Author's note:
When I was drafting this story, I occasionally bounced the point of view around between several characters, before deciding that the narrative just felt a lot tighter and more emotionally cohesive if I stuck with Klink. Most of it also just re-hashed scenes I'd already done, often verbatim in parts. So, a lot of this is stuff I took out of the finished product, and some of it is stuff I'd drafted in my head but didn't bother to type out until after the fact. Still, it might be interesting to one or two of you. It's mostly Hogan's thoughts on things, with a bit of Burkhalter and Newkirk tossed in for flavor. A couple scenes I wrote after posting the rest, because it was just making too much noise in my head.
This stuff is un-beta'd and not heavily edited. I hesitated on even adding this as it might ultimately just detract from the story (especially since Hogan is, frankly, a bit of an ass about women, canonically), but I didn't want to throw it out either. Additionally, this stuff all interweaves with the original story as posted, so if you're going to read though this, it might be helpful to pop open another browser tab and have the previous chapter up for reference, otherwise it could get Confusing.
I've removed a "lemon" portion from this chapter that isn't compatible with FFN's terms of service. If you want to read about these two playing in the bedroom, you'll have to go to my Ao3 account. The Ao3 username is in my author profile for anyone interested.
Sergeant Albert Burkhalter looked across the line of trainees standing in front of him, ready to begin another day on the airfield. His eyes landed on one particularly skinny young lad for the umpteenth time. He was a nervous, high-strung sort who always seemed just on the verge of bolting, of average height and frankly a bit delicate looking. The boy had been in the trenches though, and somehow survived, which spoke to a hidden core of something a bit tougher than his features and outer temperament would suggest. Well, at least I know he won't go over the weight limit , he thought. Probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet. Unlike infantry, flying didn't require a great deal in the way of brute strength, so it hardly mattered. He just hoped the boy had a decent head on his shoulders and could take instruction.
He moved on down the line, but something about the name on the roster bugged him. Wilhelm Klink. He'd known a Klink, a few years ago before the war. His wife sewed, and was quite good at it, keeping the entire family clothed. She was rarely seen without a needle and thread in hand, at least when she wasn't busy with other housekeeping duties, and he tried to keep her well supplied, as she was less of bother to him when she was occupied (his father had made the match for him, and while he could have done far worse, they had little in common as far as personality went, but that was hardly uncommon). He'd frequented a shop in town that stocked good-quality cloth and needles at decent prices, and remembered the family that owned it well enough.
He'd spent time chatting with the shop owner, who had definitely been a Herr Klink. The man's wife could occasionally be seen, stocking shelves or standing at the till. The two children were also around – the eldest, a boy who had been quiet and obedient, and a girl who seemed to possess all the unfettered energy and gracelessness of a clumsy wild goat kid, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake, a pair of waist-length black braids bouncing in all directions behind her. He'd seen her being dragged off by her mother on more than one occasion to be punished for knocking over some display or another, or crashing into some shocked customer, while running through that shop.
The boy had favored his father's looks, brown-eyed and serious. The girl had rather looked more like her mother, all huge, overly-expressive blue eyes and soft, full mouth, other than the prodigious nose that appeared to be an irrepressible Klink family trait.
Burkhalter walked back down the line, inspecting the gaggle of young men once again. Wilhelmina Klink stood at attention, sweating a bit in her usual nervousness, but otherwise fairly indistinguishable from her peers, with that hackjob of a haircut partially obscured by her standard-issue uniform cap. Hmm, interesting. Could she keep up the act? Time would tell, he supposed. They needed pilots, and so far she'd proved decent enough at it, no better than average but no worse either.
He'd let it go, for the time being, anyway. It's not like she was hurting anyone, and they really did need any and all even semi-capable pilots they could get their hands on right now, and if the stupid girl really wanted to fight for her country, who was he to judge?
Wilhelmina Klink pulled up outside of her childhood home in Düsseldorf in a staff car. She had not set foot in the place since the age of twenty-one, just after the end of the Great War. At the time her mother had been distressed at her sudden reappearance, but had not been angry, exactly, although to say the woman had been happy at her daughter's return would have been an overly simplistic description of the situation. Her father's reaction had been rather less complicated, he'd simply been furious.
She'd left like a coward before dawn, still feeling the sting of his slap across her face the night before. Now, she returned, but there was nothing to be said. The senior Wolfgang Klink was dead and whatever he'd thought of his daughter would be buried unpoken tomorrow. The younger Wolfgang Klink, her elder brother, opened the door before she even had time to knock, and ushered her inside. She'd had some contact with her brother over the years, although less frequently since the war began. She looked around over her brother's shoulder as he hugged her, seeking out her niece and nephew.
"I left them at home with Anna, they both have head colds." Her brother stepped back, still holding onto her shoulders, looking her over and smirking. "So much gray hair now, you're getting old, Minna."
"You forget you're older than I am, Wolfie, and your hair is even grayer." Minna shrugged his hands off her shoulders and wandered toward the living room. Glancing around, it had scarcely changed. There was a sofa she didn't recognize and her father's old chair had been reupholstered at some point in the not-too-recent past, but otherwise everything was identical. "Where is mama?"
"Resting upstairs. The burial is tomorrow, everything has been arranged. Just a graveside service, nothing elaborate. Money is getting tight again, unfortunately."
Minna ran a hand through her hair, sighing heavily. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to think. She didn't know what to do.
"Wilhelmi... Wilhelm."
She was suddenly looking into the now much-aged face of her mother, who hesitated only for a moment before shuffling across the room and pulling her into a harder embrace than she would have expected from someone who had appeared much more frail that she'd anticipated. "It doesn't matter here, mama."
"Minna, forgive me, please..."
Her mother gripped her tighter and Minna returned the hug, somewhat awkwardly, but not insincerely. "Mama..."
She found herself being pulled to the sofa and sat without protest, her mother keeping an arm hooked around her and leaning heavily onto her shoulder, unwilling, apparently, to let go of her quite yet. It had been so long, Minna didn't quite know how to react. She glanced at her brother as he sat down in their father's chair. Wolfgang shrugged at her.
"My baby girl... I never meant to chase you away. I should have gone after you, but your father..."
She chewed at her bottom lip, not wanting to think any more about the day she left. "Don't-please don't, mama. It doesn't matter anymore, it was so long ago."
Her mother shook slightly beside her and she knew if she turned she'd see the old woman crying. It was all she could do at the moment not to do the same. She'd been angry at both of her parents for years, and part of her was still angry at her father and probably always would be. She shifted enough to get one arm around her mother's shoulders. It didn't matter anymore. It really was so long ago. What would be the point of being angry now? Her father had been the one to force her away. She could remain angry at her mother for not stepping in between her and her father's rage, but what could mama have done anyway? Earned a slap for herself, perhaps, but nothing more.
Minna looked at her brother again, who was gazing at nothing in the mid-distance, lost in his own thoughts. Their father hadn't been outwardly cruel for most of their childhood, simply distant and stern as many of their peers' fathers were. Their family had been rather average, in all ways. Her mother hadn't been cold, exactly, but had been subtle with her affection, secretive even. She thought about the little chocolates and candies that had sometimes appeared in the pockets of her dresses when she'd pulled them from her wardrobe as a child, and knew it hadn't been her father who had put them there.
The graveside service had been short. She'd heard basically nothing of the preacher's homily or her brother's eulogy, her own head too stuffed with her own thoughts for much else to get through. She was still in full uniform and seated at the back of the crowd. Her mother had hesitated to let go of her before they arrived, but she had reluctantly pulled herself away. Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of Stalag XIII, wasn't exactly notable (notorious, maybe, but not notable), but there was a risk she might be seen by the local gestapo or some military officer who knew her. She'd sat beside some friend of her father's she hadn't recognized, and who hadn't recognized her, and had remained silent throughout the funeral. Perhaps it was fortuitous that her feelings about her father's passing were too conflicted to allow her any tears over it, as any outburst might have drawn attention.
Afterward, as she threw a handful of dirt into the freshly dug grave and stepped back to watch the assembled mourners pay their respects and disperse, she glanced out across the small graveyard. Her family had owned a plot here for a few generations. Her father was buried beside his own parents, and an empty spot was reserved on the other side for her mother to join him someday. Her father's death had been sudden, most likely a stroke she'd been told. He hadn't suffered for long.
There were several more fresh graves elsewhere. Those families who had received something back from the front lines to bury had planted sons in the Earth in recent months, clearly. There was still a war on, one which she'd have to get back to, in her own small way, soon. She'd be driving back in the morning. She'd intended to leave immediately, but her mother had talked her into remaining overnight.
Upon returning home, the ice box contained a couple days' worth of meals sent by neighbors and relatives, the sort of things that could be reheated easily or eaten cold. Her brother took up the seat at the head of the table now. They ate a simple supper in silence, although it was a silence rather less tense than on her last return home. Her elderly mother was exhausted, she could tell. Minna found it hard to believe her own mother was nearly seventy, although she also sometimes found it hard to believe she herself was nearly fifty. Her mother had married young, barely eighteen, and her brother had been born almost exactly nine months later, and then herself a year after that. She wasn't exactly young anymore herself. Where did all that time go? Her life was slipping through her fingers like fine sand.
After eating, Wolfgang cleared the table and she followed him into the kitchen. She stood beside him, washing dishes and handing them to him to be dried and put up. The chore did not take long and by the end, she was still struggling to find anything to say. She'd not been able to see him since the war began, over a year ago. She was also keenly aware of her mother, now sitting in the living room reading from her bible.
"I told you she'd forgive you. You didn't believe me, did you?"
"It was never mama I was afraid of. Did papa ever even mention me?"
Wolfgang hesitated for a long moment and she already knew the answer before he spoke. "No, he acted as though you were dead. Mama would mention you from time to time but he would act like he did not hear her."
"I figured as much. I suppose it doesn't matter now."
He squeezed her shoulder briefly and left. She could hear his footsteps heading upstairs moments later, probably headed toward his old bedroom to turn in early. Her own room had been left, again, largely untouched. There had been a thick layer of dust over everything other than the bed itself, which had at least been made up with clean sheets for her the previous night. They had simply shut the door, it seemed, when she left, and she didn't know what to make of it. Had her father, secretly, hoped she would return? Had her mother forbidden him from touching anything in a similar hope? Had they simply decided to put her from their minds entirely and pretend, as Wolfgang said, that she had died?
Minna puttered around the little kitchen for a few more minutes, tidying up things that didn't really need tidying. Feeling like a coward, she finally joined her mother in the living room, sitting on the sofa beside her and letting herself sink into the cushions. Eventually, her mother placed a bookmark in her old bible and set it on the side table and reached over to take her hand, rubbing at her knuckles idly in the silence of the room for several minutes.
"I've missed you, Minna. You know that, don't you? I know your father... I didn't want you to leave. It didn't matter to me so much how you dressed."
She sighed, wondering if there was anything worth saying. She didn't like picking at such old wounds. They'd long since scabbed over and then scarred over. "It's fine, mama, I'm not angry with you. I was never angry with you." That wasn't entirely true, but it was true enough.
Her mother responded by pressing a kiss to her temple and leaning against her again. Her mother had never been so demonstrative with affection when she was younger. Maybe she was trying to make up for lost time, maybe she was feeling needy after losing her husband of so many years, she didn't know. She didn't mind it, really, but it made her feel odd and vaguely restless; she had to make herself remain still and not fidget or move away.
"I'm sorry I ran away, mama, I just..."
Her mother picked up her hand again. "Shh, baby, there's nothing to be sorry for. I hated the thought of you marrying that horrible man but your father disagreed. He didn't believe it would be so bad, but he was always stubborn, he would never admit any error, even after that other poor girl had died. I'd hoped you'd come back someday."
"I thought about it, I just couldn't... I didn't want to marry someone like that, someone like papa would have chosen, if he'd tried again. Papa only thought about money, he thought that was enough to be happy."
Her mother squeezed her hand. "I know, Minna. I'd hoped... I'd hoped you'd find someone yourself, and come back with him. Your father might have been angry, but he'd have accepted it eventually."
Minna shrugged. "I didn't find anybody, so it doesn't matter. I don't know when I ever would have, there was never time for such things..."
Her mother took her hand in both of hers, holding onto it as though Minna might fly away if she let go. They sat in silence for a long time. She had to return to Stalag XIII in the morning. There was too much to say and yet nothing to say, and little time regardless to make sense of it.
"Are you happy, Minna?"
She sighed, leaning her head back on the cushions, giving the question some thought. Was she happy? Mostly she was stressed out these days, but that had more to do with the war than anything else. Before the war, she'd been happy enough, even if there were parts of her life she was unsatisfied with.
"Happier than I would have been if I'd stayed. Once the war is over..."
Her mother stood up, giving her hand another squeeze and kissing her daughter goodnight before heading upstairs. Minna watched her retreating back and sat for a while longer, flipping through her mother's bible for a bit, picking through the psalms for a few minutes before going to bed as well.
In the morning, Minna pulled on her uniform immediately after breakfast and bid her brother and mother goodbye, not knowing when she'd have any opportunity to see them again. As she climbed back into the staff car and drove away, she gave the home she'd grown up in one last look in the rear view mirror, then left it behind, wondering if it would be for the last time.
Colonel Robert E. Hogan sat and pondered for a minute, staring at the closed door where the Kommandant had left minutes ago. He wasn't quite sure what to make of what had just happened. Klink had been a strange bird from day one, but Hogan had thought he'd pegged him down pretty well. Fussy, vain, and reliably self-absorbed. A veteran of the previous war with obvious conflicted feelings (or at least a kind of uncomfortable apathy) over the current one, his nerves had clearly been shot to hell a long time ago, leaving him in a state of near-constant anxiety. The man had retreated into a well-worn cowardice that made him predictable in most respects, and Hogan had used that predictability to his advantage on a regular basis.
The recent debacle in the Hofbrau in town had given him a bit of pause, although he'd banked on Klink simply not wanting to deal with the fact that he'd caught a whole pack of his POWs outside of camp. Hogan had cornered Schultz (good ol dependable Schultz) and cooked up the cock-and-bull story about raising funds to save Klink from his own ineptitude with those two extortionists. Nobody with half a brain would believe it for a second, even Klink, but Klink's love of his own hide and his vanity were veritable forces of nature. He also possessed a will to see nothing almost on par with Schultz's, his mind balking at anything that would upset his daily routine or draw attention from his superiors. He clung to his "no successful escapes" record like a child clinging to a security blanket, over all other considerations.
Then Klink had come knocking on his door, declaring plainly what he knew, and asking to help, knowing full well what the potentially fatal consequences might be of tipping his hand. If you'd asked Hogan what he thought Klink would do today, that would not have been in the top ten, or even the top hundred options he might have suggested.
Interesting.
Hogan stood and left his office, knowing at least a few of them would have been eavesdropping anyway, to see where they all stood. He'd have Kinch contact London before the end of the day, for sure. What his handlers would make of it all was anyone's guess. Klink could be useful as an ally, or it might all be a ruse. Klink could also be disastrous as an ally, as the man's intelligence and bravery, while not as deeply abysmal as Hogan had thought (clearly), were still questionable.
Interesting.
Carter had come back down the ladder with Wilson in tow in record time, and Hogan made a brief mental note to thank him for it later. Wilson was now carefully cutting through layers of blood-soaked cloth, peeling them away from the hole in Klink's shoulder.
Hogan hadn't meant for this to happen. He'd largely left Klink out of their operations, mostly depending on the man to keep mum about what they were doing, or occasionally pass on a message. He'd not wanted to drag him into the heart of their mission at all. Klink's heart might be in the right place, he'd thought, but the man was still a bit of an idiot, after all. But he'd needed a driver, and it had seemed a safe enough job.
It would have been, he'd thought, if Klink had just done what he was told and stayed in the damned car. The gestapo agent had popped off a couple of shots into the ceiling of the old shack as a threatening gesture before turning his gun directly at Hogan, ready to shoot him dead immediately if any of his men so much as twitched. The agent had expected "Papa Bear" to show up alone and was already deeply agitated, knowing he was outnumbered and Klink, the damn fool, had stepped right into the powder keg. When that door had swung open mere moments later, the gestapo goon hadn't even hesitated to shoot first, not even taking his eyes off Hogan but just turning slightly to try and aim with his peripheral vision.
The slight moment of distraction had been all Hogan needed to put a bullet in the nazi's head, but Klink had paid the price. His only saving grace had been the nazi trying to shoot half-blind and missing anything vital, putting a slug in his shoulder instead.
So, here they were, trying to keep the moron from bleeding out. He'd already fainted, from pain or blood or both, at least, leaving Wilson to do his work uninterrupted.
Wilson paused after peeling away cloth and pressing gauze over the wound. "Hogan? I think you need to have a look at this."
Hogan walked forward to peer over Wilson's shoulder at Klink's bared chest, a pair of modest but obvious tits staring back at him. Well, that was certainly not what he'd expected.
"That's not what I think it is, Wilson, is it? Please tell me that's not—"
"There are some glandular conditions that can cause, uh... well, there's one way to find out for sure."
Hogan swallowed heavily, feeling like he was about to do something more than a bit cruel, but he had the safety of his own people and the success of the Unsung Heroes mission to think of. "Do it. We need to know what we're dealing with."
Wilson glanced around at the small crowd in the tunnel. "Face the wall, all of you. This isn't a damned peepshow I'm running here."
Newkirk, Carter, and LeBeau all seemed to hesitate for a moment. "You heard the man, turn around!"
They obeyed his order and, with some hesitation of his own, Hogan did the same, firmly pointing his eyes at a stack of crates while he heard the sound of Wilson unfastening a belt and rustling cloth behind him.
"Congratulations, Colonel... it's a girl."
A titter of laughter rose from his men, save from the medic himself. Suddenly angry, for some unidentifiable reason, Hogan turned on his heel and knelt down beside the medic, jostling the man out of the way slightly with his shoulder. He pulled Klink's clothing back together as fast as he could, replacing a rolled-up pair of socks whose function he could easily surmise, and catching only a brief glimpse of her groin, wishing he hadn't seen even that much.
"Damn, I knew I should have stayed in bed today..."
Klink was a mess, Hogan already knew that. Her situation went some way toward explaining why she was perpetually jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs (as Carter had once colorfully put it), but she still annoyed the hell out of him. He didn't want to deal with this mess, his life was complicated enough. Having her in his pocket had made their activities easier in a way, or at least more secure in the knowledge that she could be trusted to shut up and maybe move a few guards or messages around when they had need of such conveniences, but this latest revelation had thrown a wrench in the works.
Wilson had finished cutting on her shoulder, at least, loading her with enough morphine to keep her out while he fished the slug out of her shoulder where it had lodged itself. It had chipped bone but hadn't gone clean all the way through. It would have been better for Klink if it had, but what was done was done.
"She'll wake up when the morphine wears off. If we can keep infection at bay, it'll heal up in a few weeks, but she won't be able to use that arm for a while. She's also clearly not taking in enough calories and that's going to slow her recovery down, we need to focus on getting more food in her, somehow. I wonder why she's so malnourished, though, I thought the officers were given better rations..."
"They are, Wilson. I don't know why she's so damned skinny. We'll figure that out later."
Hogan glanced around at his men, who were all still loitering in the tunnel, mostly staring at the Kommandant where she was passed out on the makeshift pallet Wilson had put her on. Her face had paled to color of skimmed milk and she looked distinctly unhealthy, now that he considered it. She'd always looked rather careworn, but recent months seemed to have taken their toll on her, her face growing more drawn and dark circles taking up permanent residence under her eyes. She wasn't getting enough sleep, either, probably.
LeBeau heaved a sigh and moved closer to the unconscious woman. "Well Colonel, I don't quite know what to say? Tonight has been full of surprises."
Newkirk wandered over to join him. "That's an understatement, Louis. Blimey, who would have guessed? Ain't exactly a beauty, but I guess at that age, few women are. Still, I like to think I generally know a bird when I see one, even if she is a tough old hen."
Hogan glared at both of them. He didn't know why it bothered him so much to see them openly staring at Klink, it's not like she was an actual friend, or anything he cared about on a personal level, but he did feel responsible for her to a degree. After all, she was technically one of his operatives now. That was it, really – he didn't like one of his "cubs" being injured under his watch. It felt too much like a failure on his part. He'd known the night's operation felt off, and that's why he'd taken the others with him to begin with rather than following his contact's instructions to come alone. It was at least partly his fault, when it came down to it, that Klink was injured, even if he'd told her to stay in the car and she hadn't.
"Shut it, boys, I need to think. This could really jam up our operation if anyone finds out. There's no way in hell her superiors know, can you imagine Burkhalter allowing a woman in his ranks? No, we're going to have to keep this well under wraps."
A few hours later, Hogan was sitting on the floor of a tunnel with an injured, morphine-addled woman openly sobbing in his arms. He felt a bit like sobbing himself, wondering how the hell he managed to get himself into this situation and wondering if he should have considered a different career entirely.
What a mess...
General Burkhalter had barely made it to Stalag XIII in time to put an end to Hochstetter's interference, having rushed out the door the second one of his contacts in the gestapo had tipped him off to what was happening. That jumped-up little pissant of a gestapo major was a constant thorn in his side, as was Klink herself. Over the years, he'd done what he could to keep Klink out of trouble. He'd been grudgingly impressed by the utter boldness of what she was doing, dressing up and playing soldier as a woman, when he was younger, but as time wore on he was just increasingly done with it, and her. She'd always been more trouble than a sack of adders, and if he'd thought her reassignment to a desk job would get her out of his hair, his hopes had been swiftly dashed.
He should have seen it coming, in hindsight. She'd never joined the party, had to be constantly reminded to repeat the customary "heil"s and had seemed, at best, vaguely apathetic about the direction of the war since it started. The day he'd been informed she'd turned heel and thrown her lot in with Hogan was the first day he'd seriously considered putting in for his retirement. He was old enough to be owed a pension, and every passing day just made him consider it more and more. If it weren't for his own critical work with the underground, he'd have packed it in and moved out of Europe years ago. Argentina was supposed to be nice this time of year.
Klink standing there with her clothing ripped and the damning evidence of her sex exposed, looking thoroughly pathetic, had him already drafting his resignation letter in his head; the resistance would just have to learn to get on without him. He'd managed to wrestle a vastly oversized jacket onto her in her shocked stupor, and while he didn't think Hochstetter or the vile rat's gestapo lackeys had seen much, if anything, he was already tired just thinking about what it would take to put this fire out.
Once she stopped hyperventilating (finally), he just hoped he'd been able to get it through her thick head that she needed to be more careful. Taking one last look at her, and hoping her health wasn't quite as bad as her tattered, bruised, and thin appearance indicated, he took his leave, swearing all the way back to his car and wishing once again that he'd been able to turn Klink into his sister's problem.
He was definitely getting too damned old for this shit.
The bug in Klink's office was useful, but some days it was as much a curse as a blessing. He'd heard Hochstetter's goons as they dragged Klink around, and he knew she'd been punched at least once, the dull thud of a fist hitting flesh clear even over the tinny speaker of the modified coffee pot. Burkhalter's arrival had, ironically, saved Klink's hide, although the sounds of retching soon after made it clear his appearance had done her already-frayed nerves no favors. The ensuing conversation between them had been... interesting, to say the least. Hogan had his own suspicions about just who and what Burkhalter was, but London had pushed him off the subject every time he brought it up, telling them they had the general under observation from other corners already.
Hogan clicked off the coffeepot. "LeBeau!"
"Yes, Colonel?"
"I need you whip up a decent dinner for two for tonight. Something easy, not too rich. Bring it up to Klink's table a bit before she usually leaves her office."
LeBeau nodded, smirking at him suggestively in a way that irked him.
"Don't give me that look, LeBeau. You know what Wilson said, she's too thin, and now Burkhalter's threatening to invalid her out of service. We need to put some weight on her before this gets out of hand."
"Oh, of course Colonel, only practical concerns, non? Nothing to do with the Kommandant herself?"
Hogan rolled his eyes and went outside to smoke, he needed to kill a few hours before dinnertime anyway.
LeBeau was clearly trying and failing to not laugh and it just made Hogan even more cross, but there was a limit to what he could do, pinned down under a sleeping Klink as he was. She weighed rather too little, but he didn't want to wake her by moving, or by raising his voice, it had taken too much effort as it was to get her to calm down and rest some in the first place. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a soldier in a damned desk job looking so worn out and ill, if ever. Klink, as always, had made everything difficult, even when he was trying to help her.
"Oh I don't know, it's all rather mignon, non? I must say, you two do look awfully cozy, Colonel."
"It's not like that, LeBeau. She's not exactly my type, anyway."
Hogan was getting genuinely annoyed with LeBeau at this point. The diminutive Frenchman had been bandying around innuendo all day, and Hogan's patience was spent. He wasn't attracted to Klink. She was older than he was for starters, and he generally went for blondes. She was also all elbows and wiry muscle, and while he didn't go in for overly plump, he liked soft. There was also the simple fact that Klink very clearly hated him. Why would he waste his time chasing someone who wasn't even interested, when he could go into town and flirt a bit at one of the beer halls, and end the night with at least two extremely attractive young women hanging off of him? His skill with the opposite sex wasn't in question, and why LeBeau thought he'd have to resort to trying to bed Klink to get a leg over was utterly lost him.
"If you say so. What are you doing, then, if you're not trying to woo her?"
"Nothing! Well... something. My kid sister had a spell where she'd have a conniption during thunderstorms when she was small, maybe three or four. My mother was too busy with our baby brother to notice she'd crawl up under the bed and cry herself sick. Figured out if I wrapped her up in a blanket and held her awhile, she'd knock off the waterworks and fall asleep. Seemed worth a shot..."
LeBeau crossed his arms and glared at Hogan, apparently getting just as annoyed back at him, although Hogan had no clue why. LeBeau opened his mouth, then closed it again, apparently reconsidering whatever he was going to say, before shifting gears.
"I'd rather not throw good cooking out, especially in the middle of a war. What do you want me to do with the food, colonel?"
Hogan paused, considering the question. He'd told Klink that LeBeau could reheat it in a few hours, if her stomach settled, but looking at her now in his arms, he was loathe to move her. When he'd first scooped her up, her heart was still hammering away so hard he could feel it against his own chest and it had taken a good bit of stroking and cuddling to bring her pulse down to anything resembling normal, and she was finally asleep. He really just didn't want to undo all the hard work he'd done, even if he knew it would annoy LeBeau.
"I'd rather not wake her. I know how you feel about reheating things but just wrap it up and put it in the icebox, we can try again tomorrow. She managed a few bites before her stomach threatened mutiny, that's some progress I suppose."
"Hmph. Even a dirty bosch should be able to appreciate good cooking."
Hogan rankled at the insult to Klink, then rankled at his own reaction. He'd never cared before what his men called her, why bother now? Clearly he was getting too stressed out himself. More than anything, he also wanted a bit of shut-eye right now.
"She's our dirty bosch now, okay? And I don't think she objected to the taste. Don't take it so personally. Figure out something easy for breakfast. Poached eggs, maybe. Should go down easy enough."
Hogan felt Klink shifting slightly where he held her, readjusting her position. They'd been talking too long and she would waken fully if he didn't get LeBeau to leave, and that was the last thing he needed. Hogan jerked his head in the direction of the tunnel entrance, hoping LeBeau would take a hint, and tried to soothe Klink back into a more restful state, finding a soft spot behind an ear to rub at a bit that seemed to do the trick.
"Fine, colonel, you owe me a big favor after this!"
Peter Newkirk had been sewing ever since he was a kid, helping his mother out with it. Mum had taken up sewing as a way to get a bit more food on the table to feed her sons' prodigious appetites, as her husband's job only brought in a modest wage. As the oldest, Peter had been roped into being her apprentice.
In all those years, he couldn't think of a single job that had been quite this frustrating. He didn't want to have to deal with Klink at all. He didn't like her. He hadn't liked her when he'd thought she was a he, and had liked her even less afterward, even if he knew she was technically on their side. It wasn't right for a woman to parade around in men's clothing and pretend she was one of them, he thought. It was just bizarre. Why the hell would she even want to? War was men's business, it was the place of women to stay home and keep the fires burning for their return, that was just the way it was. Okay, sure, there were plenty of women in the resistance, but they weren't generally parading around in a colonel's uniform. And sometimes they got captured and tortured, or killed, but still...
"This is hopeless-OW, watch what you are doing, dummkopf!"
And now, standing on an upturned crate so he could try and get a proper dress on her, he really did just want to be somewhere else. Klink always seemed edgy, but at the moment the woman flatly refused to hold still, and he was about at the end of his tether with her as she fidgeted constantly.
"If you'd just hold still like I asked ya to, Kommandant, you wouldn't get pricked!"
"Maybe you should pay more attention to where you stick those pins, speaking of little pricks!"
Keep it up and I'll show you a little prick! "If the guv'nor hadn't asked me to do this, believe me, I wouldn't bother, ya fill out a dress even less than I do!" Skinny bitch!
"At least I don't have to stuff wads of tissue paper in a brassiere to get a pair of tits!"
Okay, fair enough, he dressed up as a woman sometimes, but there was a damned good reason for it! Not like her parading around 24/7 as a man, and for what?
"No, you just stuff a pair of socks down yer trousers every day to get a pair of b-"
Hogan cut in before he could finish. "Alright, both of you can stuff a damn sock in it, right now! Newkirk, be more careful, and Klink, quit squirming around so damned much, he doesn't need a moving target."
He bit his tongue, dropping the argument, because unlike some people, he knew when to defer to his commanding officer. Klink continued bickering with Hogan, still trying to argue her way out of this mission. He took the opportunity while she was sufficiently distracted to finish what he was doing. Newkirk sighed, standing up and walking around her, surveying the results of his labor. It wasn't his best work, but they were on short time. He'd also never had a model who was so clearly uncomfortable in what he'd constructed for her, and it bothered him. He hadn't made it skin-tight, there was plenty of room for her to move around in and it shouldn't pinch her or ride up too much as she sat. She ought to try and be a bit grateful, he thought, but that was probably too much to ask.
"It'll do well enough for tomorrow night. A bit of extra padding should round out her figure a bit, I know there's a war on but jutting bones ain't attractive on anyone."
Hogan shrugged at him. "Fine, get busy sewing then, the sooner she can try the finished product on the sooner she can stop bitching about it."
Newkirk breathed a sigh of relief as Klink retreated to Hogan's office to change back into her own clothes.
"Colonel, are you sure this is a good idea? She's gonna throw the whole game if she can't get her nerves under control."
"I think she'll be fine, Peter, she's spent three decades pretending to be a man, she can spend one night pretending to be a woman."
Newkirk stared at the door that hid her from view, not the least bit convinced. After another minute or two, Klink emerged and handed Newkirk the dress, which he took without comment and began sewing immediately. He was vaguely aware of Klink sitting across from him, digging through his supply of wigs. He tried not to be annoyed as she handled them carelessly, inspecting and discarding one after another onto the table. When the movement in his peripheral vision ceased, he looked up to find her staring intently at a black wig she held, her expression somewhat pained, perhaps. She turned it over in her hands, occasionally running fingertips through the locks and looking increasingly pensive.
He found himself suddenly wondering what she'd actually look like wearing it. She had black hair, although it was already going gray behind her ears.
Why had it never occurred to him that she'd probably not dressed up like a boy as a child? Somewhere in the past, she must have had long hair like that, maybe that's why it bothered her. Somewhere in the past she'd clearly cut most of it off, too, for some damned reason that still mystified him. Did she miss it? Regret it? Just feel nostalgic, or something? He was no mind reader, but suddenly it bothered him.
Klink must have felt him staring at her, because she looked up suddenly and locked eyes with him. He shook his head, breaking the uncomfortable connection.
"If that's the one you want just set it to the side, I'll shape it up for you later. We can work on planning your makeup later as well, unless you'd prefer to just do it yourself tomorrow."
Newkirk had dressed and readied himself first, then had Hogan call in Klink. He'd chased the rest of his comrades out of the barracks, wanting some peace and quiet to deal with what would no doubt be another fight. He didn't have the authority to tell Hogan what to do, but he'd had the sense to retreat to his office, once Klink was done using it as a dressing room, and leave Newkirk to work his usual magic.
Klink had proved to be more cooperative today than she'd been yesterday, at least. If anything, she seemed subdued, saying very little and answering any questions in monosyllables. She was nervous, he could tell, but she was always nervous, so that was nothing new. He'd been pleased to see the dress did actually fit her quite well. He hated to admit it, but she genuinely looked good in it, the expertly tailored fabric hugging her wasp-thin waist and accentuating the flare of her hips, as relatively slim as they were.
Scooting up as close as he could, Newkirk dug through his collection of makeup, trying to pick out colors that made sense with her pale complexion. He didn't want her to look like a ghost, but didn't think she'd appreciate being made up like a trollop either. He picked through his collection, setttling on a palette that would give her a bit of color without being overly bold.
He'd been a bit nervous himself at first, having to get so close and handle her directly, but at least she wasn't fidgeting so badly this time. He steadied her with a hand under her jaw, tilting her face one way or the other as needed, and she spent most of the time staring blankly at some imaginary point over his shoulder. He wasn't accustomed to her being so quiet, but figured he'd take it while it lasted.
As he studied her face in greater detail, he found that she wasn't actually a bad-looking woman, for her age. There were a few creases around her eyes and mouth that spoke to years of worry, but that was to be expected. A bit of eyeliner and shadow made her large blue eyes stand out even more.
"Alright, one more thing here and we'll be finished."
He leaned over, grabbed a box of lipsticks and dug through them until he found a shade of pink he seemed to like. He grabbed her by the chin, pulling her mouth open slightly, coating her bottom lip and telling her to press her lips together. He dabbed at her mouth with a piece of tissue paper until he was satisfied with the result, then pushed his chair back and stood, looking over his handiwork. Not bad, not bad at all. Hell, if she were younger, and he didn't know who and what she was, he might be half-tempted himself. Some fat old general would no doubt be rather more than pleased to have her dangling off his arm for the evening. The image of such a tableau appeared before him and gave him a slight pause for some formless reason, but he pushed the notion aside.
He'd done a good job, one of his best. Time to see the result. He gave her one of his best smiles, the sort that usually got a girl's knickers off in record time, but she didn't seem to notice, stuck somewhere in her own thoughts.
"Well, come on and take a look in the mirror, might as well see if you like it."
She glanced up at him, not quite meeting his eyes, and he tried not to take it personally.
"Does it matter whether I like it or not?"
Yes, he wanted to say, but wasn't sure it was the truth. "Er, I suppose it doesn't, but I don't want you to, uh-"
"I'm already uncomfortable with this whole thing. Just get the wig and finish this."
He looked at her for a moment, watching her stare blankly into space. She didn't look like a woman about to go out for a night on the town, but a soldier facing a firing squad. He tried to take into account the fact that she wasn't accustomed to spy work, not like this, even if she had apparently made a career out of play-acting as a man. He couldn't understand why this was so difficult for her. Well, there was nothing he could do about that, so he picked up the wig and put it on her, adjusting it a bit as he went.
"Not bad, actually." He motioned for her to turn around, so he could see how it looked from all sides, which she did, hesitantly.
"What's wrong, love? You look good, I promise."
"I'm fine, let's just go grab Hogan out of his office, get down into the tunnels and out, and get this disaster over with."
Blimey, she's miserable, he thought. If she started crying, he didn't know what the hell he'd do, other than wait for her to stop and then have to completely re-do her makeup, which he didn't want. They were already running late. Feeling a twinge of sympathy for a woman he'd baldly hated the day before, he stopped her just before she could knock on the Colonel's door. He couldn't just ignore this – indulging in a bit of self-pity was fine once in a while, but they had work to do tonight and she needed to have her head in the game by the time they got to the beer hall.
"Listen, I don't know why this is such a big deal for you, I mean you're actually a woman, unlike me, so it's not like-"
"Yes it is 'like,' if you want honesty here, Newkirk, it's nearly as much a-a-a drag act for me as it is for you! I wasn't lying – I haven't worn a dress since I was seventeen, I haven't kissed any boys since about the same age, my mother would have put me in an early grave before she'd have ever allowed me to wear makeup, and this whole thing is going to end in complete humiliation! We'll be lucky if I don't end up getting us all arrested by the gestapo stumbling around in this get-up like some clumsy animal!"
Well, then. He wasn't sure what to make of all that, and before he could even begin to scrape his thoughts together and form a response, the woman was being grabbed by his C.O., twirled around, and snogged in front of him. Hogan released Klink, who teetered on her feet for a moment but thankfully regained her footing before she actually fell.
"Well, there you go, Klink, now you've kissed a boy recently. Easy, right? I keep telling you we're really quite simple creatures."
Newkirk tried and failed not to laugh, covering it up with a fist. "Dammit, Colonel, I'll have to redo her lipstick!"
He felt a bit sorry for Klink, who still looked dazed but managed to recover enough to shove Hogan into the doorframe. Hogan teased her a bit more, and even managed to get a name out of her. Minna .
Newkirk grabbed the purse he'd be carrying as part of his disguise, and looped an arm through his new partner's, pulling her toward the tunnel entrance. Patricia was officially taking her new best friend friend out tonight, little Minna in her blue dress.
He just prayed they both made it home in one piece.
"Oh, right, that general slobbered all over her neck, too. Can't blame her for wanting a wash..."
Hogan sighed and retreated to his office, and Newkirk went to work removing his disguise. He always started with the wig and shoes first, putting them away, then removing the makeup, and then the dress itself. It was less than half an hour before he was back in his own clothing and Miss Patricia was put up for another day. The strange image of Minna disappearing into Hogan's room and Klink returning in that Luftwaffe uniform, although still with makeup on, was burned into his mind. Hogan hadn't been wrong – she was pissed off, mightily.
If Hogan had any shred of self-preservation, he'd steer clear of Klink for a few days, at least. Newkirk wasn't completely naive, he knew the woman was angry because she was embarrassed and because she'd been thoroughly rattled by the attention she'd gotten from the general. Newkirk really had been counting the seconds until Minna slapped him, or at shoved his hands aside, or moved herself away from him, but it had never happened. He'd briefly wondered if she'd been enjoying the attention, but the nauseous, panicked look she'd had on her face put paid to that whole idea.
How a woman could be that old, and have no idea how to handle a man getting a bit too forward, Newkirk couldn't imagine. Well, if he thought about it enough, he could, actually. How long had Minna actually been masquerading as Wilhelm, anyway? Had she ever even...? Newkirk shook his head, dispelling the thought. It was none of his business, really.
Part of him wanted to go talk to her, reassure her she hadn't really done anything wrong and didn't need to be embarrassed, but he knew it wouldn't be welcome. He could feel sympathetic all he wanted to, but she wasn't actually his sister, or even really a friend or anything else to him. There was nothing to be done for it but leave her alone and hope she cooled off after a while. In the end, it was going to be Hogan's problem, not his, and for that he breathed a sigh of relief.
Hogan was a coward himself, in a way. It had taken him three days to steel himself enough to approach Klink again directly. He'd had time to think over what happened, and despite the mission being successful, he felt he had actually somewhat bungled things in asking her to throw herself at that general. Newkirk might've been able to pull it off on his own, anyway, and Minna had clearly been in over her head the entire time.
She was a woman, and he'd expected her to be able to perform in precisely the same way as the other women he frequently worked with in the underground. It hadn't really occurred to him that there were specific skills involved in such a thing beyond simply possessing a pair of distracting tits (real or otherwise) until he'd been there to directly witness what happened when someone who lacked those skills tried to pull it off. It had been... educational, to say the least.
Well, LeBeau had finally scraped together the ingredients for his apology gift, and he'd tucked under his tail and finally he'd crept up the ladder to face the wrath he'd earned.
"Well, what do you need this time, Hogan? A burlesque dancer, perhaps? Although I must warn you, I've been told I have two left feet on more than one occasion."
So much for the hope she wasn't still angry. He turned on the charm and only earned himself a smack on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper like a dog who'd just pissed the carpet. Hell, he probably deserved it.
At least she was willing to not let LeBeau's cooking go to waste. He didn't need to get flack from him, too, tonight.
Everything was bound to get weird when Klink was involved. He knew this, of course. By the end of the night, they were tangled up on the couch again, having one of the most bizarre conversations he'd ever had in his life, and when she'd woken again at some ungodly hour, they'd had another one easily topping the first for strangeness.
She certainly didn't mince words on any topic, to say the least. For a woman whose sexual experience he was beginning to suspect might be written out on half a cocktail napkin, she wasn't afraid of discussing it. But then, she had spent the bulk of her life around soldiers. She wasn't some blushing innocent, and frankly he didn't know what the hell he would have done if she was.
Part of him was genuinely relieved when she got short over him saying he wasn't interested in her – for a while he'd worried the funk she'd been in ever since she'd been found out was so deep that her former ego had gotten wholly swallowed up in it. It was ridiculous, of course, but a Klink with no vanity was just wrong. There was a lot in the world that was quite wrong at the moment, and even one bit of it being set to rights made him feel a bit better. He stretched a little, rearranging Klink a bit where she was draped bonelessly over him, once again sleeping heavily.
She looked a bit healthier, he thought, than recently. At least she was eating again. He hadn't been lying – he really didn't enjoy watching her suffer, beyond a bit of teasing. She'd always been anxious, from the moment he crossed paths with her, long before he'd had any clue what he'd been dealing with. He'd assumed she was just a coward, afraid of her superiors and peers on her own side, and the enemy both. Her anxiety only seemed to increase with the passage of time, and in hindsight, it dawned on him that he himself probably had quite a lot to do with that, and while he didn't regret doing his job, he suddenly wished it hadn't taken such a hefty toll on her.
Hogan pulled the sleeping woman more securely to himself, and let himself begin to drift off again. It really was sort of nice, just holding her like this, knowing she trusted him enough to let him do it, despite her enduring caginess. Not to mention what she'd said to him, about not actually wishing she hadn't been born a woman; he suspected she'd revealed something she might not have even admitted to herself. He wondered just how much longer she'd allow it, and felt a twinge of loss at the notion she'd pull away from him, eventually. Even the war wouldn't last forever, and she'd have no more need of him afterward. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to hold onto her and never let go, and the feeling hit him like a truck.
She wasn't his type. She wasn't his type at all.
Oh, hell.
If anyone ever asked, he'd say he tried to stay away from her, honestly. He allowed weeks, months, to fly by with barely any conversation between them. Everything suddenly got so busy he had no time to dwell on it, anyway, and neither did she as she rearranged prisoners like dominoes trying to get them to fit in.
The extra blankets she'd managed to procure had been a godsend, and now she had them building another barracks after the existing ones began bursting at the seams. Where she'd gotten the wood, he had no idea – he could get into the petty cash drawer easily, with Newkirk's skills, and the damn thing had been empty for ages. He'd tried to show his appreciation, at least from a distance, when she'd been standing outside, and her only response was to disappear immediately.
Damn. Even when he was trying not to hurt her, he somehow managed to do so anyway.
She confirmed his suspicions almost immediately. The efforts toward their comfort had come, largely, out of her own pockets. He felt like a dog for even bringing it up now, even in jest. Everything he'd ever believed about Klink was slowly proving to be a lie. He'd thought her a coward. He'd thought her completely self-important and self-involved.
He kissed her, because he suddenly wanted to, desperately. Maybe he was the one who was self-involved, he thought, as she suddenly crumbled in his arms, weeping her despair into his collar as the war around them descended into chaos, and the country of her birth with it. He had little sympathy for Germany as a whole, but he could have sympathy for her.
The war came to an end, and everything was suddenly chaos of a different sort. Klink had been torn away from him by those who came as liberators, and they'd dragged her off to the other end of the camp. He'd heard the order for her to be strip-searched and had taken the commander of the liberation force to task over it. He hadn't cared in the least, and Hogan wanted to hit him. London had assured him that Klink's file as an operative of the underground had been passed along, that they would know who and what she was.
He'd tried to tell her that the Allies had learned better, that they wouldn't just grind Germany into dust in revenge. Clearly, at least some individuals hadn't learned a damn thing. He'd been debriefed, and after a few days, they handed the camp over into his control while the bulk of them packed up to go down the road to the next Stalag on their list. He'd had to fish Klink out of a cell in the cooler. She'd immediately thrown herself at him, wrapping her arms around his chest in a tight embrace, which earned them some definite Looks from the Allied soldiers who had been left behind as guards.
He'd already made up his mind he couldn't leave her here, and had spent the morning making calls while Klink hid herself away in her bedroom. She was exhausted and while he knew she hadn't been struck, he also knew she'd been mistreated in other ways. He was going to get her away from all of this, away from all these soldiers, knowing both German and Allied alike might do her harm for what she was.
It would take a bit more pushing to get the rest of her family out as well, but he'd do it. After everything, after all she'd suffered on his account, she deserved a fresh start. They both did. But somehow, stupidly, somewhere along the way, he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake, he thought, looking at her as she lay alongside him. He'd fallen in love with her.
Robert Hogan always been a terrible, irrepressible womanizer; he charmed the young, beautiful women he favored with an easy charm, and plenty of them were happy to follow him to bed, and they generally had a good time with it. Occasionally he made a genuine friend out of a few of them, but it was rarely ever much more than that.
Only twice before had he ever lost his heart to another, and neither ended well. Maybe the third time's the charm.
"Can I kiss you, Minna?"
"Thought I wasn't your type?"
Well, she wasn't, but he'd decided sometime ago, without even particularly realizing he'd done so, that he didn't really care anymore that she wasn't blonde, or buxom, or that she hadn't been twenty-two years old for quite some time.
"I'm branching out."
She took a moment to nod her assent, and he didn't hesitate this time. Things went along as things generally went along, and if she seemed a bit tense at first, it didn't last under his attention as he worked his way over her skin. His fingertips followed a well-known path he'd taken with more women than he cared to recall at the particular moment. Minna stiffened slightly as his fingertips dipped slightly beneath her waistband, and, reluctantly, he forced himself to stop. Don't screw this up, Hogan. She was simply too odd to be easily predictable, doing what they were doing, and he didn't trust himself to read her the way he would another woman.
"Just how far are you gonna let me go with this, Minna? I, uh, don't want to presume..."
She stared up at him, her pupils blown wide in the dim light of her bedroom, reducing the stormy gray-blue of them to a thin ring. Over a full minute passed and she still hadn't said a word. Damn. He began to pull away, determined to give her whatever space she needed despite his own frustrations (physical and otherwise). She'd seemed to enjoy his attention, earlier, but maybe it was just too late for this sort of thing, maybe it simply had no place in her long, complicated life. Why does everything have to be awkward and annoying with this woman?
His retreat was suddenly halted by a hand grabbing hold of his shirt, pulling him back to her. He propped his weight up on his elbows, looking down at her, searching her face for something he could understand, but still, she remained silent.
"You know, sometimes everything you are thinking is written all over your face, and then there are other times you're damned hard to read. You're not giving me anything to work with here, Minna. What's going on?"
Her eyes dropped from his, slightly, as she ran a hand over his chest in a few idle circles, as though fascinated by what she found there. She wanted him to remain close to her, clearly, but didn't seem to know what to do about it once she got him there. He was already fairly certain of the answer, but he had to ask anyway, if only for his own peace of mind. "Have you ever actually-"
"Shut up, Hogan, and don't ask me that. You know you won't like the answer either way. I'll let you know if I don't like what you're doing, is that enough?"
He thought about it for a moment, and had to admit she was right, so he nodded and kissed her again, and more.
Minna stepped back into her childhood home for the last time (for certain, now), roughly three years since her previous visit. Her father's funeral had been brief, and she had not stayed long. Her reunion with her mother had been more significant to her than the loss of a father who had rejected her decades before. She'd thought her mother had washed her hands of her daughter as well, despite her brother gently wheedling her over the years to make contact. While her father had been alive, there had been no point – even if her mother had forgiven her, he certainly never would, and putting her foot into that bear trap had been out of the question, or at least she'd thought so at the time.
In hindsight, she felt she'd made a mistake, perhaps. Maybe she should have tried harder. Maybe she should have worked out some way to see her mother without her father knowing, although that might have been impossible. But she hadn't even tried. It was too late to do anything about lost time now, and she just hoped she'd take better advantage of what time she had left with mama.
The living room was crowded. Her mother and brother were there, of course. Her brother's wife, Anna, as well, and she had both children with her, and the three of them already looked nervous. Her nephew, Karl, had recently turned fourteen, and her namesake, who mostly went by Wilma, was almost eleven. She hadn't seen either of them during the war, and they'd both grown over a foot since she'd last laid eyes on them. Karl was nearly her height and would no doubt surpass her in a few months. Wolfgang was just over six feet tall, and Anna wasn't exactly tiny, so it wasn't surprising their children would exceed the average. The children greeted their "Onkel Wilhelm" warmly, though, crowding around her to give her a hug at the same time. She struggled to get her arms around both of them, but managed.
There was no more time to socialize, as the taxicab was waiting outside. It would be a squeeze to fit in, but they had to be at the airport on time and any conversation would have to wait. She had not packed much herself, only a single bag with few small mementos and necessary toiletries. Hogan had promised her he'd help her get her feet under her. Beyond that, she had the clothes on her back. She'd kept her boots, as she had no other shoes, and her old uniforms were gone anyway, discarded by the Allies who'd taken over Stalag XIII after they'd thrown her in a cell in the cooler once Hogan had departed the previous week. They'd ransacked everything she'd owned, ostensibly looking for documents and information, but she knew they'd also destroyed much out of sheer spite, despite knowing she'd been an Allied agent. To some of them, a German was a German, clearly. It didn't matter. She at least had one pair of serviceable boots left, and had found a pair of trousers and a shirt that weren't too badly torn and had sewn them back together as well as she could manage (she'd never been particularly good at it, despite her mother's efforts to teach her sewing as a child).
Wolfgang took charge of the situation, and she was glad to let him run things for a while, and helped cram the family's luggage into the trunk of the taxi while her family crammed themselves into the seats. Her brother took the front passenger seat and Minna ended up crammed in between her mother and sister-in-law with Karl awkwardly perched on her lap, his head obscuring her vision completely. He was entirely too big to be sitting in anyone's lap, but there was nowhere else to put him.
The ride to the airport seemed to take forever, and there was little conversation. The whirlwind of getting their passports and papers sorted and finding the correct plane and getting into seats took up the rest of the morning.
The civilian passenger plane, now mostly crammed full of American servicemen and freed POWs (none she recognized) being sent home, bore little resemblance to the old Fokker she'd flown decades ago, but the sound of the engines and the feel of lifting off the runway were familiar enough. She settled back into the seat, determined to get some sort of rest in the hours it would take to cross the Atlantic ocean.
Her nephew had swapped places with her mother as soon as they were in the air, and now had his sister in his lap as they crowded at the window. The novelty wore off after an hour or so, and Wilma swapped from Karl's lap to her own.
"Onkel, are we really going to America?"
She'd been drifting off but jerked awake at the girl's question. "Yes, we'll be there in a few hours. The city is called Cleveland. I think you will like it there, eventually." She ran a hand over the girl's braided hair, as solid black as her own had been at that age.
"How come we get to go? My friends are staying behind..."
"I have an American friend, Colonel Hogan, he sorted things out. I'm sorry you had to say goodbye to your friends, but it's... safer, this way."
"I thought the Americans hated us."
Minna sighed, hugging the girl tighter. "It's not that simple, baby. It's... it's complicated. Not all Germans agreed with the nazis-"
"I know that, Onkel. But weren't you running one of their prisoner of war camps? Papa said you were kind to the prisoners but..."
Minna heard her mother and brother both clearing their throats noisily in the seats behind her. Yes, yes, they expected her to tell them she wasn't really "onkel" anything at all, but their tante. It felt too complicated. Never mind Wilma now pestering her about her allegiances. Well, if not now, when?
Minna thought about what she and Hogan had been up to, and laughed to herself. "Oh, I was more than kind to them, baby, we all stayed quite busy together keeping the nazis on their feet in the area. A few trains, a few bridges... Carter – he was one of those 'prisoners' - he was quite good with explosives." Minna heard a short gasp from behind her, her mother she knew, reacting to the news that her daughter had been involved with the rather dangerous business of the resistance. Her brother and his wife made no audible reaction.
"You blew things up?!" Karl had turned from gazing out the window to stare at her, his eyes going wide.
"Personally? No. But I made sure the rest could be where they needed to be."
Wilma turned in her lap, wrapping arms around her. "You could have been caught, Onkel, weren't you scared?"
She dropped a quick kiss onto the girl's head. "Terrified, but Colonel Hogan was quite good at what he did. There were a few close calls, but we managed to keep out of too much trouble."
She rubbed at the old wound in her shoulder. It had healed up nicely, but it occasionally ached still, usually when the weather changed. Karl continued to stare at her openly, his jaw slack. She rubbed a hand over her face, wondering if she should just drop the other shoe while he was already completely stunned.
"Oh, by the way, I have another little secret for the two of you, since we're leaving Germany. I'm not actually your onkel at all."
Karl's mouth finally shut and he tilted his head at her. "You're not related to papa?"
She blinked, realizing her error. "What? Of course I am, he's still my brother. But I'm not his – I'm his sister and always have been."
She startled slightly as one of Karl's hands shot across the seat and pressed at her cheek, and Wilma stared intently up at her. Karl's hand rubbed at her face and after a moment, she gently dislodged it, tired of being prodded at. Her niece, still wrapped around her, craned her head back at an impossible angle and propped her chin on Minna's breastbone. She could feel the girl's breath against her throat.
"T..tante Wilhelm? That sounds funny."
"Wilhelmina, actually, just like you, but Tante Minna will do fine."
Wilma shrugged and dropped her cheek back onto her aunt's shoulder, content, apparently, with the explanation. Karl, however, was still staring at her, although his mouth had shut firmly and his eyes were narrowing and the corner of his mouth tilting up in an expression that suddenly reminded her of Hogan. "You're really a girl?"
"Yes, Karl."
"But you've been in the military forever! They wouldn't let a girl in!"
"They didn't know they were letting a girl in, I tricked them. It's funny what a haircut and some clothes can do, men can be rather stupid you know."
"No we're not!"
She laughed at his ire. "Well, some of them are. Not you, necessarily, if you continue to keep up in school. Most men who become soldiers do so because they're too silly to be anything else."
She tried not to laugh again at Karl's nose crinkling up in undisguised annoyance. "If they're silly, what does that make you, then?"
"Extra silly, I guess. But it's worked out well enough for me."
"If it doesn't matter anymore, why are you still dressed like a boy?"
Minna blinked, then shrugged. "I didn't have anything else to wear."
Karl turned in his seat, leaning up on his knees. "Mama, give her something else to wear, she looks stupid for a girl."
"Sit down, Karl, and don't call your tante stupid again. If she actually wants to change, I'll lend her something once we land."
The boy plopped down heavily, crossing his arms and slouching. He was irritated with her, although she wasn't certain why he was taking it so personally. He sat fuming in silence, shooting her looks from the corner of his eye he probably thought she didn't notice. She sighed, wishing she were better at handling things like this. She loved her brother's children like her own and hated to think Karl might not want anything to do with her now.
"Karl, darling... I never meant to deceive you, but this is something I started years before you were even born and once I was in it, there was no way out without getting into a lot of trouble, especially after the nazis took over. I don't know if you are aware of what they did with people like me, but it wasn't nice."
Karl huffed and stared out of the window in silence for several long moments while Minna's heart sunk into her shoes.
"Onk... tante, it's... it's fine. I don't care. It's just weird, okay?"
Minna bit her lip, forcing herself not to laugh at her nephew repeating a phrase Hogan had spoken years ago just after finding out himself what she was. "Well, there are worse things than being weird, you know, whatever those goosestepping morons tried to cram into your poor head at all of those meetings."
Karl scratched at his neck, pulling his knees up to his chest. "I didn't want to go to those, they made me-"
"I know, love, I'm not accusing you of being like them, but you must know what kind of attitude I was up against."
The air between them grew tense as her nephew fell silent again, staring at the clouds out of the window. She knew there were other eyes on her as well, but the other passengers so far had stayed out of it. She hoped most of them spoke little or no German, but a few of them undoubtedly had enough to catch the gist of what they were discussing. Her brother's hand landed briefly on her head, tousling her hair before withdrawing. Her mother was snoring lightly in her seat and whatever Anna thought, she kept to herself.
Minna sat rubbing idly at Wilma's back while the girl cuddled against her, letting herself drift in and out of a light doze. People occasionally got out of their seats and walked the aisle or milled about, as one would expect on such a long flight. A few of them glanced down at her and her family, but thankfully nobody seemed inclined to harass them.
"How did you trick them, though? You don't have much of, um... well you're pretty skinny, but wouldn't the doctors at least notice you don't have a p- Ow!"
Minna laughed as her sister-in-law leaned over the seat to cuff her son over the head. "I got around that little detail. Maybe I'll tell you how when you're older." No need to give him any ideas about socks, he was already at the age where he wanted to impress girls.
Wilma shifted on her lap, turning around to sit with her back against Minna, yawning as she shook off her nap. "Who cares about that anyway, Karl, that's boring. Tell us about that American Colonel, Tante Minna! Did he know you were a girl?"
Minna hugged her niece closer, smiling into the girl's hair. At least one of them still loved her. "Well, not at first, but he found out later. You see, I was in town one day at the Hofbrau because there were these two nasty men, both real nazis, who were trying to steal money from me, and there was one of my prisoners, outside of my prison and in a German officer's uniform..."
By the time she got to point in the story where she'd been shot by a gestapo officer, even Karl was staring at her wide-eyed again and asking her for more details about what happened. And by the time they landed in America, he didn't seem to care much at all anymore about whether she was his onkel or his tante. She did take up Anna's offer on a change of clothing, though, and also helped herself to a pair of her brother's trousers, as the cackhanded stitching she'd hastily repaired her outfit with was already coming undone. They would have to part ways for a time, but she wouldn't let them get too far away again.
It had only been a week and a half, just enough time for him to get his discharge papers, get home, and sort out some of his personal business.
It had been over four years since he'd last been home. His parents had promised to look after the house for him, a modest two-bedroom he'd bought himself just months before being shipped out, and it seems they had done as he'd requested. A few phone calls had the water and electricity restored, and after letting the faucets run long enough to clear out the pipes, it was at least habitable. His mother had clearly dropped in to dust things, and at some point had cleaned out the pantry and the refrigerator. The closet had smelled strongly of mothballs, and he'd spent an entire day at the local laundromat dealing with the smell on his civilian wardrobe. The radio and phonograph record player still worked.
He had friends in the civilian aviation industry and it had only taken a few phone calls to secure himself a job as a commercial pilot. It'd taken another few phone calls to secure a job for Minna, at the same airline, but in the accounting department. He knew she missed flying, but they'd probably take as dim a view of her damaged vision as the Luftwaffe had. Accounting wasn't thrilling, but it brought in a decent income, and the position she'd have wasn't one generally open to women, but which suited her previous experience. It was good to have friends, he thought. He'd washed the bed linens for both rooms, not knowing, precisely, what shape their relationship would take upon her arrival. Time would tell, he supposed.
He'd gotten her flight information from a friend who worked as a traffic controller, who had gotten it through a few other hands, but he had no doubt Wilhelmina Klink would be in the United States of America by mid-afternoon. He pulled on his hat and old bomber jacket, the same one he'd worn for years at Stalag XIII, and climbed into the new Cadillac convertible he'd gone out and bought on a whim the previous day when the old '37 Nash still sitting in the garage had refused to crank, even after he'd replaced all the fluids and put air in the tires.
He drove up to the airport, and it didn't take long for him to find her among the crowds of people. Only Minna would ever dress like that, in a pastel-colored woman's blouse, probably borrowed off her sister-in-law, a pair of men's dress slacks that were too large for her and held up with a belt and a prayer, which probably belonged to her brother, and those same standard-Luftwaffe-issue boots she'd worn as long as he'd known her. Her hair ruffled in the breeze, spilling messily over her forehead. Maybe she'd get it cut again, maybe she wouldn't. He could ask her about it later.
Minna stood after he pulled the car to a stop, smiling brightly at him.
[A/N - Takes place somewhere between Hochstetter & the blankets scene. Inspired by me rolling my eyes at the pearl-clutching whiners who are bitching about the period joke in the movie Turning Red, which is ridiculous given some kids literally get their period while still in elementary school. Anyway, periods. They're a thing.]
Klink woke up well before her alarm went off, and groaned, feeling a familiar cramping in her lower belly, hoping it wasn't what she thought it was. She rolled over onto her side and froze, her eyes going wide in the darkness of her bedroom in mild horror as her fear was confirmed. Damn. Carefully, she threw the covers off and slid to her feet without letting her backside touch the mattress or bedding, and flipped on the table lamp.
Mercifully, the sheets themselves were clean. Hiking up her nightgown, she waddled into the bathroom, already feeling the hot stickiness oozing down the inside of her thigh, making her cringe. She'd been eating better and had put back on a bit of weight, but given her age, she'd (perhaps foolishly) thought she was finally done with this shit. It had been over three months since it had last showed its proverbial face. No rest for the weary.
She stripped her nightgown off and found only a small stain at the back, still fresh enough to rinse out in the sink, and spent a few minutes erasing the evidence. Her underwear was probably a lost cause, she thought, as she threw the nightgown over the shower curtain rod and slipped out of them, balling them up in one fist and tossing them unceremoniously into the hot embers still burning in the heating stove.
Returning to the bathroom, she plugged the tub and sat down on the toilet while it filled with hot water. It was going to be one of those days, clearly. She still had a stash of cotton bandages she'd filched from the medical supplies months ago, the last time she'd had to deal with this shit. It was probably enough for a couple of days, but she'd need more. It shouldn't be too hard to get her hands on it, though. Being Kommandant had its privileges.
Once the tub filled enough, she cut off the tap and sank into the hot water, letting it soothe the pain in her belly somewhat. Barely past 4am, at least she had time before roll call.
It was barely past 9am but she was well past her limit. The pain had gone past merely annoying into the realm of too distracting to ignore, and she'd already made so many mistakes on one form she'd had to start over. She couldn't quite sit up straight due to the cramping, which was making her back hurt as well, and finally she just threw everything into a drawer on her desk and told Hilda she had a stomachache and would be indisposed until further notice. If any of the brass showed up, Schultz would just have to deal with them himself.
Half bent over, she ignored Hilda's worried look and retreated to her quarters. She collapsed onto her sofa, rolled up into a fetal position, cursing in three different languages and wishing she knew a few more. The clock ticked and she could hear voices and movement outside. She managed to doze off for a bit despite the pain.
She woke up some time later to a familiar scraping sound as the stove was pushed aside from the tunnel entrance. I really ought to put a lock on that thing, she thought, far too late to do anything about it.
"Go away, Hogan."
She opened her eyes and saw his legs standing in front of her where she was still balled up on the sofa. He was probably staring down at her with a smirk but she couldn't be bothered to look up to confirm it.
"Hilda said you'd excused yourself for the rest of the day. What happened? I didn't see anyone come into the camp, what's got you so rattled this time?"
"Nothing, Hogan. I'm just not feeling well. Now go away."
"I need to talk to you, and it really can't wait. We've got a pilot downstairs we need to get to a contact in town tomorrow, and I need your help."
"Whatever, Hogan, we can discuss it in the morning." Good lord, he was annoying sometimes. Dull pain flared in her belly and she just wanted him gone.
"Oh, c'mon, Klink, whatever the hell is wrong with you can't be that bad. It's not like you're bleeding to death."
I might be, she thought, but she wasn't inclined to discuss the truth of the matter with a man. "Just leave, Hogan, or you can forget about me doing any damned thing for you tomorrow."
He stood for a moment, then leaned down slightly, pressing a hand onto her forehead for a brief moment. "You don't have a fever."
No shit.
He grabbed at her, pulling at her roughly until she was halfway upright, and her limited supply of patience finally ran out. She struck out blindly, and he doubled over when her fist made impact just below his solar plexus. He stumbled backwards and she just threw herself back on the sofa, curling up again, but this time with her back to him. She was done with the pain, and done with his bullshit. She couldn't do anything about the pain but she'd send him packing one way or another.
"What the fuck, Klink!?"
"Get lost, Hogan!"
Hogan glared at Klink where she had wedged herself into the sofa cushions, shaking his head. Klink could be moody, but she rarely resorted to physical violence. She hadn't been feverish, and the morning had been perfectly routine, with nothing obvious that could trigger off another anxiety spell. She looked perfectly healthy, other than acting like a complete lunatic.
He was a colonel for a reason, though, and knew when a tactical retreat was called for. It was nearly time for lunch anyway, so he made his way back down through the tunnels and up into Barracks 2, throwing himself into a chair at the table and scratching his head, wondering where he'd messed up so badly to earn a sucker punch to the stomach. It's not like he'd never manhandled Klink a bit before, and she normally didn't put up too much resistance.
The door opened and shut as Carter let himself in. He had his cap in his hands, his brow still a bit sweaty from the volleyball game that had just finished up outside.
"What's wrong, Colonel?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure? Klink is... well I don't know what the hell is wrong with her, she's in a nasty mood though. I went to talk to her about fixing our little problem waiting downstairs, and she socked me in the stomach like I'd just insulted her mother!"
Carter blinked at him, then sat down, wringing his cap in his hands a bit. "Seriously? You just talked to her and she hit you, just like that? That doesn't really sound like Klink..."
Hogan chewed on his lip a bit, wondering if he should tell the full truth. Carter was squirrely at the best of times, but his oddball perspective on things sometimes turned out to be perspicacious. "Well, not exactly. She wasn't in her office, and Hilda told me she'd gone back to her rooms, so I took the tunnel over. I found Klink laying on her sofa kinda balled up funny. She didn't have a fever and I don't know why she'd have another stomachache, but she refused to even listen to me... I suppose I shouldn't have tried to make her sit up and listen, the second I pulled her up, she socked me hard."
Carter's eyes went wide. "You actually grabbed her-"
Hogan scowled, feeling defensive. "It's not like I haven't done it before! She doesn't usually react like that."
"My dad always told me you never lay hands on a woman without her permission, Colonel."
Hogan stared at Carter for a moment, trying not to laugh, feeling a bit like he was being chastised by a child. Carter was so old-fashioned at times, but Hogan had to concede he might have a point. Hogan had become accustomed to taking certain liberties with Klink and maybe was getting a bit too comfortable with her. She was part of his operation now, knowingly so, but it's not like they had any real sort of relationship, at least nothing that would give him the right to that much license. Most of the time she seemed to barely tolerate his presence, even if she also sometimes seemed to crave his attention, however grudgingly. Nothing about her ever entirely made sense.
"Fine, Carter, you're probably right. I got a little too rough, I guess, but it still doesn't explain why she reacted so dramatically."
Carter leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a while. "How old is she, again?"
"Fifty, I think. Her birthday wasn't that long ago."
Carter dropped his hat on the table and rubbed at his chin a bit. "Well it's not impossible, then... I don't think there's anything seriously wrong with her, but you should probably leave her alone for the next few days."
"We need her help tomorrow, I can't wait a few days. That French pilot is going to start getting antsy in the tunnels, and I can't blame him, it's pretty claustrophobic down there. This would all go a lot more smoothly if Klink could arrange to have some personal business in town. I'd rather the rest of us stay out of the woods for a while, Hochstetter is still in a tizzy over his 'missing' agent and Kinch saw a few of his goons just off the road a couple days ago on the way back from the drop. It's just too risky to use the tunnel right now."
Carter's face twisted this way and that, in the exaggerated way it did sometimes when he was thinking something over. It always gave Hogan the impression of a kid chewing on a particularly sticky piece of taffy.
"If you want my suggestion, Colonel, dig into the chocolate stash for a few bars and take them to her. Just leave them for her and don't pester her. Then try asking again maybe tomorrow. I can't guarantee she'll be any better, but there's a chance she might."
"You're talking like you know exactly what's wrong with her, Carter."
"Well, yeah, I have a pretty good idea, although obviously I can't know a hundred percent for sure."
Hogan rolled his eyes. Usually it was everyone else talking to Carter like he was a child, and it was occasionally warranted. Having it come the other direction was a bit galling to his ego, frankly. "Spill it, Carter, what's going on with Klink, in your esteemed opinion?"
Carter's cheeks reddened slightly. "Well, you know I have sisters back home, right?"
"Yeah, what about them?"
"Well, it wasn't a big house, and we didn't have room for a lot secrets."
Hogan's stomach twisted slightly as it began to dawn on him where Carter was going. "You don't mean..."
"Yeah, boy—I mean, Colonel, I think she's probably just having a period."
Hogan grimaced, not wanting to think about this at all, and feeling suddenly irritated with the whole thing. "So what if she is? Women have had... that... forever, so-"
Carter tilted his head slightly, giving Hogan an odd look. If he didn't know any better, Hogan would think he was being judged and found somewhat lacking.
"Colonel, I don't know about Klink, but my youngest sister had a terrible time of it for years, she couldn't move at all sometimes, she hurt so bad. I don't think it's that bad for all of them, and it wasn't so bad for her anymore after a few years, but-"
Hogan held his hands up defensively. "I don't want to know, Carter. Seriously, I don't want to know. This isn't something men are supposed to know anything about!"
"Why not? It's just part of nature, like everything else." Carter shrugged at him like it was nothing and all Hogan wanted to do was end the conversation right then and there. The whole thing was messy and just a bit revolting, frankly. It was right up there with childbirth on the list of things he never wanted to think about when he was around women.
"Yeah, there's a lot of things in nature I don't want to see, Carter, and that's one of 'em"
Carter actually had the gall to roll his eyes at his commanding officer in response, which made Hogan even more irritated.
"Well, you asked me... what am I supposed to do? I don't like lying, Colonel."
"Yeah, and you're terrible at it anyway. Fine, ask a stupid question..." Hogan huffed, rolling his own eyes. None of this solved the problem at hand. He needed Klink to cooperate, and if she really were in the middle of... that... he'd somehow have to work around it. He simply didn't have time to deal with "nature" right now, or Klink's malingering. How bad could it be, anyway? From what he understood, it was just a bit of blood, big deal.
"I really can't wait on her histrionics, Carter. How did your family get your sister off her ass and moving?"
Carter's nose tilted up, his lip curling with it. He was generally pretty affable, but he wasn't completely without a temper, and Hogan realized he'd just poked it a bit. Could this day get any more frustrating?
"My parents didn't try to make her do anything when she was like that, and it wouldn't have worked anyway. Mama would give her a hot water bottle, I dunno how much it actually helped though."
"Do we even have a hot water bottle anywhere in this camp?"
"I haven't seen one since Peter accidentally punched a hole in the old one with a sewing needle. I mean, you can try the chocolate, one of my other sisters always craved the stuff, she'd eat any in the house if you didn't hide it from her."
"Yeah, I'll try that I guess. I really don't have time for this shit..."
Carter stood, pulling his cap back on. "Well, it's time for lunch, so I think I'll head to the canteen now. Try being nice to Klink, maybe? It'll probably work out better than dragging her around."
Hogan shot Carter a look, his comments bordering on insubordination, in his opinion, but there wasn't much point in arguing. "Fine, I'll join you, maybe this will be easier on a full stomach."
Klink's head had started hurting as well by lunchtime and she had moved from the sofa to curl up on top of the duvet in the dimmer light of her bedroom by the time the tunnel entrance opened again. She shifted to glare over her shoulder at him as he invited himself into her bedroom, turning the lamp on without so much as a by-your-leave.
"Oh, there you are."
"I thought I made myself clear earlier, Hogan."
"You did. I, uh, brought a peace offering?"
Klink's eyes narrowed at him. She didn't really care what the hell he brought, she was tired and in pain and didn't want to deal with his nonsense, and laid back down, determined to ignore him until he left.
"Fine, I'll leave the chocolate on your dresser. You can have it later."
Chocolate would be nice, but she couldn't quite unfold herself at the moment to get to it, so it didn't matter. She heard him setting down his offering and expected him to return to the tunnel, but he didn't move.
"If you're waiting for an apology, Hogan, you're not getting one."
"Fine, Klink, I earned that punch, I get it. I'm not gonna drag you anywhere, I promise. I just need to know one thing – would you be able to get to Hammelburg tomorrow, just briefly? I need someone deposited at the Hofbrau for pick-up, nothing more."
She was still annoyed with him but took the time to consider the question. She'd agreed to help him on that fateful day, what felt like a lifetime ago, and had tried to hold to that promise, even after it had gotten her shot. "...I don't know. Maybe."
Hogan rolled his eyes, feeling his patience running thin again. Carter had admonished him to be sympathetic, but it didn't come naturally to him the way it apparently did Carter. "Is there anything I can do to help with, uh, this?" He felt his cheeks warm and simply asking the question.
"Not really, no. I'll let you know tomorrow if I can drive."
Hogan ran a hand through his hair, unsatisfied with the answer. He didn't like problems he couldn't solve, especially ones he didn't even like to admit he didn't really understand. He should have brought Carter with him, maybe. He clearly wasn't uncomfortable with "nature" no matter how weird and off-putting it got. Must be the Indian blood, Hogan thought to himself.
Well, there was one thing he could try. It had helped before, although the problem had been quite different. He shucked his jacket, leaving it over the back of the chair and curled up around Klink from behind. She elbowed him in the ribs, halfheartedly, but didn't punch him in the guts this time. She had her knees curled up nearly to her chest but he managed to wedge a broad hand against her belly.
"That where it hurts?"
She uncurled slightly, pushing his hand to a spot between her navel and hip and he pressed down gently but firmly. She sighed in something like relief. Well, there were worse ways to waste an afternoon than playing human hot water bottle, he supposed. The things I do for the cause...
