It was the middle of July, and even the prisoners couldn't be bothered with their usual monkey business. That suited Wilhelm Klink just fine, really. The last few weeks had gone by with little to mark the passage of time, each day predictably sliding into the next. Sergeant Schultz would walk into each barracks, yelling to rouse the prisoners out of their bunks. They'd come ambling out, already aglow with sweat, lining up listlessly to be counted. Most of them didn't bother putting on a shirt at this point, or if they did, it would be gone well before noon.

Work details were arranged as usual, but even Klink wasn't cruel enough to work them past mid-day. They'd had a few men nearly faint already from the heat, both prisoners and guards, and while Klink knew better than to be stingy with the water, it was just easier all around to start immediately at dawn and stop before noon. Most of the day Klink spent in his office with the windows propped open in a futile attempt to encourage a breeze through. His secretary, Hilda, sat at her own desk and sipped water and occasionally mopped at her brow daintily with a handkerchief while she worked.

Klink tried to remember another summer this hot and couldn't recall any, even when he was a boy. The air was stale and motionless, and the sun beat down on Stalag 13 with all the mercy of one of Hochstetter's sadistic goons. It had last rained about two and a half weeks ago. The passage of feet and vehicles through the camp now raised clouds of dust with every movement and most of the prisoners' bare backs were perpetually stained the dun color of the dry soil as it stuck to their sweaty skin. He'd had some of the prisoners spray used motor oil over the main roads about a week ago, but it had made little difference. Another fly buzzed in through the open window and traced a circle around his head before disappearing somewhere, probably to join the rest of its comrades who had taken up residence in Klink's office already.

Signing his name to another requisition form, Klink stood up from his desk and finally surrendered to the plain reality of the situation. It was just too damned hot to do anything, and he was struggling to stay awake in the oppressive heat. He shed his jacket and tie, leaving them draped over the back of his chair, and undid a few buttons of his shirt before rolling up the sleeves. Klink glanced through the door to find Schultz seated in a chair in a corner near Hilda's desk. His head was tipped back and his legs stretched out before him, his own uniform jacket and helmet abandoned hours ago on the coat rack nearby. He'd nodded off and was beginning to snore in earnest. Normally Klink would shout at the man and take an admittedly childish pleasure in watching him startle out of his dozing, possibly even flop over onto the floor (as had happened at least twice that he could recall), but he couldn't even be bothered. He stepped out, nodded at Hilda where she was typing something while her own sweat dripped down her neck to soak into her dress collar.

In lieu of scaring his sergeant-of-the-guard out of his wits (the heat must be making him go soft, he thought), Klink decided to check up on things himself. Stepping outside, the air was marginally less stagnant but the direct sun made up for it in its sheer blistering heat. It didn't take him long to take stock of his prison camp, anyway. The POWs were, by in large, laid out in small groups like packs of alley cats anywhere a patch of shade fell. The tin mugs technically weren't allowed outside of the mess or barracks, but one full of tepid water inevitably sat nearby each man, a sheen of dust settling to float in their contents as the afternoon wore on. Klink paused as he watched one listless prisoner up-end the remaining contents of his mug over his own head before slowly dragging himself to his feet to set off in search of more.

In the shade of Barracks 2, of course, sat Colonel Hogan propped against the rough wood of its wall, with his usual rabble of hangers-on flopped around him. As Klink passed by them, their heads all tilted toward him subtly, their eyes following him. Klink momentarily shuddered despite the heat, feeling a bit like a zebra passing a pride of lions it knew would not hunt in the heat of the day, whilst also knowing full well that the sun had to set eventually.

Seeing nothing notable, Klink returned to his office to spend the rest of the day trying desperately not to fall asleep over the rest of his paperwork. By the time the sun finally dipped below the horizon, he gave up the fight and retreated to his quarters, shedding clothing as he went and collapsing, finally, on top of his bed in the nude, his energy sapped dry by the day. Even after sunset, it was still just too damned hot to do anything.


Klink was dreaming again. He knew he was dreaming, because he was flying, and the part of his mind that wasn't fully involved in the dream vaguely remembered that they didn't allow him to fly anymore, not since his left eye went bad on him. The sky was very blue, with just a few wispy clouds, and a green horizon bent away beneath him. There was no war, here in the sky, no prisoners starting fights with the guards or each other out of boredom, no government property suddenly going missing, no American colonels dancing circles around him and absconding with his cigars. The dream went on for a while like this, just the air and the familiar rumble of the engines. As dreams go, it was one of the most pleasant he'd had in a long time.

So, of course, something had to go wrong, because something always goes wrong, because he was Wilhelm Klink and Wilhelm Klink was never allowed to have anything nice. He could smell smoke, and there was shouting from somewhere. How could anyone be shouting this far up in the air? But there was definitely someone shouting, and his plane started rocking and shuddering and the smell of burning grew stronger, burning hair and burning flesh and burning fuel.

Slicked in sweat for more than one reason now, Wilhelm Klink shot up straight in his bed, and the smell of smoke did not entirely dissipate with the now-forgotten dream (although now at least it was only the smell of black powder and paper).

Klink blinked stupidly several times and found himself in an actual nightmare. Screaming before he could quite stop himself, not even fully conscious, Klink bolted toward the door bent over nearly double, choking as the smoke in his bedroom clogged his throat. He felt at the doorknob with the back of his hand, as his brother had once told him he should do in any fire. He found it cool to the touch and flipped his hand around to grab it, wrenching the door open, and a few more standing between himself and freedom before rushing out into the thin, pre-dawn light.


"HOGAAAAN!"

The infuriating American stood just at the bottom of the steps, wearing that smug, shit-eating grin of his, his black eyes crinkling at the corners in the perfect image of some forgotten pagan idol of Mischief.

"Don't worry Commandant, I've already got one of the boys putting the fire out for you! You'll see, it's nothing to worry about!"

Klink grit his teeth, his hands balling into fists. "I know this has something to do with you!" He unclenched a fist to poke Hogan forcefully in the center of his chest, ignoring the slick feeling of the man's bare, sweaty skin as his temper crested. Hogan and his little crew, of course, were already up and out of their bunks and present for the shit-show he just knew they'd somehow created. Klink could never quite prove anything, but he wasn't nearly as stupid as Hogan thought. Someday, someday, he'd figure out how they did it. Looking at them all standing there in nothing but dusty trousers, barefooted and grinning, just made him even angrier.

Klink was focused entirely on Hogan at the moment, feeling his blood pressure rise as a steady stream of complete utter bullshit continued spilling out of the man's lips, one outlandish "theory" after another as to how a fire had just spontaneously and without reason erupted in Klink's personal bedroom. "If I find anything important so much as singed, Hogan-"

Dawn light crept over the camp in steady measures. A few early risers were already spilling out of the barracks, keen to escape the stuffiness within them for a breath of dawn air before it, too, grew oppressive. The guards of the late watches were scattered about the camp, all seemingly very interested in anything except Klink and the prisoners he was shouting at, at the moment.

A spurt of laughter escaped one of Hogan's men. Klink's eyes slid past Hogan's face (far too close for comfort, as always), landing on the Frenchman, that little cockroach LeBeau. Hogan's second, the Black man with the mustache, Kinch or whatever his name was, smiled wryly, hiding his more subdued mirth behind a hand. The youngest American, the one who even in the heat of high summer still wore that stupid looking hat, was busy chewing his lower lip as his face reddened. Only the Englander was missing, for whatever reason. Perhaps that's who Hogan had referred to when he'd claimed he'd sent one of his men in to put out the fire?

Klink was still stuck in a nightmare. He absolutely was in a nightmare. He'd never woken at all! Of course, that must be it. Horror overtaking him like an avalanche, Klink held his breath and looked downward at himself. He found that he was, of course, stark naked. I've had this dream before, it's just that dream. He raised his gaze back upward, jaw slack with shock, just in time to see his own expression mirrored on Schultz's face. Of course the oaf would actually show up on time the one day-!

Well, there was nothing for it, really. The smoke had ceased to pour out of the window he'd cracked opened the night before in an attempt not to suffocate in the heat, so he might as well go check up on things. He turned on his heel with as much dignity as he could manage, and marched back up the steps without looking back. He halfway registered a sharp gasp from somewhere just before he slammed the door behind him but he hardly cared at the moment what sort of mockery the prisoners were getting up to. And if he thought, for just half a second as he entered his private quarters, that someone had dashed through his window at the last moment, it was probably just his smoke-reddened eyes playing tricks on him.

If he'd been more observant, he might have even noticed that a stack of papers Burkhalter had left for him on his table was suddenly rather thinner. Or might have noticed the remnants of a smoke bomb that had rolled under his dresser. He did not notice either, though, as he had other matters on his mind, such as downing a couple shots of his strongest liquor before collapsing back onto his bed for a couple more hours of sleep.


"Did you know he slept nude?"

"No, Carter, I had no idea, alright? Last time I saw him after hours he was in some old fashioned nightgown like my granny used to wear. Of course, it was also the middle of January, so just how the hell was I supposed to know he's sleeping naked these days!?"

"We all sort of do right now? Because it's so hot out. I do feel sort of bad for him, though. It's been three days now, and he still hasn't come out yet! D'you think he's embarrassed?"

"Of course he is, dummy, wouldn't you be?"

Carter's face scrunched up slightly, as it usually did when one of the other men spoke to him like a slow-witted child. Hogan shot LeBeau a sharp look to stop him from adding any more commentary. A thin frisson of guilt shot through Hogan. Klink was an enemy, but he was also a fairly benign one, at least compared to the likes of Hochstetter or even Burkhalter, and the morning's fiasco had not gone quite as he'd planned. Newkirk had gotten the papers London wanted, at least.

"Only wish I'd seen it meself, too bad I was preoccupied. I think ol' blood-'n'-guts is overreacting, personally. I mean, so what if he was in the altogether? Nothing but other men in this camp anyway, he can't possibly have anything the rest of us don't... Er, he can't, can he? Did the ol' Iron Eagle have a third nipple or something? Funny birthmark? Todger gone missing?" Newkirk chuckled to himself and rolled his neck and shoulders as if to dispel a cramp. He scooped up the cards off the table, shuffling them a few times before starting another hand of solitaire.

Silence filled the room for a stiff moment before Carter finally broke it. "No, nothing like that. Just a load of nasty scars down his back and legs. I've never seen anything like it! He must've fought an alligator-"

"No, he didn't fight any alligators. We don't have any in Europe. Anyway, I am pretty sure alligators don't make scars like that. Probably." The door slammed shut behind Schultz as he invited himself into Barracks 2 and sat down across from Newkirk, eyeing the cards on the table for a moment before losing interest in what was clearly a one-man game. The big guard reached back to prop his rifle against the door frame, then leaned forward against the table, propping himself up on his bare elbows. The thin undershirt he wore was stained with sweat, unsurprisingly, as the heat wave pressed on yet another day.

"Uh, so what does, then?"

"Carter-"

Schultz cleared his throat noisily, interrupting Hogan. "Shrapnel." He cleared his throat again, cutting off any chance of further inquiry, and Hogan's eyes narrowed at him from across the room. Schultz pressed on, unwilling to entertain Hogan's sudden suspicion. "I, uh, was wondering if anyone might have a spare bit of chocolate laying around, that, ah, they didn't need?"

"What, is it Wulfie's birthday again already?"

"No, but the Big Shot is in a terrible mood, for some reason, and I thought it might lessen his temper a bit, you know he has a bit of a sweet tooth. Colonel Hogan, I am getting very tired of being shouted at over nothing. Nothing! I've never seen him this moody for so long, it's getting very troublesome for us guards. It's your fault anyway, so help us out, eh?"

"My fault? Never, Schultz! He probably just didn't put his cigar out all the way before he went to bed, and caught something on fire in the garbage bin. He overreacts, you know."

"Hmph. You and your monkey business - oh, it doesn't matter who set the fire anyway, I just want to put it out now, it's been three days, and I am tired of the shouting! You know, Colonel Hogan, Fraulein Hilda would be very grateful too, if you helped us! He's been rather grumpy with her, too, actually. Surprising, really, given that he usually won't give up flirting with... ahem. Well, are you going to donate to the cause, or not? Please, Colonel Hogan..."

Hogan stood up, rubbing at his chin, giving a not-entirely-convincing show of seriously considering the situation. He ambled across the room to stand next to Schultz, clapping the guard on one sweaty shoulder. "Schultz, my friend, I'll do you even better. I'll visit the big man myself, I'm sure I can smooth this over."

"What?! NO! I know you, Colonel Hogan, you will only make things worse-"

Hogan gave Schultz's shoulder another firm squeeze before heading out the door, whistling a tune as he went. Schultz normally did not fret much over Klink, finding his boss to be a source of frustration more than anything else on most days, but he couldn't quite squash the small nugget of apprehension settling in his stomach.


Klink read through the inventory report a couple more times, re-doing a few of the sums to make sure he hadn't screwed them up too badly. The heat was boiling his senses enough on its own, and now he had to deal with the simple fact that a good portion of the camp – prisoners and guards alike – had seen him rush out of his quarters as naked as the day he was born and stand there berating his senior POW officer for ages before even noticing.

Yes, there had been smoke. He hadn't even had the mental energy to deal with the possible source of it yet, but the smell still lingered in his room, affirming the reality of what had happened. He'd searched around his rooms in the light of day and had not seen evidence of anything actually burning, though, other than some old unswept ashes left in the heating stove that saw no use in the middle of the summer. He hadn't actually set a fire in it in over two months, so that was no answer to the question.

Part of him almost didn't even care. He knew Hogan was behind it, somehow, because Hogan was behind everything that went wrong around him, somehow. Well, sometimes it was Hochstetter or some other Gestapo devil, or Burkhalter, or one of the pinheads in Berlin, or... Klink shook his head, not wanting to let go of his ire at Hogan in particular, yet. Hogan had a knack for making things appear where they shouldn't be, and disappear from where they very definitely should be. Klink turned a blind eye to it at times, when it benefited him, or when it at least did not seem to do him any harm. He felt a bit cowardly, really – he ought to be spending more effort at catching the man in the act. It's what a loyal officer of the Third Reich would do, after all. You're not a loyal officer, though, are you? You're a coward who just wants to save his own skin.

Klink sighed, batting away those little voices in the back of his mind that dogged his thoughts ever more frequently these days. He'd fought for his country, for real, once, when he'd been too stupid and naive to know what that really meant. Fought down in the mud and blood and ever-increasing number of rotting corpses of other stupid and naive boys who had once shared their cigarettes and warmth with him, and the only reward had ever been humiliating defeat and punishment after – for him and for his country then, and probably again, now. Klink shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his skin crawling. Sweat still trickled down his back but he couldn't bring himself to take off his jacket today, feeling like he was being watched even when no one else was present. Damn you, Hogan. He signed his name to the bottom of another report, and dropped it into the outbox for Hilda to pick up and send on its way to Berlin later. The door swung open without a knock to precede it and even before Klink looked up, he knew what he'd see. "Go away, Hogan, I'm not in the mood."

Hogan, predictably, did not go away, but rather plopped down in the chair opposite Klink's desk and helped himself to a cigar from Klink's humidor. The infuriatingly cocky man held it out for a light with one of his signature crooked smiles, the one that showed just a hint of teeth. While Klink usually indulged him with the lighter, today he only served up a cold glare. Klink leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, waiting for Hogan to say his piece so he could all the sooner leave and Klink could have his own peace back.

"The boys are all wondering where you've been, sir, you haven't even come out for roll call! A couple guys started taking bets on whether you were alive or dead, actually. Baker will be disappointed when I report back, I'm afraid."

"How nice to know that my health and welfare is such an interesting topic of conversation among the prisoners, Hogan. Do you have anything important to ask?"

Hogan's grin slipped slightly and the man's gaze wandered for a moment. He seemed to be weighing some decision, Klink thought, but Klink couldn't make himself care very much. "Go away, Hogan. If you think of something that actually matters, you may return later. Much later. I have work to do. Go bother Schultz if you must entertain yourself, he's certainly not been making himself useful in any other capacity at the moment."

Hogan sneered slightly and Klink sneered right back at him. Hogan sighed, placing the still-unlit stolen cigar into a pocket of his trousers (having left his shirt and jacket back at the barracks). "Boy, Schultz was right, you are in a hell of a mood! Can't spare even a moment to talk to your old friend Hogan?"

"We aren't friends, Hogan. You are my prisoner, in the most successful POW camp in Germany to date. So don't forget it!"

"Details, details... Listen, about the other day, nobody cares, alright? We all see each other naked often enough in those oh-so-luxurious showers you generously provide us – you know, the ones where twenty of us at a time stand around trying not to drop the soap every week? So stop sulking in your office."

"I'm not sulking, Hogan, and it's my own business if I want to spend some time catching up on the mountains of paperwork Berlin expects - mountains that would be mere hills if you and the other prisoners didn't get up to so much damned mischief!"

Hogan held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Fine, fine! Do whatever you want. I get it - it's hotter than hell and we're all short-tempered lately. I just didn't want you thinking we were going to hold it against you, you know? I know we're on opposite sides of this war, but we shouldn't go forgetting we're all still human beings here. Well, most of us, anyway. The dogs of course, are canine beings..."

Klink's eyes narrowed at Hogan as he tried to figure out the man's angle. "What do you actually want, Hogan? More bread? Extra paper? A bowling alley?"

Hogan feigned shock. "Oh, how dare you, sir! To suggest I can't have a friendly chat without an ulterior motive-"

"All your motives are ulterior, Hogan. I may not know exactly what scheme you are up to this time, but I am certain I will find out soon enough. Now go back to your barracks, or wherever it is you are spending your time these days. I don't care particularly as long as you do it quietly and elsewhere."

Hogan sighed, leaning his head back for a moment before pulling himself to his feet. He paused beside Klink's desk to set down a small object. "Schultz wanted you to have this, by the way. He seems to think you're a bit out of sorts. No idea why."

Hogan swanned out of his office door with an exaggerated salute that Klink returned just as exaggeratedly, only just barely stamping down the impulse to stick out his tongue at Hogan's back like a child. Klink picked up the oblong item on his desk, a slightly squashed, melting chocolate bar. It was of the typical sort the prisoners received in their Red Cross packages, a grainy-textured confection that barely counted as chocolate by German standards. Peeling back the wrapper, Klink took a lick of the dark melted sweetness clinging to the foil. I guess it isn't so bad. He was getting tired of paperwork, anyway.


Wilhelm Klink dreamed of fire. It was the third night in a row. It had been years since he'd had such vivid nightmares as this, although they'd been quite frequent when he was much younger. Smoke, gunpowder, the rusty scent of atomized blood, men's screams as they were ripped apart by mechanized warfare. The air teemed with all of it. Twisted creatures made of metal and flame stalked across the dim battlefield of his mind, like a safari through hell. Running away from everything and toward nothing in particular, he tripped over something solid in his dream, the ground floating up toward him in a not-quite-real fashion. As he landed oddly painlessly, milky dead eyes stared suddenly stared back at him from a bloodied, pocked, and rather too familiar face. What is Hogan doing here? Hogan can't be here, he was never here!

Klink woke with a start, his head pounding as he slid out of bed and stalked toward the washroom to stare at himself in the mirror under the sickly yellow light over the sink. Or maybe he just looked sickly himself. Dark circles were settling under his eyes, his sleep interrupted yet again. It was after midnight but not yet particularly near dawn. He knew he wouldn't be getting any more sleep. Klink picked up the cup he kept next to the sink and filled it with water, drinking it down quickly before filling it again and taking it with him.

Klink draped himself over his sofa in his sitting room, not even bothering with a bathrobe. He'd started wearing underwear to bed after That Incident, and the garment was now sticking rather uncomfortably to his butt with sweat, but it was still too damned hot to even contemplate a nightgown.

Klink leaned his head back against the armrest of the sofa, and tried to at least rest, even if he could not sleep. Just before dawn, he almost thought he heard rain, but he must have been dreaming.


Klink worked on reports for three hours without break, skipping lunch entirely. The heat had ruined his appetite anyhow. He'd grown used to the feeling of sweating underneath his uniform jacket at this point and barely noticed it until it started making his collar itch. He needed a break, anyway, and got up to wander past Hilda and a snoring Schultz back out into the blistering sunshine.

Klink ambled through his camp, pulling his hat down to shade his eyes as he raked them over his prisoners. A trail of dirt swirled up in his wake, dusting the cuffs of his pants. The prisoners had been very lazy the past couple of weeks, but as they neared a full third week of no rain, tempers were beginning to fray. The guards had needed to bust up a couple of fist fights earlier in the morning, and the overall mood of the camp was tense and fretful. Klink stopped opposite Barracks 2, where Hogan and his men were, predictably, sitting in the small patch of shade it provided. He stared openly at Hogan, not even bothering to hide it. Hogan glanced up at him briefly from the card game he was playing with his compatriots, winking at him, before going back to his hand to shift a few cards around.

Klink swore under his breath, suddenly infuriated at Hogan for no reason in particular, or maybe every reason he'd ever had to be angry with the man, all at once. He marched across the dusty path until he stood directly over Hogan, who made him even angrier by not even bothering to react. Klink stamped a foot, a distant part of his mind feeling somewhat ridiculous making the childish gesture, but the greater and far more stubborn part of his mind insisted on getting the other man's attention.

Several heartbeats passed, and he could feel Hogan's men's eyes on him, but still, not Hogan's. Eventually, Hogan tilted his head slightly. "Need something, Commandant?"

Klink paused, his blustering rage fizzling suddenly now that he had the attention he'd wanted. "Tch. Never mind." He turned on his heel and marched toward the other end of the camp. There were plenty of other barracks to check on, more prisoners to account for. He didn't entirely trust Schultz's ability to count, anyway, so he might as well do it himself.

The sun beat down on his head and the dark fabric of his jacket felt like a brand against his back, but he couldn't bring himself to walk past Hogan again, and there was no way to get back to his office without ending up in Hogan's line of sight at least briefly. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much, but it did. Nobody cares, Hogan had said. Klink had seen more than one smirk on a prisoner's face in the last few days. They might not care, but that didn't mean they wouldn't have their fun at his expense. Why do you even care if your prisoners respect you? They're the enemy. They hate you, and you hate them back, that's how this whole war thing is supposed to work!

Klink reached the fence and stood for a moment, swaying. The air shimmered above the ground in the distance. There was a dark line at the horizon that might have been clouds, or maybe just his imagination, but he didn't dare hope for rain. Pushing thoughts of Hogan and his men out of his mind, Klink forced himself to walk back to his office. He was getting a bit dizzy in the heat anyway, and his stomach churned. I suppose I should have eaten lunch after all. Klink pointedly did not look at Hogan as he passed Barracks 2, refusing to show any hint of weakness to his enemy.

Somewhere off to the side, he could hear guards shouting, and the gate of the camp being rolled open, followed by the sound of a car engine. Luftwaffe, Gestapo, some officious Berlin pinhead, the Queen of England dropping in for tea and crumpets, I don't care who it is, he thought. Unless they were bringing rain, they could go hang for all Klink cared.

The world started tilting as he neared the steps, blackness ate away at the edge of his vision, and the discomfort in his stomach threatened to turn it inside out. A dun-colored cloud surrounded him as everything suddenly was sideways. Is it going to rain after all?


"Get that jacket off of him, dummkopf! And loosen his tie, he looks like he's choking, the idiot-"

Rough hands pulled him this way and that, yanking at his clothing until he felt air hit his now-bared chest. He was having a nightmare again, or perhaps he'd simply died and gone straight to hell. He couldn't think of any better explanation for why he was hearing Burkhalter's voice so close by.

"General, are you sure you should-"

Klink yelped sharply when water hit him in the face, his eyes snapping open and then shutting again immediately. His head ached as though he'd downed a gallon or two of schnapps the night before. I didn't think I'd had that much!

"Sir, I don't think-"

Schultz, if Klink weren't mistaken, but he couldn't yet bring himself to open his eyes again. He was laying on his own couch, he thought, the texture of the fabric under his fingers was familiar at least, but with no memory as to how he'd gotten there. Images dripped through his brain like honey. He'd been outside, trying to get away from Hogan by going inside.

"You aren't paid to think, sergeant. Well, he doesn't seem to be dying, but clearly he is too stupid to know when he's been out in the sun too long. I'm going to wait in his office while you get him to drink something. Send him out when he is capable of being sensible. Well, as sensible as he ever is, which isn't much. And get back in uniform as well as soon as he's cooled off, I don't care if the weather doesn't suit you all! It's bad enough the prisoners are allowed to lay about half naked. Discipline in this prison is getting far too lax, I shall have to do something about that soon..."

"Y-yes, general!"

Klink cracked open his good eye to see Schultz's bulk dominating his field of vision as the man saluted the retreating general. "Schultz... what the hell just happened?"

Schultz jumped slightly, startled by Klink's sudden return to consciousness. He backed up several steps before coming to a stop, cleared his throat a few times, and shuffled on his feet nervously.

"Schultz!" Klink cringed at his own volume. "Schultz..." Quieter this time. Much quieter.

"You fainted, Kommandant. We, uh, General Burkhalter and Colonel Hogan and I, that is, brought you inside."

"H-Hogan?" Klink brought a shaky hand up to his forehead, rubbing at a particularly painful spot above his left temple and glanced around the room. Hogan was propped in a corner, grinning at him. Hogan gave him a little wave from where he was standing. Klink ignored him, turning back to Schultz. "How long was I out?"

"A minute, maybe two? Not long. I brought you some water. You should drink it, Kommandant."

Klink sat up, or at least attempted to, before falling back heavily, biting back a moan of pain or misery or both. One of Schultz's sturdy hands wedged itself under his back, lifting him. Klink's first instinct was to bat Schultz away and save some fragment of his shattered dignity, but he didn't think he'd be able to get upright on his own quite yet and allowed it. A tin cup of the sort the guards and prisoners alike used was pressed into his hands. Klink managed to drink its contents without spilling more than half of it down his front, at least. He shoved the emptied cup in Schultz's general direction and was glad when the man took the hint and left to refill it without delay. The second cup he managed to get more than three quarters of down his throat, and within a few minutes was feeling marginally better.

"I suppose I should get up and go see what Burkhalter wants." Klink squeezed his eyes shut, still feeling a touch of vertigo. Schultz made an indecipherable noise that usually indicated some sort of indecision. Klink sighed. "Or maybe I should wait until the room stops trying to tilt sideways."

"I can fetch you more water?"

Klink blinked at his sergeant of the guard, then gave up trying to figure the man out. It didn't matter what Schultz was thinking, really. Klink could hardly drop any lower in the man's respect after having run out of his quarters stark naked, and then passing out in front of him in the space of a week. He handed the cup back to Schultz to refill a third time and was relieved when he was able to drink it all without sloshing it everywhere for once. "You are dismissed, Schultz."

Schultz saluted and left the room. Hogan made his presence known and Klink sighed heavily, wondering what he did that was so terrible as to deserve the life he was now living. "You are dismissed as well, Hogan. Leave."

Hogan gave up his task of propping the wall up and sauntered over to where Klink was still slumped on the sofa. Klink glared up at him, unwilling to rise just yet despite how much he resented having to look up at the other man. "You want me to beg, don't you? Fine, Hogan, please go away."

Hogan crossed his arms. "You really should take better care of yourself, Klink. I'd hate for you to drop dead, it would take us far too long to break in another Commandant."

"Very funny, Hogan. Now go away. I still have to deal with Burkhalter and I assure you that whatever suffering you are looking to inflict upon me will pale in comparison to that."

"Burkhalter is enough to ruin anyone's day, admittedly, but believe it or not, I'm not actually trying to torture you. Well, not today at least. This heat wave is no joke, you need to drink more water, eat something salty occasionally, and stop layering up so damned much! Carter's convinced you're still embarrassed over that incident the other day, for some reason, but I promise you that nobody here is some wilting lily that's going to faint over a glimpse of your pasty kraut hide. Is your pride really worth risking sunstroke? Because that's exactly where you're headed if today is any indication."

Klink grimaced, leaning back and peering askance up at Hogan. The sheer shock of being lectured by this man as though he were one of the American colonel's underlings momentarily left him speechless. His head still pounded dully and more than anything, he just wanted Hogan gone and Burkhalter with him. "F-fine, Hogan, I'll be more careful. Dismissed!"

Klink hauled himself to his feet, stumbling slightly and colliding with Hogan momentarily, shuddering at the feeling of their mutually sweaty skin coming into direct contact as he tried to regain his balance. Hogan's hands grasped his bare shoulders from behind, pulling him back upright. Klink glanced back at him briefly before stepping away, grabbing his shirt, tie, and jacket from where they'd been tossed carelessly over the back of a chair. He struggled slightly to put them back on and was grateful when Hogan did not attempt to touch him again. Why is he getting so chummy, anyway? We're not friends. Quite the opposite!

Klink wrenched the door open with more force than strictly necessary, standing aside to make room for Hogan to pass. "I still need to deal with Burkhalter and I don't trust you in my quarters on your own. It's time for you to leave, Hogan."

Hogan shrugged, saluted, and gave Klink a strange, pressing look as he left, but said nothing.


Burkhalter sat behind Klink's desk, thumbing through a stack of papers that looked vaguely familiar but which Klink could not, at the moment, quite place. He wasn't as wobbly now that he was no longer in danger of complete desiccation, but his head still ached fiercely. He was back in full uniform and sweating profusely again. Maybe he should have taken that fourth cup of water Schultz had offered. He'd get more as soon as he could get Burkhalter out of his camp, he thought.

"Did you even notice, Klink?"

Klink opened and then closed his mouth, trying and failing to not look completely wrong-footed. Might as well get this over with, he thought. "Notice what, General?" One of the flies that had taken up residence in his office landed on Burkhalter's shoulder, and Klink found himself staring at the insect as it walked around jerkily, probing the General's uniform with its proboscis in search of who-knew-what. If Burkhalter noticed, he didn't care.

"Half these papers are missing, Klink! What did you do, hand them out to your prisoners to play arts and crafts with?"

Klink flinched at Burkhalter's shouting and the fly buzzed away and out of the window, making Klink wish he could do the same. "I-I-I didn't do anything with them! They've been on my table since you gave them to me-"

"-on your table, where the maid or practically anyone could walk in and take them? You are even stupider than I thought, Klink! Why do you even have a safe if you don't know how or when to use it!?"

Burkhalter rose from Klink's office chair, bracing himself on Klink's desk as he leaned forward, his odoriferous breath ghosting against Klink's face as he pressed into Klink's personal space. Klink could count each bead of sweat on the man's forehead and wondered if he'd ever get his office back. "You are lucky, Klink, that I am not so stupid as to trust you with anything truly critical, but if I catch you leaving sensitive documents laying out again, I will have you on the next train to the Russian front!"

Klink leaned back as far as he could without actually pushing his guest chair across the floor behind him. The room threatened to start tilting again. Klink tittered to himself giddily as he suddenly thought, at least it wouldn't be this damned hot in Russia!


Nobody was sleeping well these days. Hogan had given up and returned to the main room of the barracks, picking up the deck of cards Newkirk had left out on the table and tried to play a game of solitaire in the light of a nearly full moon spilling in through the windows.

Somebody appeared in the chair next to him and Hogan tried not show evidence that he was startled. Sometimes he forgot how quietly Carter could move when he wanted to, especially barefoot.

"Can't sleep either, colonel?"

"Not really." He picked a card up off the draw deck. Two of hearts, useless at the moment. He dropped it onto the discard pile.

"Was Klink alright? He hit the ground pretty hard. That was so strange, he was fine one minute and the next – bang – he's face-down in the dirt."

"I keep telling you boys to drink more water than you think you need, Carter, and that's why. Klink's really got nobody but himself to blame. He probably hasn't been eating enough either, I can't say I've got much appetite lately myself. But sometimes you just have to exercise some discipline, make yourself eat when you know you should."

"Hm, I suppose you're right. I hope it'll rain soon."

Hogan chuckled softly, mindful of the other men in the barracks who weren't suffering from the same insomnia. "Could always try one of those rain dances of yours."

Carter huffed. "Boy, colonel, you know I don't like it when you say stuff like that."

"Sorry, Carter, sorry. I know, I just... forget sometimes."

Carter slumped down in his chair and Hogan flipped over a few more equally useless cards. Crappy hand tonight, it happens.

"Where d'you think Klink got those scars, colonel? I thought he was Luftwaffe? Plane crash maybe?"

"They look like pretty old scars, Carter. I doubt he got them in the Luftwaffe. Or in this war at all."

"Where, then—Oh! Oh."

"I had an uncle who fought in the last war. He didn't talk about the trenches much. I wouldn't ask Klink about it if I were you."

"O-of course not, colonel, why on Earth would I? Gee, I guess sometimes I forget how old Klink must be."

"Fifty isn't really all that old, but yeah. He's such a child half the time, it's easy to forget."

Carter leaned forward and slumped onto the table. "People say the same thing about me."

"Nobody thinks you're a child, Carter."

"Tell that to LeBeau! Or Newkirk, they both treat me like a dumb kid half the time. Do I need to go out and get a back full of shrapnel before they believe anything I say?"

Hogan's lip curled in distaste at the thought of Carter being hurt in such a fashion. "Don't joke about that, sergeant, this war ain't over yet. I know this little tropical resort of ours is pretty cushy compared to a lot of places we could be right now, current weather notwithstanding, but we could still end up dead before all of this is over. Don't go getting sloppy on me."

"Of course not, colonel. I didn't mean it, really, I just... I don't know why I suddenly care what's going on with Klink. We haven't done much lately, other than dropping those papers off at the pickup for London. I guess I just haven't had much else to think about. It's stupid to get worried over someone who probably would just as soon see you dead."

Hogan shrugged at Carter and picked up an eight of clubs and found a spot for it on one of the columns. He wasn't sure how to respond to that, and something about Carter's statement made him feel vaguely itchy.

"I dunno, though, Colonel. Maybe I'm wrong. Klink's pretty yellow, and definitely kind of an idiot, but I can't imagine him actually killing anyone. He'd probably scare himself too bad trying to do it."

Hogan choked back a laugh, trying not to make too much noise. He could hear Newkirk or maybe LeBeau shifting in sleep on their bunks, and didn't want to actually wake them. "You might be right about that, Carter. Old Blood-'n'-Guts really isn't cut out for this at all."

"Yeah, maybe that's why I don't like the idea of him keeling over in the heat. Can you imagine if they replaced him with someone like Hochstetter?"

For the first time in months, Hogan felt a slight chill rush down his spine.


Klink had barely slept, his mind still ringing with Burkhalter's threats. He'd nodded off, finally, sometime after 0200, and soon dreamed again of fire and death and every horror his brain could dredge up from the depths of his memory and imagination. It had ended with his father standing over him, berating him for all of his myriad failures. His father had then somehow transmuted into Burkhalter, who berated him some more, and then been blown to pieces when a shell had fallen out of the sky.

One might think Burkhalter being blown into mince would be a good dream, but he could still feel himself being pelted with slimy pulverized flesh and blood, and pocked with flecks of bone. Just like Alex had been, standing mere feet from me, thirty years ago. I'd probably have died too if his body hadn't shielded me.

Klink sat in a patch of shade on the steps outside of the Kommandantur, staring out across the camp. He'd taken Hogan's advice and drank enough water that morning until it seemed like he was getting up to piss every half hour for a while, and given up on wearing anything above the waist. He was still self-conscious about the scars on his back, but the worst of them were on his legs anyway, which were covered well enough. If Burkhalter (or, worse, Hochstetter and his sadistic goon squad) showed up, he'd get his ass handed to him for being out of uniform, but for the moment, he couldn't muster up the will to care. The heat had dragged on far too long, and water was going to be a problem for everyone in the region, including Stalag 13, if rain did not come soon.

Klink dragged himself to his feet as a guard walked past, and stopped the young man in his tracks. "Bring Hogan to me as soon as you find him."

The lad, to his credit, returned in less than five minutes, with Hogan trailing lazily behind him. Klink tried to ignore the odd look Hogan gave him, presumably due to the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt, but then neither was Hogan at the moment, so Klink decided he was being a tad hypocritical.

"What can I do for you Commandant?"

"We need to ration water, Hogan. Inform the other prisoners that water is to be used for drinking and cooking only. The showers will be closed until further notice, and yes I realize I will be suffering as much as the rest of you soon if I do not suddenly lose my sense of smell. Perhaps it will rain soon, I do not know. But I'd rather the camp reek than have us all dropping dead. The guards will have to go without as well, of course, and-"

Hogan held up his hands in what he no doubt thought was a comforting gesture as Klink's rambling increased in both pitch and speed. Klink just barely managed to stop himself from babbling any further, choosing to turn his gaze away from Hogan and cross his arms over his bare chest instead, suddenly feeling even more naked in front of this man than he had when he'd actually been naked in front of him.

"Er, uh, I'll pass the message along. You don't have to convince me, Commandant, I already told you I know what these temperatures can do to a man. Are you alright? You seem... stressed out."

Klink shrugged, not sure why he was suddenly apt to be honest with his senior POW. "I haven't slept much lately."

"Well, yeah. Been having a bit of trouble with it myself. A few hands of solitaire usually put me out, but it can be hard when it's so hot like this."

"Among other things, I suppose."

"Other things?"

Klink shrugged, turning away from Hogan slightly to stare at nothing in particular. Bad memories, bad sleep, the oppressive heat, the oppressive war, fools like Hochstetter turning Germany into something Klink could no longer recognize, all of it seemed to be bearing down on him at the moment. Not that he expected Hogan to understand any of that, after all. The American was a hero straight out of a Hollywood picture, without blemish, out to save the free world from cowards like Klink. "Do you think this will end soon?"

"The drought? Well, it can't last forever."

"Right. Well, I'd like to have some lunch and then I have work to do. Tell your men what I said. I've sent Schultz to padlock the door to the showers and I don't want to catch anyone trying to break in. I can't imagine the cooler is actually all that cool right now, and I'd hate to have to put someone in there." For once, he wasn't actually lying, either.


Hogan scratched at the back of his neck, which was itching in earnest now. The salt and dust was layering up on his skin and seemed to collect in every joint and crevice imaginable, even in places that were well covered. It had been three days since Klink had shut down the showers. The barracks had been oppressive before, and now they stank like a barnyard. It was somewhat better in his private room, the privilege of his rank, and blessedly solitary. Here, at least, he only had his own smell to deal with.

Hogan had tried to get into Klink's office that afternoon and been told off by Hilda and Schultz both. He could find his own way in, of course, but the inherent risk of using the tunnels couldn't be justified when he didn't really have any legitimate reason to be doing so. He hated it, but had to admit that he was actually somewhat worried about the man, for reasons that had nothing to do with their underground activities.

Kinch had reminded him that despite Klink's occasional friendliness when he was in the mood for it, Klink was no friend, and warned Hogan not to meddle, also. If there was one thing Hogan had learned in his time in Stalag 13, it was that Kinch's advice was ignored only by the deeply foolish. Maybe Carter was right, and they all just didn't have enough to do with themselves lately, Hogan himself included.

Klink acting like a moody adolescent was hardly a matter of international import, but something about their last conversation tugged at the back of his brain and wouldn't let it go. "Do you think this will end soon?," Klink had asked him, sounding far younger in that moment than his five solid decades. Hogan had assumed Klink was asking about the weather, but now he was not all that sure. What was up with him, anyway? Klink was not a man for deep thought. Vanity, pretension, and desperate ass-kissing of his superiors, sure, but serious contemplation did not suit him.

Well, he could work that little puzzle out tomorrow perhaps, he thought, as sleep finally overtook him.


Hogan woke up, roused out of sleep by a sound he'd not heard in weeks. Throwing himself out of his bunk, he dashed into the main room of the barracks and kicked his men out of their beds, laughing like a child on Christmas morning.

Hogan and his men pushed out of the door in a tumble. He could hear Carter whistling behind him and even Kinch seemed giddy. Hogan spread his arms wide and spun a few circles, just for the sheer hell of it. He laughed at Carter as the younger man flopped into a puddle rapidly filling up a low spot on the ground, now being churned into mud as the rain grew heavier. A flash of lightning lit up all of Stalag 13. In the brief glimpse of light it afforded, Hogan spied a still figure seated on the ground against the wall of the Kommandantur. Klink's head was tilted back, his eyes closed and face slack, mouth slightly open as rainwater cascaded over his face and down his neck and bare torso. Bare feet pressed down into the mud, toes curling in something like pleasure or relief.

Shouts and laughter raised up from various corners of the camp. Whether from guards or prisoners or both, Hogan couldn't discern. Staring back at Klink for another moment, Hogan decided, just this once, to leave the man alone. Hell, even a bastard deserves a moment of peace once in a while.