Hi, my dear readers,

Once again a big thank-you for the feedback and the thoughts you shared with me – even among mails. I'm still so very happy that you have come to love this story so much, and I hope that this will continue.

Like I promised, the next chapters will be full of emotions, sweetness, some angst and even deeper thoughts. Both colonels have reached the limits – every one of them in their own ways. And they really can only heal by staying together.

The first shaking aftermath will be within this chapter, and I'm looking forward to your reactions to it.

Have not only fun, but also maybe second thoughts about the one or other thing.

Love

Yours Starflight

Chapter 17 – Aftermaths

The morning and midday went by uneventfully. Schultz stayed in Barracks 2 for a little time longer, and afterwards Kinch informed London and asked them permission to decline any missions in the near future. Hogan would be in no condition to do anything besides healing within the next two or three weeks, and he was the mastermind behind every operation. Without him there were no successful missions. The Heroes remembered all too well the one time they wanted to do something on their own to surprise Hogan, and in the end only his clever and quick thinking saved them all from being revealed and arrested. So, they all agreed that an operation without Hogan would be suicide, and they wouldn't do anything before he was back in charge. London confirmed the request and Kinchloe had a short but intense time speaking with General Butler, informing him in detail of what had happened to his friend and protegee.

Schultz 'fought' with Klink's paperwork and informed Hilda about the newest events; insisting that she still took the day off to 'heal' her ankle. Wilson and Carter took turns with cooling Hogan's facial swellings and attempting to bring down his fever. LeBeau made lunch for the colonel and Klink, but both men ate little. Hogan, still numb towards everything around him, was barely able to eat anything, and Wilson all but fed him the broth LeBeau had made and assisted him in drinking another two glasses of water, while Klink wasn't hungry, but ate a few of the meat and potatoes LeBeau had prepared for him. Afterwards both fell asleep again, and Wilson – who regularly checked on a restlessly sleeping Hogan – also peeked two or three times in Klink's interim sleeping chamber; checking his fever and how his lungs sounded.

Both colonels slept through the whole afternoon. In the evening Wilson showed up one last time, helped Hogan to the bathroom to relieve himself, and gave both men another dose of penicillin and some pain-killers, before he left them for the night. Schultz reported to Klink that the evening roll call was done and that all prisoners were present – and wearing their own clothes – and then something close to peace settled over Stalag 13.

*** HH ***

"Who are your contact-men?", "With whom did you meet in Hammelburg last Monday?", "How do you leave and return to Stalag 13?", "Who works together with you?", "Does Klink know of your missions?"

The questions seemed to come from everywhere, but he couldn't see anyone. There was only darkness and coldness.

Something whistled through the air and then pain exploded on his back – over and over again. He screamed, but there seemed to be no end.

A face appeared in front of him – the face of a man in his middle age, with a dark moustache, dark hair and piercing dark eyes, filled with hate. The man gripped for him and sneered, "I'll break you, Hogan. I'll bring you down on your knees and make you beg, so start talking. The sooner you do, the sooner everything will be over for you."

Talking…

He couldn't talk to this man. He was the enemy. The mortal enemy! He would hunt the others if he got the information he wanted.

A glowing iron was suddenly in front of his face and was lowered towards his belly. He felt the incredible heat, the voice demanded answers from him and he heard himself pleading to contact someone who could help – and then the metal touched his left side.

He screamed like he had never done before in his life. There seemed to be no end to the burning agony, before he all of sudden was in front of a basin. The next moment he was being pushed under water. He tried to rise but something held him down…

Down…

Without a chance to breathe…

"Hogan, wake up! It's a dream, nothing more."

Another voice. It seemed to come from afar, but it didn't belong to the man who was torturing him. This voice belonged… If he could only remember, but he couldn't. Not with the water that was invading his lungs, making him cough and…

"Robert, please wake up. You are safe now. He will never hurt you again. I promise. Just wake up!"

He felt himself being shaken and then the coldness was melting away as something warm was wrapped around him. Searching for any help he could get, he tried to grip for this warmth and felt something solid beneath his hands – something that seemed to pull him out of the merciless water.

"That's right, Rob. Hold tight. I will not let you down. Never! Everything is okay. Just wake up. Come back."

That voice was familiar. It had been there as he had been under water before… It meant… safety?

He thought he saw another face in front of him – one with a balding head and a dark ring of shiny hair; peppered with the first hues of silver. A mouth pouted and also smiled, blue eyes looked gently at him – eyes of which one was covered with a glass. How odd. Glasses were usually on both sides, weren't they? Yet this odd kind of vision aid was also very familiar.

A name whispered at the edge of his consciousness. A name that meant caution, but also fun – evenings spent playing chess, hours in a shabby office full of half serious, half humorous discussions, bargains and… sometimes even philosophy. He saw a desk with an odd old helmet that had something pointy on the top – a pickelhaube. He saw his own cap lading on it and an elegant hand pushing it away, accompanied by the voice that protested…

"Ah, come on Colonel Klink, it's only an old helmet."

"It is my grandfather's, Hogan, so show some respect."

"All right – sorry."

Klink…

Shots rang around him through the darkness that lit up fires nearby. He tried to run away, but his right hand was chained to something. Death was coming for him, he couldn't flee and then…

Klink was there and shot the chain apart – they ran, ran for dear life…

A little room, a single bed, not much space but they cuddled against each other, warming each other…

Long arms were wrapped around him, a weight lay on him, soft breath danced along his shoulder… and his face.

His face seemed to burn but the breath was cool and soothing…

The darkness melted away…

The soft golden light of a lamp enlightened the room around him; wood cracked in a stove.

From somewhere the ticking of a clock was audible…

He found himself sitting on something soft and clinging to something – or, better said, someone. The long arms from his dream enveloped him carefully and his partial sight caught dim light and something like a bleached shirt in front of him. Something lent against his temple, a gentle voice whispered comforting words at his ear and… he was being rocked softly?

Only slowly his mind began to work, yet he needed a minute or more until he began to recognize his real surroundings. He was sitting on a bed, someone was holding and soothing him, it was warm in the room and…

And then he felt the pain in his whole body. Some places were dull, others burnt, others stung. He felt nauseous, his head ached, his visual field was small and everything was a little bit blurry. His throat was sore and he had trouble breathing properly. His limbs were heavy like lead, he was somehow freezing and his face, which felt twice the normal size, seemed to be gently pressed against something that could be a shoulder.

A low groan escaped him. He definitely wasn't well, to put it mildly. To say it clearly, he felt like shit!

"Better now?" the quiet voice from his dreams asked by his ear, and he needed a further long moment to recognize it. The accent was unmistakable but the voice sounded odd. Hoarser than he had ever heard it before.

"Klink?" he whispered.

"Yes, it's me," came the soft reply.

Ah, good. Klink was here and he…

One moment, Klink was holding him?

Rising his head he looked at his German counterpart. In the dim light of the switched-on lamp on the nightstand, he took in the tousled coil of hair, the missing monocle and that the older man wore his 'famous' nightgown. He had even skipped from slipping into his dark blue bathrobe, as if he had been shooed out of bed without any chance to make himself presentable. His cheeks were feverish, flushed and his eyes, which were glassy and reddened, glanced with concern and compassion at him.

This all was very odd!

Why was he sitting in bed, feeling like he had had an unpleasant rendezvous with a truck and how did it come that a worried Klink, who had just held him in his arms, was beside him?

And then the memories crashed down on Hogan like a tidal wave. For a moment he could only sit there; pictures, voices, emotions and pain seemed to whirl around him; trying to overwhelm him, making him sway both mentally and physically. He remembered the agony, the iciness, the merciless beating, the fear, the despair, the horror of being drowned…

Then slender hands gripped his underarms with surprising strength.

"Hogan, calm down. You are no longer there, you are back in the camp. Hochstetter has been arrested and the accusations against you have been dropped. You are out of his reach and he will never harm you again." Klink spoke forcefully now as he tried to get the colonel out of the newly arising panic attack he could clearly see approaching. He reached out and cupped the younger man's feverish hot neck; his thumb circled soothingly through the dark short hair there, while he added more gently, "You are safe, Robert. You are safe, I promise."

Softly he pulled his counterpart's head towards him and lent his own forehead against Hogan's bandaged one. Intensely he glanced into the one eye which looked at him with a fearful expression. "Don't fret, Rob, it's over," he said; sensing with relief that Hogan was indeed calming down again.

For a very long moment neither of the two men moved. Klink returned Hogan's gaze firmly, but also softly; willing him to realize that the danger had passed. He knew that his American counterpart, who was usually so witty and full of self-confidence, needed an anchor to secure himself – to find the way back to reality. It startled him how deeply troubled the younger man was, on the other hand he couldn't expect something different. What had been done to Hogan was unimaginable, and Klink was aware of the fact that Robert would be haunted for quite a time. Even a strong man like Hogan needed time to overcome such a trauma.

Hogan took a deep, shuddering breath and turned his head away as he had to cough. He winced in pain as the coughing made his left side hurt even more, and he closed his good eye. He felt Klink's hand on his neck and the gentle petting of the thumb in his hackles. He knew somehow that this was very strange – wrong, even – but it felt too good to avoid the comforting gesture.

Again he thought to hear Hochstetter's voice demanding answers from him, and forcefully he pushed those memories away. He couldn't deal with them right now. First he had to become himself again. Slowly his nemesis' voice got quieter and made room for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the next room and the cracking of the fire. Yet the Gestapo-officer's face appeared over and over again in his mind; eyes shimmering with glee and loathing. Hogan wasn't even aware that the stress was overflowing in the form of words which tumbled out of his mouth.

"He didn't stop. He said I had been seen in Hammelburg a few days ago, but that's not true. I told him that it wasn't me – that I'd played chess with you that evening 'til late night. But he didn't believe me – didn't contact you to clarify anything. He asked over and over again – about contact people, about missions, about allies, about you… I said that I couldn't tell him anything, that I have no answers for him, but he didn't stop." He lowered his head. "He didn't stop." His voice wasn't more than a choked whisper.

Klink could feel his heart starting to bleed with compassion again as he realized once more the horror Hogan had been through. Slipping his right hand from Hogan's neck to his shoulder and letting it rest there in a soothing manner, he said softly, "We both know that Hochstetter seems to hate everyone – especially you. I feared that he would live out his loathing one day, but even I didn't imagine that he would get carried away like this."

Carefully the colonel turned his head and looked at him; for a few moments his mind remembered with brutal accuracy what he had been through. "He wasn't interested in the truth. He said he was glad that I had given him a reason to break me – that I would be his masterpiece." He swallowed heavily and lowered his head again; his hands trembled. "I tried to withstand. Whatever he did, I didn't answer his questions, but then…" He went rigid, before he suddenly tried to unwrap the bandage around his rib-cage frenziedly.

Quickly Klink caught his hands to stop him. "Hogan, what are you doing?" he asked startled.

"I have to see it," the colonel gasped and tried to wriggle his arms free. "Let go, I've to see it!" He sounded frantic now, and Klink knew that a new panic attack was closing up.

"Robert, what do you want to see? What do you mean with 'it'?" he demanded gently, yet sternly. He had realized that this tone brought the best result when dealing with Hogan's trauma.

"The brand," Hogan almost shouted and had to cough again. He held his left side and moaned in pain. It hurt like hell and one single tear slipped down his bruised cheek. Only after the couching stopped and the pain ebbed away until nothing more than a throbbing remained, he became aware that Klink had closed the small distance to him and had slipped one arm around his shoulder as far as he could reach. Somehow it gave him hold. The knowledge that there was someone who really cared, calmed him. And the pain had a positive side-effect in this case: It cleared his mind enough to stop the rising panic attack.

Yet the fear of being stigmatized with the symbol of his mortal nemesis for the rest of his life burnt in him, and almost pleadingly he looked at Klink. "The brand…" he whispered helplessly.

"The brand? Which brand?" Klink was confused now.

The colonel looked almost terrified at him. "The brand he gave me – SS-runes. With a gleaming poker. He…"

Klink bent forwards and took Hogan's shoulders into a strong, yet soft grip; ignoring the stinging in his left upper arm that even the painkiller couldn't fully suppress. "Robert, there is no brand."

"But he did…"

"Rob, listen to me," the older man interrupted him firmly. "There. Is. No. Brand. On. Your. Body! I swear. I stripped you and held you under the shower while Wilson was washing you, and you indeed have got a lot of injuries, but no brand!" He recognized the dread in Hogan's gaze, and added gently, "Believe me. There are no marks from any iron, of whichever shape." He saw how much the colonel fought with his obviously wrong memories and his wish to trust him. "What burns at your side are your broken ribs," Klink explained. "Sergeant Wilson fixed them with the bandage and you have to be careful with your left side for at least four or five weeks. The same caution is necessary with your back, but hopefully not for so long."

Hesitant hope began to shimmer in Hogan's one eye, and so the Oberst lowered his voice to a more gentle tone, as he continued, "Hochstetter did a lot to you, but he didn't stigmatize you – neither physically nor, I hope, mentally. You were in his power, but he had no power over you. Not over your heart, mind and soul. Your body will heal, and your men and I will do everything within our power to help your spirit take victory over your hurt soul, too."

The strong, yet so soft words, mingled with faith and certainty reached Hogan and struck a chord deep in him. Chasing away the dark clouds that were still surrounding him, he looked at the older man; took in Klink's confidence and trust in his, Hogan's, inner strength. It woke an odd sense of duty in him – the wish to not disappoint his German counterpart, who had fought his own fears and demons to rescue him. Klink had overgrown himself – again. The least Hogan could do was return this effort.

Gulping he carefully reached out and placed his right hand on the other man's arm. "Thanks," he whispered. "Thank-you for your faith in me – and for getting me out." He took a deep, slow breath and groaned as the nausea returned. "God, I feel like shit."

"You caught a cold, or worse, a bronchitis, sport a fever and you even got a concussion, Wilson said. And the best then is to lay down, avoid bright lights and eat only light things." Klink pushed him gently down into the cushions, pulled the comforter higher and watched him for a long moment; concerned as he realized the other man went paler and paler by each passing second. "Hogan?" he asked; really worried now.

"I… I'm going to be sick," the American pressed out; good eye widening.

Hastily Klink rose, pulled the comforter and blanket away and helped Hogan get up. Swaying dangerously on unsteady feet and heaving by now, the younger man couldn't do anything more than press a hand over his mouth, while he broke into a cold sweat.

Klink acted without another thought. Despite his throbbing calf he pulled the colonel with him, steered him quickly to the bathroom and to the toilette. He had barely opened the cover, as Hogan already sank to his knees and began vomiting violently. The Oberst grimaced; half because of the stench, half because of sympathy. He hated heaving, knowing how miserable he felt afterwards, and given Hogan's whole physical condition, the younger man must have felt even worse. Flushing the toilette, he quickly took his tooth cup, filled it with water and offered it to his American counterpart to wash his mouth and get rid of the taste.

With a trembling hand Hogan accepted the offered glass, but he needed two attempts to get the cup to his lips. He shivered like a young puppy, his whole belly hurt as did his left side, and he felt an uncalled-for stinging in his eyes.

Cleaning his mouth and spitting the water into the toilette, he tried to control the cold that seemed to overwhelm him, while the burning in his eyes increased. No! He wouldn't weep! Not because of a little vomiting. For God's sake, he was 39, not 7 anymore! Again he rinsed his mouth, but it did him a bad favor, because he had barely spit anything into the toilette bowl again, when a new urge to cough rose in him. His already burning throat seemed to catch fire, while the ugly taste from the depths of his stomach returned.

Wheezing, coughing and spitting the rest of the dinner out, he only felt the cold cloth in his neck after his body calmed down one or two minutes later. An arm was wrapped around his hips and steadied him, while gentle words of comfort were murmured close to his left ear.

"Sorry," he whispered; feeling humiliated. "Sorry for the mess."

"Don't apologize," Klink replied softly. "It's not your fault. To get sick is a typical side-effect of a concussion. I'm only sorry that you've to suffer even more." He made certain that the wet, cold cloth wouldn't slip down Hogan's back before he reached out and pulled the string of the toilet flushing. "Better?" he asked.

The younger man only nodded with closed eyes; feeling like his inner being was turned to the outside.

"Okay, let us get you up." Klink rose and helped the colonel to his feet, before he closed the toilet cover and made Hogan sit down on it. Taking the cloth, he wet it once again before he offered it to the younger man together with a towel. "Here, wash your face. You'll feel better afterwards. I will go next door and open the windows for a few minutes. The air may be icy, but it's fresh. It will help soothe your stomach and your nerves. Will you be all right on your own for a minute?"

Hogan, whose mind had cleared more after the last encounter, glanced up. Klink was absolutely serious in his worry. It warmed the colonel in a way that was completely new for him. Usually it was him who worried for the other's well-being. To be on the receiving end of such care was something he hadn't experienced for many years. And it felt alarmingly good.

"Yes, I'll be okay," he answered, raspy and braver than he felt.

Klink watched him attentively for a second, then he patted him on the less injured shoulder, nodded and left the bathroom.

Hogan took a deep breath and new nausea washed over him, but not strong enough to make him sick again. He was about to raise the washcloth to his face, but stopped as his gaze fell on his wrists. They were wrapped into bandages, yet some red and sore tracks were still visible above the material. The rest of his underarms were bruised, too. Lowering his head, his gaze wandered over the bandage around his torso, yet there – where the white mull ended – further bruises were revealed.

Closing his eyes, he thought to hear Hochstetter's voice again. For a moment he was back in the cellars, darkness and coldness surrounding him, while brutal fists delivered blows upon blows to his body.

Getting a grip on himself, he opened his eyes – better to say, his one functional eye – and carefully rose. Instantly he became dizzy, yet with some returning determination, he managed the little distance to the sink, let the washcloth and towel fall into it and steadied himself there with both hands. He raised his head, looked in the mirror – and stiffened with shock.

He barely recognized his own face. The right side was so swollen it bore no resemblance to his usual appearance, and even forced his eye close. The left side was better, yet bad enough to make him gulp. Some of the bruises had already begun to turn blue and there was a cut on his right cheekbone. A further bandage was wound around his head like a bandanna, and made the dark strands of his hair fly, tousled, in all directions.

His throat and the area around it were also sore and bruised; at some places even little spots of scab were to see. He remembered how he got them – by tearing as his bound hands which were connected via a rope with his throat; almost suffocating himself in his desperate attempt to escape the kicks he received while lying on the cold ground of his cell.

Over his left shoulder he could see some dark red stripes and it was a miracle that the skin hadn't split open as the leather-whip had rained down lashes on him. But regarding the bandage around his torso, he knew that other part of his back hadn't been so lucky.

Closing his good eye again, he bit down the bitter taste and the lump in his throat. Hochstetter and some other SS-members had done quite a number on him. He would need weeks to heal – at least physically. He didn't dare to think too much of everything in detail that had been done to him, or he would certainly suffer another breakdown. And alone this knowledge made it clear that the curing of his body was only one part of the healing process that lay before him.

Tightening his grip around the sink's edges, he looked up again – and his gaze found Klink's in the mirror.

The Oberst stood a few steps behind him. He had come inside the bathroom without any sound and it was obvious that he had already been here for quite some time, but had kept his distance – giving Hogan the chance to come to terms with the condition he was in.

The American moistened his split lip carefully and held his counterpart's gaze in pure defiance; not ready to give into the humiliation of seeing pity…

Only, there was no pity in the older man's eyes. Compassion – yes; gentleness – yes; but no pity. If anything Hogan thought he saw respect in Klink's gaze.

"Hochstetter lived out his hate," the Kommandant said quietly. "He really tried to break you with sheer violence and brutal force – but he didn't succeed. You are stronger than him." He closed the distance to Hogan and carefully began to steer him back into the sleeping chamber. The window was wide open and it was really cold now in the room, but the air was fresh and clean. The new falling snow outside dimmed any noise that could exist this late in the evening in the middle of a POW-camp. It was silent outside – but not an eerie silence. Somehow the approaching night was for once peaceful – a peace Hogan desperately longed for, but one that was just out of reach for him.

A quiet snort escaped him at Klink's words. "You think I'm stronger than him? It didn't feel this way, believe me."

The Kommandant helped him lay down and spread the blanket and the comforter over him. "No. I don't think so – I know you are stronger than this bastard. Because your heart and your spirit wouldn't allow someone like Hochstetter to win, so you do what you always do: Go on." He went to the window and closed it; shivering because his nightgown provided no real protection against the winter iciness that had entered the chamber. "Damn coldness!" he grumbled; changing the subject to give Hogan's tumultuous mind some rest. He hastened to the bed and waved his right hand. "Scoot over, Hogan, I'm freezing my ass off here."

Realizing to what the Oberst was up to, the American stared stunned at him. Then he saw the older man rubbing his upper arms while he was shivering again, recognized for the first time the reddened fever-spots on Klink's cheeks, and, as fast as his condition permitted, Hogan made room for him.

Klink quickly slipped into bed and pulled the covers 'til his chin; making sure that they covered Hogan the same way, too. The trembling worsened for a moment, before it calmed down. "Damn winter!" the Kommandant cursed. "And there are still two or three months left before spring returns."

"Maybe figuratively, too," the colonel whispered; yearning for peace.

"Believe me, you are not the only one who wants the end of this cursed war," Klink replied softly, before he turned his head and looked at the other man, who lay close beside him. Remembering what Wilson said about Hogan being dehydrated, he asked, "Do you want something to drink? Some chamomile tea perhaps?"

Hogan slowly shook his head. "Thank you, but I… I don't think my stomach would be able to hold it at the moment."

With new worry, Klink frowned at him. He would call Dr. Birkhorn the next morning and would order him to come to the camp. He wanted the doctor to have a closer look at the American and check him through properly. Maybe the surgeon even had something that would ease Hogan's suffering.

Seeing how tense the younger man still was, another thought struck him. One that filled him with dread, but Hogan was more important, so he cleared his throat and murmured, "Are you uncomfortable with me being here?" He hoped not, because…

"No," Hogan said quietly and turned his head towards him. His one eye looked with something close to warmth at him. "I… I'm glad that I'm not alone in the moment. I don't want to deal with everything that happened just now. And besides, you are nice company."

To his horror, Klink felt himself flushing with joy and he coughed a little bit to mask it. "Well, we often spent some hours with each other in the evenings during the last years – talking, playing chess, and so on. I'm glad that my presence is welcomed, even now." He pursed his lips shortly. "Yet you are very tense. Let me guess, your back is giving you hell."

"To put it mildly," the colonel nodded.

Klink sat up. "I can get you some more painkillers and…"

"No, I don't think it would be wise given my nervous stomach," Hogan whispered.

Again the older man looked thoughtfully at him, before he got another idea. "Turn on your right side," he suggested. "It's the less hurt one despite your cheek."

Realizing that the Oberst was right, Hogan cautiously shifted his weight to the right side, turned – which made him grit his teeth – and laid down again. It really relieved pressure from his broken ribs and his injured back, which outweighed the throbbing in the right side of his face. "Sorry for showing you my back," he apologized and heard Klink chuckling again.

"As long as you do it out of medical reasons and not in a figurative way, I can live with it."

This statement woke some more curiosity in the American officer. It showed one more time how important he – Robert Hogan – seemed to be to the older man.

Klink rose. "Don't run away. I shall fetch something and will return in a minute."

"Take your time," Hogan sighed. "It isn't as if I could go anywhere at the moment."

He closed his good eye and tried to relax, but for naught. Every time he stopped concentrating on pleasant memories, Hochstetter's voice was back – or he heard the whistling of the whip. Hogan groaned. He never would find any rest like this and…

Something was gently placed behind him and as he tried to turn around, said 'something' stopped him without troubling his hurting back too much. "What…?" he began rather unintelligently.

"The pillows will hinder you from turning while you're asleep, and they are soft enough to add no further pain to your back," Klink said quietly.

Peeking over his shoulder, Hogan blinked with his good eye a few times; struck by the thoughtfulness the Kommandant had again displayed.

"Thank you," the colonel whispered; really grateful. "But… what about you?"

"I'll take a cushion from the sofa, so no problem," Klink replied, while he pulled the comforter over the younger man and the pile of pillows. "Just try to find some sleep. Tomorrow everything will be bathed in a brighter light."

Even if Hogan highly doubted the latter, he couldn't help himself but giving his German counterpart a smile – at least as far as his swollen lips could move. Then he sighed, "I… I don't think that sleeping will do me any good." At Klink's asking gaze, he added quietly, "The dreams, you know. I will be back there and… I really don't want to see and hear everything again."

The Kommandant knew how much this confession must have cost Hogan – to admit weakness at all, even if it was so understandable. He saw how the younger man's face flushed a little bit, rounded the bed, sat down on the edge and said gently, "You don't have to be ashamed of your nightmares, Robert. I had them a lot – and they still come back to me from time to time. They show that we do not belong to those people who are jaded and indifferent by now. We are not dull like so many others who faced terrible events. Our hearts and souls are too strong to give in to the easy way of becoming callous. We'd rather face our demons than bow to them, no matter if they haunt us in dreams or lurk in our subconscious and make themselves recognizable in certain situations. First we fear them, but we also know that we can't escape them, and therefore we do what lays in our nature: We fight them – and become stronger in the end."

Thunderstruck Hogan looked at the Oberst. He had known that there was more to his German counterpart than the first and second sight showed, and he had listened to serious stuff coming from Klink before, but he had never acknowledged such profundity from the older man. And one thing became clear to him, too. "You speak of your own experiences," he said softly.

Klink nodded slowly and had to cough shorty, before he continued, "You are enduring this insane war – I've lived through two insanities by now. And believe me, the first war wasn't less cruel, monstrous and inhuman than this one. This time it's 'only' darker." He looked away. "I lost comrades – friends. They died in my arms and I was unable to save them. I buried them, and the following day the next men I served with died. I saw destruction everywhere, smelled fire, ashes, blood and rotting corpses. I watched colleagues dropping from the skies, their planes exploding on the ground and taking them with them to eternity, while I knew that I could be the next."

He glanced back at Hogan; his eyes betrayed the many things which would never be forgotten. "Believe me, Robert, I already witnessed horror when you were still young and a 'wild boy'. The dreams will haunt you – but they will decrease. And some day they will only find you sporadically. Yes, they will still be troubling, but you are stronger. You'll beat their aftermath. If I managed it, you will do it, too – because I do know that your spirit is more vivid than mine. Vividness is the source of being alive – and life is death's only enemy."

He had to smile again, as he saw the awestruck expression on the younger man's colorful face and in his good eye. 'Got you finally, love,' he thought half amused, half fondly. He knew that most people thought him to be a hollow shell; his deeply rooted uncertainty often made him act like a fool which he tried to cover with big speeches, vanity and even arrogance. He hid his true self behind a carefully built disguise, because he knew other people would abuse his sensitivity to their advantage and would hurt him – and he really had been hurt enough in his life.

But with Robert Hogan it was different. He sensed that they both had more in common than originally assumed, yet he had been careful with how much he could reveal to the younger man without giving too much away or exposing himself to a dangerous degree. But after all that had happened within the last two days, he knew that they had reached a new level of their carefully developing relationship. That Hogan admitted his fear of the nightmares, which certainly would haunt him for longer, had shown Klink how much his American counterpart trusted him by now, and he had returned it by taking off his mask and letting Hogan see a little bit of his true self.

And as he saw how the wonder in Hogan's gaze changed to deep warmth and new softness, he knew that he had made the right step.

"You are incredible, Wilhelm Klink," the colonel murmured. "I thought I knew you, but now I realize that I've only scratched at the surface."

Klink chuckled and pointed one finger at him teasingly. "And don't you forget it," he smirked.

Hogan smiled back and felt himself relaxing. Suddenly, he felt oddly at peace; the way they sat together in this little chamber, while outside the winter bloomed, and spoke of things which weren't for any others' ears, because they were too private. It gave him a new sense of comradeship with his German counterpart – a comfortableness he hadn't had since he left the States to start the mission 'Unsung Heroes', how the whole operation he was the head of was called. It should alarm him, but it didn't.

Klink suppressed a yawn. "Shall I leave the lamp switched on?"

His question was almost awkward for Hogan.

"I think I'm a little bit too old for a nightlight," he murmured.

"Yet it offers comfort," the Oberst replied calmly.

"Yes, for children who have bad dreams," the colonel sighed; remembering the times when his mother had left a nightlight in his nursery.

"The boogeyman under the bed may change his face and voice with the passing years, but he still haunts our dreams," Klink mused. "It doesn't matter if you are a child or an adult."

Hogan looked up again at the Kommandant. "What has happened that you changed this much within a few days?" he whispered.

'Hochstetter happened – he almost killed you,' Klink thought, but aloud he said, "This is the real me. The man you'd dealt with until now is the German officer I'm forced to be, and who has become a stranger in his own skin, because he barely knows anymore how to wriggle himself through the mess the world has turned into." He bent down and pulled the comforter even higher over Hogan. "Try to sleep, Robert. I'll let the doors open so that I can hear you should something happen."

"You mean, if I get another fit because of a stupid nightmare," the younger man grumbled, embarrassed. "Just ignore me then. I think I'll have bad dreams for quite a while now, and I don't want you to skip any beauty-sleep because of me being childish."

Klink groaned this time. "Bad dreams don't only belong to children, Hogan, I thought I had made this clear to you. To find no rest only shows that your soul is injured, and nightmares are the first step of coming to terms with everything. So, don't be ashamed of them." He smiled again. "I know, it's hard to accept something we regard as weakness, but just like I already told you, it will make us stronger in the end." He rose. "And, by the way, I do not need any 'beauty'-sleep."

He got the wished-for result: Hogan chuckled.

Shuddering at the still cold air and the fever he sported, the Oberst switched off the lamp on the nightstand. "I'll leave the reading lamp turned on in the living area. Like this a little brightness will be there. Good night."

Hogan listened to the soft steps moving away, and said quietly, "Good night, Willie – and thank you for everything."

He didn't know it, but Klink had heard the soft words – and it made his world once again brighter and easier to endure…

TBC…

Just like I promised, this was the first chapter of deeper emotions. And several will follow, in which our two colonels will learn about each other more than ever before, what will lead to more.

I'll hope to publish a further chapter during Christmas, but this depends on different reasons.

Before the next year begins, I'll publish the next chapter, and would LOVE to get some reviews until then.

Nonetheless I want to thank you for your loyalty,

I wish you all a Merry Christmas and may Santa Claus fulfill the one or other wish.

Love and to everyone peace and love,

Yours Starflight