Hogan wasn't surprised to see Hilda already seated at Klink's table. The Kommandant had placed her beside Rommel, hoping to win a few points with his secretary's pretty face. Rommel acknowledged her with a nod and a smile, but he didn't remain focused on her long. Klink sat at the end, waved Hogan and Lang into their seats across from Hilda and the field marshal. Hogan exchanged wary looks with his impeccable twin. He saw that Lang looked more uncomfortable than he himself felt. The POW took a closer look at the German's glass of schnapps. It was ever so slightly different from the other drinks; a milky white substance was slowly settling to the bottom. Satisfied, Hogan straightened up and winked at Newkirk.
The door to the kitchen flew open and Lebeau emerged, rolling out a small cart packed with delicious smelling foods. He bustled around the table, cheerfully humming as he slid the platters into their places. Klink grinned broadly at the slab of chicken on his plate, inhaled deeply.
"You know, this feels just like Paris," he told the group. "All we're missing is the music and the sunshine." He noticed the little round blobs beside the chicken, speared one and held it up. He looked at it doubtfully. It was slimy and rolled in some green plant. "What is this?"
Lebeau glanced over his shoulder. "Ah, that is a wonderful delicacy of ours, Monsieur. It is called, Escargot."
Rommel coughed discreetly and carefully replaced one of his own back to its plate. Hogan followed suit, then Hilda, and finally Lang. However, Klink remained oblivious and popped one into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment and then swallowed. "You know, that's very good," he praised, reaching for another. "What are they made of?"
"Snails, Monsieur," Lebeau kept a straight face.
"Wha-" He turned several shades of blue, brought his napkin up to his mouth. Klink then reached for the nearest glass he could find, which accidentally became Lang's. Before Hogan could stop him, he had drained the whole glass in desperation. The unfortunate German then flew into a fit of coughing. Lang raised an arrogant eyebrow questioningly as his drink was finally returned to him, empty. Through watering eyes, Klink glared at Lebeau. "Snails! And I thought the French were civilized. Bring Major Lang some more schnapps, quickly." The Frenchman retreated into the small kitchen, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
How could he drink Lang's schnapps? Hogan was indignant. This isn't starting on the right foot. Unfair! He forced himself to become calm again. They had more than one chance tonight. It was still early. Newkirk appeared at the table bearing a second drink in his hand, but as he set it down, his fingers caught it and knocked it over. The dark brown liquid splattered all over the front of Lang's uniform. Lang pushed his chair back with an angry German oath. Hogan almost frowned at Newkirk, and then stopped himself. If he knew Newkirk, this was his big chance.
Acting surprised and embarrassed, Newkirk apologized profusely. "Beg yer pardon, guv'nor, I'm sorry. Here, let me help you." He pulled an extra towel from his arm and proceeded to brush him off, hands deftly cleaning. Among other things. He winked back at Hogan, stepped away from the quietly fuming Lang. "Really am sorry, sir. Didn't mean to ruin such a fine outfit. I'll get you another drink."
"Not you," Lang sighed. "Have the short one bring it out. I've already had a shower." Klink burst into untimely laughter at his sarcasm, received a chilling look in reply. His laughter died as quickly as it had come.
Lebeau brought out a third drink and the dinner party moved on without further disaster. Colonel Klink regaled them with his tales of Stalag 13, embellishing the more dangerous moments. His guests sat politely through it all. Having heard nearly every story before, Hogan would jump in with some witty comment that provoked laughter from everyone except his Kommandant. As the time passed, Klink began to slur his words together. Lang was blinking like an owl struggling to stay awake in the daytime. Newkirk kept his glass filled to the brim, occasionally slipped in another pill. Now things are going better, Hogan was pleased with their work. He checked his watch- 9:00 P.M. Those sleeping pills are already starting to take effect. I'd better figure some way to end this party, before Klink and Lang fall asleep on the table.
"And my last trip to Paris was terrible," Klink yawned. His eyes were fighting to stay open. "Excuse me, but I feel so tired. Anyway, I couldn't even get into an officer's club." Hilda shook her head in sympathy.
"A pity, Herr Kommandant. Those clubs are highly exclusive…"
"Excluding an officer from an officer's club?" Hogan grinned brightly. "That is pretty exclusive. But then, the Bald Eagle has always been an exception to the rules." He noticed Lang nodding off, gave him a firm nudge. Not yet. The German jerked back awake and smiled sheepishly.
"Iron Eagle, Hogan," Klink ground out between his teeth. "Iron."
"Yes, well, I never much cared for those clubs myself," Rommel spoke up. He hadn't talked much that evening at dinner; something was obviously weighing on his mind. "A lot of questionable behavior goes on in them. Besides, all that drinking loosens a man's tongue. We caught many spies and informants at clubs in several African cities."
Klink looked duly impressed, tried out his flattery skills. "It is amazing, what you've done in Africa. It only proves the superiority of the German forces-"
"If we were able to meet on even terms," Rommel interrupted, a small flash of some unreadable expression shooting through his eyes. "But some would not have it that way. And because of those certain high-ranking few, we're getting nowhere with this war. We're even falling behind, if you dare to think about it."
"Which he doesn't. Our Kommandant is a loyal German soldier," Hogan piped in. "He wouldn't dare think that Germany might be losing the war." Newkirk cut a finger across his throat, but Hogan ignored him pointedly. Lebeau buried his face in his hands. Hilda held her breath anxiously.
"Hogan, I think I can speak for myse-" Klink was gritting his teeth now, but he was no longer the object of Rommel's attention.
"And are you implying I'm not?" Rommel was starting heat up. He sent the American a fiery look that would have intimidated most men into silence. Hogan was not like most men.
"No, but most Germans are afraid to think for themselves nowadays, what with Hitler breathing down their backs. And Bormann, and Himmler…"
"I'm not afraid to think for myself," Rommel scowled. "I can see what's happening easily enough; yet I'm loyal through and through. I might stand up against those others you mentioned, but I don't disobey my fuhrer. I'll admit, we've made mistakes, some big ones; we're no worse than you. What the fuhrer does is for the good of Germany."
Something made him say it. "You don't really believe that, do you? That's just some line you've been forced to memorize. You're a lot worse off than us. What about your concentration camps?"
Time froze. Rommel stared angrily at him, finally answered. "Rumors are all I've heard. Could all be the product of your country's propaganda." He didn't sound sure of himself one bit. "We'll see."
Hilda stared nervously back and forth between them. Lang had dropped quietly off to sleep in his chair. "Um, I believe it is time for me to retire, Mein Herren," she rose gracefully from the table and moved to the door. As she gathered up her scarf, the men, except Lang, rose as well, Klink swaying unsteadily. Rommel and Hogan kept glaring at each other. Hilda was glad Hogan hadn't been punished yet. It was still likely though, the way they were still fighting the battle with their eyes. Be careful, my dear Colonel. You're not fighting Klink anymore.
"Goodnight then, Frauline," Rommel kissed her hand. "It was lovely having you here."
"Yesh, yesh," Klink slurred, half-asleep. "Lovely. Goodnight everyone." He looked back at the table, spotted Lang still there. "Cockroach, you and the Englishman help our guest back to his quarters, at once. Goodnight, Herr Feldmarshall. Hogan will be severely punished for his thoughtless words."
"No," Rommel growled softly. "He speaks what he believes is the truth. Honesty will not be punished. I admire him for that, at least. Let it be. We only have to prove him wrong. And we will." He stepped past Hogan, regarded him almost warily, and left for the guest quarters.
Lebeau and Newkirk slipped out after him, bearing the awkward load of the unconscious major. Klink watched them go with bleary eyes. "What a night, Colonel Hogan, what a night." Hogan left without answering, and for once, Klink forgot to reprimand him. He was so tired.
Readers might think I'm placing Rommel in a favorable light. After research, I kinda am. Gasp! He wasn't really Nazi, as most Nazis go. Churchill himself thought of Rommel as chivalrous and no normal Nazi. He was a soldier, purely so and absolutely unpolitical. He fought his battles by the rules. He refused to let his son join the S.S. Still, he fought for an evil man, and fought loyally. Kinda unfortunate. What if he'd been on the Allied side? He'd probably been a smash hit everywhere. Well, he wasn't, so that's that. Still, I'm having fun writing about him slowly discovering the truth. It's on that historically premature knowledge that I'm turning the ball of my alternate history. Hope you folks are enjoying the tale. Review if you'd like.
Sorry for the long time, no update. Real life has been hectic.