was. His father had sent this one to him, there in Stalag 13 and somehow it had passed through the censors undamaged. It was the last letter he ever got from them, before they died.

Dear James,

we have written so many times, that we miss you and that we will wait for you, but now, with the war almost over, we wanted to send you this. It was written by a soldier like you, yet we don´t know his name. We know that you always loved literature and there in Germany, there won´t be so much available now.

Can You Take It?

It's easy to be nice, boys

When everything's O.K.

It's easy to be cheerful,

When your having things your way.

But can you hold your head up

And take it on the chin.

When your heart is breaking

And you feel like giving in?

It was easy back in England,

Among the friends and folks.

But now you miss the friendly hand,

The joys, and songs, and jokes.

The road ahead is stormy.

And unless you're strong in mind,

You'll find it isn't long before

You're dragging far behind.

You've got to climb the hill, boys;

It's no use turning back.

There's only one way home, boys,

And it's off the beaten track.

Remember you're American,

And when you reach the crest,

You'll see a valley cool and green,

Our country at its best.

You know there is a saying

That sunshine follows rain,

And sure enough you'll realize

That joy will follow pain.

Let courage be your password,

Make fortitude your guide;

And then instead of grousing,

Just remember those who died.

Anonymous

We love you, James.

Mum and Dad

Kinch looked up, bit he did not see the present. He remembered his parents, his friends. He would not grouse, he would go and find his friends again. He turned to his wife.

"Beth, I-"

She nodded. "Yes, James, but we´ll go with you.".

He smiled and she embraced him and with him, his hopes and dreams.

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A/N

First, much thanks for the nice reviews!

The writer of the poem Can you take it? is not known. I found it on a website about World War II.

The fragment at the beginning is taken from the poem The old peace palace by Leo Vroman. It was taken from the book Het andere heelal by Leo Vroman.