Chapter 7

Klaus left his car parked around the corner from his building and set out on foot. Not even the persistent headache could keep him from surrendering to the over-riding need to move. His tread was light, his pace quick.

He took the sidewalk north past the darkened bakery, the vacant hull of the butcher shop where he had shopped with his mother as a boy, and along the brick wall guarding the cemetery. He glanced over the top of the wall in the direction of two particular headstones, hesitated, and kept going. The spire of the church loomed overhead, backlit by a silver half-moon. The church's stained glass windows, once beautiful masterpieces, were shattered now, and the stone walls were scorched from fire. Still, it was a church and in his mind, holy ground. He paused in front of the opening where heavy, wooden doors had once stood, quickly crossed himself and went on. At the next corner, he turned left, and his steps slowed. This street was narrower and sparsely lit by moonlight, making him even more cautious. A cat hissed at him from the shadows to his right and dashed away. Paying it no heed, he looked up.

The three-story building had been a magnificent hotel before the war, and in places, hints of its former grandeur remained. Hermann's window, on the top floor and one of four facing the street, was dark like the others. That did not necessarily mean that behind the black-out shade, he was asleep or even at home. Like Klaus, Hermann often used the deepest hours of the night to attend to other things besides sleep.

He ghosted up the three flights of stairs and down the hall to Hermann's apartment, avoiding creaky floorboards and scattered chips of plaster. As he reached for the doorknob, several thoughts occurred to him. A knock would alert the neighbors to his visit, but getting shot would put the ultimate damper on his excitement. Hermann was a light sleeper, and while he welcomed guests to his humble living quarters, he didn't expect them in the middle of the night.

Klaus softly called out as he opened the door. The sound of a safety engaging greeted him and he glared across the darkened room.

"When are you going to fix this lock so that you don't have to worry about people inviting themselves in?"

"You mean like you?" Came the reply, spoken in a dry tone. The lamp next to the bed came on and Hermann blinked at him, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the glare of the light. "What are you doing here? You should be getting some sleep tonight, as I am . . . was."

Klaus grabbed the only chair in the room and moved it closer. "This news couldn't wait."

"That remains to be seen." Hermann scratched at the stubble on his jaw and leaned back against the wall at the head of the bed. "If you are here to tell me about Klink's bumbling attempts at courtship, then this visit definitely could have waited. Ridding Risa of that fool is so very tempting. At least then she would have a measure of peace."

Klaus smirked. "But it was so funny watching him try to be a worldly man of charm."

Hermann's glower indicated he was not amused. "You are going to drag this out until I ask in a civilized manner, aren't you? Very well," he yawned, raking fingers through his hair. "Pray tell me, oh dark and brooding warrior, why you have blessed me with your scintillating company on this cold, lonely and bleak night."

Klaus glanced at the small, neatly stacked collection of books on a shelf against the far wall. Other than the watch given to him by Klaus' father, the books were the only material things that Hermann cared about.

"Risa should never have gotten you that book of poetry for your birthday."

"Klaus," Hermann groaned, letting his head fell back against the wall with a thud.

"Our search is over."

Hermann's head snapped back up. "You found him? Where is he?"

"At Stalag 13."

"He's been captured?"

"Yes and no." 

"He is either a prisoner, or he isn't," Hermann growled, narrowing his eyes in irritation.

"Officially, he is a prisoner at Stalag 13, but he has somehow found a way to leave the camp and carry out his resistance activities. His name is Robert Hogan and he is an American bomber pilot; a colonel. He is the camp's senior P.O.W., which means that he is allowed certain privileges and freedom."

"You are certain he is the man we have been looking for?"

"Absolutely. Think of it, Hermann. What better place to hide?"

"It is the one place we did not think to look. An underground sabotage unit based at a prisoner of war camp, right under our noses. What a brilliant idea! How many men there do you think are involved?"

Klaus shrugged. "Difficult if not impossible to say at this point. There are hundreds of prisoners at Stalag 13. Perhaps only a few are working with him. Perhaps the entire population is involved. Some of the guards may even be helping. The important thing is that we've finally found him! In hindsight, we should have realized that most of the sabotage events have occurred around Stalag 13."

"Even if he had personally sat us down and pointed out Stalag 13 as the hub of his operations, would you have believed it?"

"This is Klink's stalag we're talking about," Klaus said derisively.

Hermann grinned. "Not that difficult to believe, after all."

"Speaking of the great disciplinarian, if he has noticed what is happening around him, he is either turning a blind eye, or he is simply too ignorant to catch on to the implications."

"It has to be the latter rather than the former." Hermann's words were slightly slurred by a gusty yawn. "Klink and ignorance are one and the same." His voice grew thoughtful. "He could be working with Hogan."

Their eyes met. It was a tie as to which of them started laughing first.

"Now wouldn't that be interesting?" Hermann commented once his laughter had tapered off. "Who would have thought that teasing Risa would lead to Hogan?"

Klaus nodded. "It was a very revealing evening, Hermann. We have found Hogan and now Klink's sterling record makes more sense. You should have heard his drivel tonight about iron discipline, scare tactics and psychological theories. It was completely unbelievable. What I find more believable is that Hogan, not Klink, is somehow responsible for the no-escape record. It would be in Hogan's best interests to keep that idiot in command; otherwise a stricter, more intelligent Kommandant might be assigned. One who might catch on to what is happening inside the Stalag. By protecting Klink, Hogan protects himself and his underground unit."

Hermann's eyebrows shot up. "For that to be feasible, every prisoner in the Stalag would have to agree not to escape."

"Hogan is Stalag 13's ranking P.O.W. Every prisoner there falls under his command and answers to him. It is no different than a general commanding an army."

"You actually believe that one man could convince hundreds of prisoners not to escape?" There was a hint of challenge beneath Hermann's neutral tone.

"I believe it of this man. Hogan's charismatic enough, intelligent enough to pull it off."

"Add stubbornness to the mix and the two of you could be related," Hermann remarked softly, studying him through half-lidded eyes.

Unable to sit still any longer, still bothered by the memory of Risa's fascination for the American, Klaus left his chair and started pacing beside the bed. The throbbing behind his eyes increased, but he kept moving anyway.

Stifling another yawn, Hermann extended an arm, forcing him to stop. "Klaus, isn't your evaluation of Hogan and his motivations based upon a single brief encounter is a bit much even for you?  Or do you understand him so well because you instinctively recognize a reflection of yourself?"

Klaus gazed down at him, mildly annoyed. "Did you just accuse me of being narcissistic? You forget that this was not the first time -- "

"Your earlier observations were done strictly from a distance."

Klaus thought about it. "Perhaps you are right," he sighed, dropping into the chair. The move jarred his head, which now felt as mushy as one of the melons he used to enjoy from the Metzger's garden.

"Of course I'm right," Hermann countered with another grin.

Klaus shrugged. "It pains me to say this, but there is much to admire about the man."

"You don't even know him."

"On the contrary. I already know quite a bit about him. For instance, I know that he is a marksman. A risk-taker. Imaginative. Manipulative. Courageous. He also possesses a dangerous sense of humor." Klaus grimaced and put one hand to his temple. "And he aimed it right at me tonight."

"This sounds interesting," Hermann murmured.

"Take my advice," Klaus replied, absently massaging his temple. "Run if you ever see Klink go near a violin." He thought a moment, silently debated sharing another piece of information. Watching Hermann carefully, he said slowly, "Something else happened tonight." At Hermann's nod of encouragement, he added softly, "For some mysterious reason, Risa reacted quite strongly to Hogan."

Hermann went very still. Several seconds passed. "Explain."

"She seemed to find him . . ." Klaus huffed in frustration at being unable to describe Risa's behavior without hurting Hermann. "I would say she was . . ." He rubbed a hand across his face, glared at the ceiling. "It was almost as if she is --"

"WHAT?!" Hermann roared, rearing upright on the bed.

"Attracted to him!" Klaus blurted, shocked that Hermann had actually shouted. He could count on one hand the times that he had heard his friend raise his voice in anger.

Hermann stared at him, stone-faced.

"It must be a case of simple fascination," Klaus said quietly, almost to himself. "He is, after all, the first American that she's ever met face to face. And the first prisoner of war. And a man who could be seen as somewhat – somewhat – handsome. The very idea that they might become romantically involved is ludicrous. Impossible! Hogan is a P.O.W. and an American. Absolutely no reason at all to worry." He was horrified to hear himself babbling, but he couldn't stop. "She will come to her senses and -"

"Klaus."

He glanced at Hermann and found a tiny, half-smile on his friend's face. "Yes?"

"I do not care how important Hogan is to our plans," Hermann continued in a mild voice. "If he touches Risa, I'll break him in half."

Klaus suddenly wished he had kept his mouth shut about Risa and Hogan. Hermann's head had to be clear, not fixed upon whether Hogan had designs on Risa.

"As always, Hermann, I applaud and welcome your protectiveness where Risa is concerned. But I must point out that breaking Hogan in half would defeat our purpose."

Hermann's expression tightened.

"Understood," Klaus sighed, mentally kicking himself again.

"Good." Hermann settled back on the bed, but the relaxed pose was deceptive. A hard glint remained in his eyes as he asked, "How do you propose we approach the charismatic master saboteur now that he has finally been found?"

"I have been giving that some thought."

"Yes?"

"Before we get to that . . . " Klaus peered hopefully toward the room's small, neat kitchen area. "Would you happen to have anything for a headache?"

HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH

"Here's the low-down on Leidel, Colonel," Kinch announced, walking into Hogan's darkened quarters.

"Read it to me, will you, Kinch?" Hogan lay in his bunk, one arm flung over his eyes. Worry over Leidel had kept him awake the time it had taken Kinch to get the information. The lack of rest was making his head ache.

Kinch propped a hip and shoulder against the bunk frame and peered down at his notes. "He's twenty-nine and the only son of General Gustaf and Marie Leidel. Risa's six years younger. Both parents are dead. Their mother died over ten years ago. General Leidel died just three years ago while Leidel was stationed at Leipzig. The official cause was listed as suicide, but the scuttlebutt is that he was 'persuaded' to commit the act. The day after his funeral, the Gestapo showed up at the Leidel mansion and threw the two kids out."

Hogan frowned beneath the shelter of his arm. "I'm getting the picture." It wouldn't have been the first time that the Third Reich had "borrowed" a family's wealth.

"Yeah," Kinch muttered, staring at the paper. After a moment, he shook his head and went on. "Leidel set his sister up with an aunt in Mannheim before   returning to duty. Nothing remarkable about his service record until after his father's death. That's when he started climbing the ranks like a house on fire. The rest of this information is stuff we already know. Risa moved back to Hammelburg a few months ago and started working at the Hauserhof and Leidel just got stationed back here. That's it." Kinch looked down at him. "What do you think?"

Hogan slid his arm away from his eyes. "He's either set out on a course for revenge, or he's determined to make his dead father proud by being the best darn soldier in the Third Reich."

Kinch nodded. "I'm guessing revenge. How about you, sir?"

Hogan coaxed his tired body upright. "Given the two choices? Same guess. Revenge. The Gestapo likely kills his father, takes the family fortune, kicks him and his baby sister out on the street. Would you stay loyal?" He yawned, rubbed at the old wound in his shoulder. "But it's all speculation, Kinch. Just sheer speculation."

The paper crackled as Kinch folded it and then ripped it to shreds. "It's too bad mind reading isn't one of our talents."

Hogan mock shuddered. "Would you really want to know what's taking up space in Klink's brain?"

HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH

Klaus walked out of Hermann's building and paused on the landing. The cool air felt good against his face and the brief moment of peace was welcome. He looked up at the stars, brilliant sparks against a black velvet sky. His conversation with Hermann had taken longer than expected. Dawn – and another day of Dinske's games - was only hours away. He would have to hurry to fit in some sleep. Blowing into his cupped hands to warm them, he trotted down the steps to the sidewalk and started walking. The headache tagged along, still dully thumping away despite a cup of Hermann's tea.

Klaus reached the cemetery, stopped and looked through the ornate iron gates. Paying his respects was more important than his own needs. Grasping the cold metal bars, he pushed the gates open and took a cobbled path that angled to the left. Situated in a corner of the cemetery under a gnarled tree was a pair of graves he knew well. He knelt before them, the sodden earth cushioning his knees. Ground fog had formed while he had been with Hermann and the surreal mists licked and curled around the granite headstones. A wisp drifted higher, its cool moisture caressing the nape of his neck. He shivered, imagining the touch of ghostly fingers.

Sometime later, he stiffly got to his feet, knees popping from the prolonged position. He stared at the names etched into the face of each headstone for a moment, then brushed his hand across them, feeling the carvings catch on his fingertips. Whispering a farewell, he headed for home and a few hours of rest. Memories of happier times kept him company, the fog closing around him like a shroud.

HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH

A few hours after breakfast, Kinch slowly climbed hand over hand up the ladder and into Barracks Two. As he hit the hidden lever in the bunk frame to close the tunnel entrance, Newkirk leaned out from his bunk and favored him with a considering look.

"You were down there a long time, mate. Headquarters give you an earful this morning?"

Kinch yawned, shook his head. "A mouse got into the wiring again. The little pests chewed right through a couple of them."

"We can outsmart the Krauts but we can't get rid of mice," Hogan growled, striding out of his quarters.

"We need a cat," Carter proclaimed, looking up from the scarf he was knitting with a couple of homemade needles. Having shared his opinion, he tucked his tongue between his teeth and laboriously cast another stitch.

LeBeau stopped stirring a pot of soup and cast a doubtful look at him. "Un chat? Another mouth to feed!"

"An itty-bitty one." Carter illustrated the claim with a thumb and forefinger held close together. 

LeBeau huffed in annoyance and went back to stirring.

"Were you able to fix the radio?" Newkirk asked, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Yeah. Just in time, too." Kinch reached into his sweater pocket and came up with nothing but lint. He gazed at it blankly, then, with a shake of his head, he tossed the lint aside and patted at his pockets. One hand dove into his trouser pocket and this time, he came up with a slip of paper. "The latest request."

A sour expression crossed Newkirk's mobile features. "Request! More like 'have you got this done yet?' "

Ignoring the complaint, Kinch brushed past Newkirk's dangling feet. He met Hogan at the head of the table and gave him the paper.

"Short and sweet," Hogan muttered, reading their orders. "The Krauts have been working like busy little beavers. It only took them a month to rebuild the trestle bridge."

Carter's knitting needles paused and his head snapped up. "What?! I thought it'd take at least another two months!" Tossing the knitting on his bunk, he shot to Hogan's side and crowded against him, angling for a position to read the message.

Scowling, Hogan surrendered the paper. Carter slowly returned to his bunk, head down, complaining over the message the whole way.

"Easy, Carter," Hogan chided. "We are at war, remember?"

LeBeau gave a sharp laugh. "And here I thought I was at a retreat for mental health and relaxation."

"Thought I was signing up for a dance class," Newkirk drawled. "Next thing, I'm standing with a whole bunch of blokes, all of us stripped to our skivvies."

"Have you ever noticed how those rooms are always freezing cold, too?" Carter asked, entering the conversation again.

"Doctors are a sadistic lot," Newkirk told him with mock seriousness.

Kinch rolled his eyes and grabbed the pot of coffee from the table. "So we knock the bridge down again," he said while pouring a cup of coffee for Hogan and one for himself. "They rebuild it. We destroy it. They build it again, we destroy it, and so it goes, over and over and over."

Hogan blew on his coffee and took a sip. "Well, you know what they say. Ours is not to question why. Ours is but to do or . . ." His expression froze. "Uh, just forget what they say."

To be continued . . .

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