Chapter Eight

The heavy wooden gates swung slowly open, the creaking of their metal hinges cutting through the thin early morning air. Measured columns of men processed somberly through the front gates to what would otherwise have been freedom. It did not escape their notice that a discrete line of rifle-toting guards were strategically positioned between them and the edge of the surrounding woods. Freedom was still only an illusion.

The prisoners wore an ersatz assortment of clothing. None of them had seen a proper set of dress uniforms since they'd been held captive. But for this occasion they did their best to assemble what they hoped would seem properly respectful attire. There was a solemn dignity to their appearance, despite their tattered garments.

A tall black airman, a gold bar glinting from his collar, crisply called cadence in a low, sonorous voice, as he led the march. The columns executed a precise half turn and halted before a freshly-painted white cross embedded in the dirt. The men stood silent, waiting anxiously, the only sound the soft fluttering of a flag borne atop a standard at the head of the column. The flag's horizontal stripes were a hodgepodge of various shades of crimson, none of which quite matched. It was the best they could do in fashioning a replica of their country's symbol for this gloomy occasion.

Standing in the front row, Carter looked dejected, his white-knuckled hands gripping a dilapidated brass trumpet they'd once received from the Red Cross. He'd spent hours polishing its finish, rubbing tirelessly at the rusty and dented surface as if preparing for inspection. LeBeau, chin jutting defiantly forward, stood as tall as he could muster. His beret was placed at a more of a tilt than normal, and he forced himself to blink several times to keep his eyes from filling with tears. Newkirk alternated between shuffling his feet and hooking his thumbs in the corners of his front pockets. His nicotine-dependent bloodstream screamed at him for a cigarette, and he yearned to light up to ease his apprehension.

A tall Oberst in gray overcoat scanned the formation from inside the barbed-wire enclosure ringing the camp. The fence separating him from the prisoners failed to hide the searing looks of hatred on their faces. Klink knew they blamed him. He turned his glance away to the American crush cap dangling from the crossbar of the wooden cross and swallowed hard. It sat at the same jaunty angle as when Hogan had insolently tossed his cap over the Pickelhaub's spike on his desk. He'd give anything at that moment to be able to see Hogan again. If only he'd known ahead of time of Hogan's intentions and somehow been able to stop him. It would have been the cheeriest cooler sentence he'd ever handed out, if only he had had the chance. His body stooped with sadness and regret, Klink turned away, unable to watch the proceedings.

Squaring his broad shoulders, Kinch surveyed the proud men before him. It took several tries before he found his voice.

"We're here today to honor the memory of someone who meant a great deal to all of us. More than I could probably ever find words to say."

Halting to clear his throat, Kinch forced himself to look out over the sea of disconsolate faces.

"Some of us were fortunate to have served under Colonel Hogan when he was commander of the 504th. Some of us didn't get to meet him until circumstances landed us here. Circumstances that would have been far worse, if not for the Colonel's stewardship. Whether we recognized it or not, he made life a lot more bearable for us. The burden he carried as our Senior POW Officer was extraordinarily heavy, but he accepted it without complaint. He was always there for us. He was there every time we waited nervously for a baby to be born to a family back home, every time the strain of separation caused a marriage to dissolve, and every time a parent, alone in their heartbreak and worry, passed on."

A choked sound issued from the rear of the formation. No one moved.

"He cried with us, prayed with us, and was always there to provide encouragement. There wasn't a problem or trouble any of us ever dealt with that he didn't somehow know about. And when he did, he made sure we knew we could go to him at any time, day or night, to relieve that distress. He not only carried his own unspoken yoke, but he gladly carried ours as well. We knew him as commander, we knew him as senior POW, we knew him as brother, as father, as friend."

Kinch paused. A wry, sad smile eased across his face, as he shook his head. "But somehow I wonder if any of us really ever knew him?"

His voice began to crack. "Did any of us ever know about the Colonel's family, his problems, his troubles? No. We didn't because he didn't want us to worry about anything else. That was the kind of guy he was. He was selfless, he was dedicated, he was compassionate, and he motivated me to be more of a man as a result. There's no greater gift someone can give to others than to set before them an ideal, a vision of being capable of doing more than they otherwise would have thought possible with their life."

Several heads nodded remorsefully.

"And none of us should ever forget him. His memory will live on in all of us, even as we someday get to leave this camp and go back home. And when we do, there will be a portion of each of us that will have changed, that will have become stronger, that will have become better. For that we owe him a debt of gratitude we'll never get to repay."

Kinch turned, taking in the wooden cross that stood beside him. "Rest in peace, Colonel Hogan. Rest in peace, my friend."

His voice finally failing him, Kinch bowed his head in sorrow. He struggled to maintain his composure, aware the formation now looked to him for direction. Taking a deep breath, he slowly raised his head and nodded to Carter, who raised a shining trumpet to his lips. Three notes issued forth, clear and true, piercing the quiet. A pause, then another three notes that rose to a somber refrain. The notes rang through the countryside, echoing the mournful loneliness inside each man's heart. The refrain complete, Carter lowered the trumpet, his hands trembling with emotion. In unison, the formation came to attention and wordlessly paraded back through the gates.

Klink watched as the men passed silently before him. Taking a deep, ragged, breath, he turned away.

"They hate me, Schultz."

"Oh, no, Herr Kommandant. The men, they are just sad."

Klink shook his head. "No, Schultz, they blame me for Colonel Hogan's death. I can see it in their eyes."

"But, Herr Kommandant, it was not your fault. They know you could not have helped what happened."

The large man looked distressed. Not only was his heart heavy with the loss of a friend, but now added to that weight was the concern that his superior officer felt responsible. He turned to face the cross, his voice softening.

"Besides, Herr Kommandant, he now is free."

Klink nodded ruefully. "Yes, he is, Schultz." Grasping his swagger stick more tightly than before, the German officer began to walk slowly away. "He's the only one free."

Continued in Chapter Nine