Part 3: Klink
Klink woke to the scent of freshly brewed coffee in the air. Ah, he thought, stretching with a contented sigh, there were some advantages to having visitors. He rose, unhurried. A glance at the clock told him it was already mid-morning. The military-bred habit of a lifetime to rise early was one he had managed to break almost immediately, and with not even the faintest trace of regret.
With a steaming mug of coffee in hand, Klink stepped out onto the porch of his small house. The morning was frosty, with the distinct bite of impending winter in the air. Klink pulled his coat closer around him as he walked up to the railing. Hogan and his son stood down near the lake. Little Willy clumsily threw stones into the water, laughing excitedly at the splashes. No doubt the youngster would love to be turned loose to splash in the lake, but Hogan kept a tight grip on the boy's hand. Good thing, Klink considered. Limping as he was, leaning on that cane, Hogan wouldn't be able to chase after the boy if he decided to escape from him. A flat smile traced across Klink's lips. Not only was it a certainty young Master Hogan would escape if given half a chance, but equally certain he would return. Like father, like son.
As Hogan turned to lead Willy slowly back toward the cottage—one limping, one toddling—Klink retreated back into the warm interior of his house. It occurred to him to wonder just how bad Hogan's injury really had been. How close a call had it been? Had it happened last week? Or last month? Marie certainly wasn't the sort of woman to swoon and panic over her husband being involved in some minor gunplay, yet hadn't Hogan said she'd been weepy and clingy until she found out he wasn't going to die, then got mad and left? How honest and upfront had Hogan been with his wife about his 'hunting' trip and its consequences? Klink shook his head as he considered it. Subterfuge remained one of Hogan's habits-of-a-lifetime he had not managed to break. Nor, Klink suspected, had he even tried.
Sipping his coffee, Klink crossed the small living room toward his desk tucked into the corner. He paused along the way by the coffee table, his attention drawn to the worn, much-creased piece of paper resting on it. Klink stared downward. Hogan's 'list'.
Slowly, Klink bent to set down his mug and pick up the list. As cautiously as though he feared it would burn his fingers, Klink unfolded the paper and read the contents. Many of the names he recognized as those Hogan had discussed with him. Most of those were Gestapo and SS men who had managed to vanish, leaving behind only the horrific revelations of what they'd done. Hogan had questioned Klink in depth about many of these monsters. Oh, not seeking Klink's personal involvement with them to be sure, but to dredge up any tidbits of information, even gossip, Klink might recall about their associations—wives, mistresses, friends, business contacts… A distant rumor overheard at the officer's club one night years back might lead to the connection that led to the hunted man. With those Klink had been as cooperative as possible. As much as he'd known, as much more as he'd suspected, of the actions of the Gestapo and SS, the reality turned out to be even more shocking and nightmarish than he'd ever imagined.
The other names, though… Klink felt himself blanch and pale. Merciful heaven. No wonder Hogan never let him see this list before.
Staring so hard at the list of names, Klink scarcely heard the door open and slam behind him. He didn't even notice the pounding of Willy's feet as the boy was turned loose to wreak more havoc on Klink's tidy little world. But he felt Hogan step near him. Klink turned abruptly to stop Hogan from snatching the list from Klink's hand.
"My God, Hogan," Klink murmured, still staring at the list as Hogan scowled at him with irritation. Many of the names were crossed off. "General Biedenbender… Captain Kurtz… The Blue Baron…" In shock, Klink looked up at Hogan. "You've hunted down and killed all these men?"
Hogan's scowl deepened. He gave an exasperated sigh as he settled painfully down onto the easy chair, stretching his leg and rubbing it. "For cripes sake, Klink, it's not a death list. What do you take me for?"
Sinking down onto the sofa, Klink stared from Hogan, to the list, and back again. "I don't know," Klink answered frankly. "I've never really known. And every time I think I do, I'm wrong. I did know, even back in the war, that you had a 'list'. I knew it the moment you told Major Teppel you'd remember him. But this…" he waved the paper, "…all these names." Klink locked eyes with Hogan. "Many of these men were soldiers doing their duty in time of war. Not war criminals. I can't believe you'd…"
Hogan cut him off. "I told you it's not a death list. I took General Biedenbender out to dinner. While he certainly wasn't thrilled with me for those years he spent isolated in an English prison, he didn't mind too much coming out of the whole mess with the reputation of having been a hero to the Allies. It's done wonders for his business since. He stands to become a rich man. We parted with a hand shake."
"But Captain Kurtz? General Burkhalter's brother-in-law. I'd suspected he wasn't really killed in that train explosion." Klink waggled his finger accusingly at Hogan. "Like so many others—no body. No trace of a body."
A dark smile cast over Hogan's lips. "Him I gave a punch in the nose," he said. Then a wry chuckle burst from him. "But it balanced out. His wife smacked me a good one when I told her she'd be getting her husband back."
Hogan sighed and leaned back, suddenly looking much older than he had while playing with his young son. "We left a lot of loose ends. I'm wrapping them up. Yeah, there's some on that list I'd gladly put a bullet between their eyes and have a song in my heart when I did it. But even this last son of a bit…"
"NOT in front of Willy."
"William," Hogan corrected reflexively, sighed again and went on. "Even that…" He seemed to struggle to find an appropriate word that would describe the man yet could be said in front of the youngster. "…that evil excuse for a human being, I meant to take him in alive. He just didn't cooperate." Hogan rubbed his leg again.
Klink spent a long moment examining the list again. "Was I ever on this list?" he finally managed to ask.
Hogan's expression softened a touch and Klink could see his sometimes (often) wicked sense of humor shine back through. "Sure," Hogan said. "Christmas in Colditz earned you a top spot for a while."
"Hmph! I was just trying to keep you alive," Klink muttered.
With a snort, Hogan countered, "You were just trying to keep you alive."
Klink gave a dismissive shrug. "Well…"
Hogan chuckled.
Pausing with his finger by one name, Klink asked, "General Burkhalter?"
Hogan shook his head. "Still nothing. I thought I'd find some information from a contact in Berlin, but…" Another shake of the head.
Mention of Berlin brought a question Klink had back to mind. He folded up Hogan's list. "Actually I'd rather thought you'd be flying in the Berlin airlift," Klink said. "A chance to drop something besides bombs on the city."
Hogan shrugged. "I did. A couple loads, at least. It gave me the cover to get back into Berlin and…" He trailed off.
"Yes." Klink filled in the rest for himself. Hogan's hunting trip, and heaven knew what other bits of nefarious. "I can guess the rest."
Flicking a quick smile, Hogan told Klink without words his guess was almost certainly correct. Yet, as ever, Klink reminded himself this was Hogan and what met the eye, the top layer, never told the full story.
Hoping to draw more out of Hogan, Klink commented in the tone of casual reminiscence, "Berlin has been a magnet for espionage as far back as I can recall."
"Yeah," Hogan agreed. "Even back in the Kaiser's time when my dad…" He cut himself off and cleared his throat. "Then during the first war…" Another throat clearing. "And of course during this last big dust up…" He trailed the sentence off again. It was the nature of the spy business, Klink considered, to always and forever have to leave things unsaid; never to be able to tell all to anyone. Hogan twitched his cane around a bit and studied the floor for a moment before he went on. "Now Berlin is full of spies and agents again. This time it's KGB versus CIA," he said, naming the newly formed American intelligence service.* Klink's eyes widened. Was Hogan telling him without telling him he now worked for the CIA in the 'cold' war against the Soviets? "There's going to be another war," Hogan said, with an edge of something in his voice Klink couldn't quite put his finger on. "Probably right in Germany again. The free world against the communists, this time."
Pressing the point, Klink said, "So you flew in the airlift just to have a legitimate excuse to get into the city."
Hogan shrugged dismissively.
"Without telling your wife what you were really up to, I presume?" Klink added accusingly.
With a warning glare at him, Hogan appeared on the verge of speaking, then did one of his rapid turn-arounds, instead saying with a chipper grin, "Say, when I was in Berlin I happened to get a hold of some old files that might interest you."
"Really? What?" Klink felt the old familiar bewilderment he'd so often felt around Hogan at Stalag 13.
Grinning, Hogan said teasingly, "Oh, some Luftwaffe personnel records. Among them, yours." He stopped talking abruptly.
The snot. "Did it say anything interesting?" Klink asked as he strove to sound uninterested.
"Oh, a little this and that," Hogan said. He shook his head and leaned back. "Nah, you don't want to know."
Klink seldom cursed, not in English and not in German. Now he did. The burst of profanity widened Hogan's grin. "Not in front of little Willy," Hogan chided. Klink glanced around. The boy was on the far side of the room, no doubt plotting the destruction of some priceless treasure of Klink's.
"William," Klink snapped the automatic name correction before he even realized Hogan had turned it around on him. Klink clenched his fist in frustration. "What did the record say?"
Hogan hesitated, then said more mildly, "You know, I'm really not sure you want to know. It seems, if the war hadn't come along when it did, you were on the list to make general. And you'd have made it before Burkhalter." Ouch. Hogan was right. Maybe he didn't want to know. Hogan went on, "You had a good record as an administrator and until the shooting started, that's what they wanted. Once the war started the experienced combat officers—especially those who made the loudest Nazi noises—jumped to the head of the line."
"Well," Klink said, trying to grasp what he'd just been told. The long-cherished dream had been right there, and had been snatched away. "Well," he repeated, "another thing the Führer got wrong."
The creaking and bang of a door beyond the kitchen drew their attention. "My housekeeper," Klink explained. A moment later a plump blond woman more than a few years past her prime peeked into the living room. Klink handed Hogan his list and turned to greet her.
"Good morning, Magda," he said. Ignoring Hogan's curious state, he gave the woman a quick peck on the lips.
"Good morning," she answered in heavily-accented English. "Ah! Visitor," she said upon seeing Hogan. "And pretty baby!" She swooped down on Willy, scooping him up.
"This is Willy," Klink said slowly and clearly.
"William," Hogan corrected.
"And this is Robert Hogan," Klink continued, "an old… uh, friend."
Hogan chuckled. He and Magda exchanged greetings. She set Willy down reluctantly, then she returned to the kitchen.
"Russian?" Hogan asked when the door closed behind her.
"Polish," Klink said.
Raising his eyebrows, Hogan commented, "You're braver than I thought."
"She doesn't know I am… that is to say, I was… She doesn't speak much English," Klink concluded.
"You two did seem to communicate well enough," Hogan said with a teasing grin.
"She's a fine woman," Klink said stoutly. "Pleasant, not too bright, dull enough that she thinks I'm exciting. Perfect."
"Sure, sure," Hogan agreed, grinning. "Still, I always held out hope you and Frau Linkmeier would get together again."
"Hogan!" Klink shook his fist, but without real anger.
Willy parked himself at Klink's knee, staring up at him with the unblinking intensity only a two-year-old can produce.
"Où est Mama?" the boy asked.
Klink stared at him, then up at Hogan and back again. "That was French," he announced.
"Uh, huh," Hogan said with an edge of something glum in his voice. "Tiger talks French to him."
"What did he say?"
Hogan shifted, appearing decidedly uncomfortable before he answered. "He's asking where his mother is."
"Oh." Klink stared down again at the little boy. Willy thrust his arms upward in the universal toddler's sign for 'pick me up'. Settling Willy on his lap, Klink changed the subject, saying instead, "I trust someone is teaching the child to speak English."
With a scowl, Hogan answered, "Yeah. He's fine."
"Well," Klink said, looking down at the child who was studying him with youthful intensity, possibly still hoping for an answer to his question about his mama, "I've only heard him say a few words of German, and now French, and some babble I didn't understand at all. I assume you're teaching him German."
"I most certainly am not!" Hogan snapped with an vehemence that caused Klink to jerk back. "He may pick up a word or two but I don't want him having anything to do with that verdammte country."
Klink gaped at Hogan. He'd never heard such ferocity nor anger from Hogan directed toward Klink's homeland before. "Hogan, I…" Klink began, not even certain what he meant to say when the door to the kitchen opened and Magda entered, carrying two steaming plates.
"Breakfast," she announced, setting the plates on the small table by the front window. "You eat now." She returned, plucking Willy from Klink's lap. "I watch baby," she said and promptly started cooing to him in Polish. From the look in Willy's eyes, he was enamored at once with the plump, motherly woman. She whirled the boy away into the kitchen.
Answering Hogan's questioning look with, "He'll be fine," Klink seated himself at the table.
"This is good," Hogan said a few minutes later, around a mouthful of food. "Really good." He shoveled the food in like a man who'd been in the cooler on bread and water rations for a week.
Klink frowned down at his plate. It was good, certainly, but plain fare. Nothing special. "I should think you wouldn't care for such things."
"Are you kidding?" Hogan said, barely glancing up. "After army food? This is sensational."
"I mean," Klink amended, "after all that fine French cuisine…"
"Cuisine?" Hogan cut him off. "Marya—" That (shudder) Russian woman, Klink filled in. "—married a gourmet French chef. I married a French girl who burns toast. I eat at the mess hall. And she either doesn't know how to run the vacuum cleaner, or won't run it." He apparently stifled the rest of the rant Klink decided Hogan had been holding inside for some time. Klink kept his mouth shut and just let Hogan talk.
After a silent moment, Hogan went on in a more subdued tone, "Kinch finally told me on this last trip he wasn't sure from the start if we'd make it, Tiger and I." Hogan stared down, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. "'Wartime romance', he said. Tiger and Papa Bear knew each other, but she and I didn't." Hogan rolled his eyes and sighed softly. "He was right." Looking up at Klink, Hogan met his eyes with a trace of sadness and desperation in them. "It was like marrying a stranger. I knew what kind of time-delayed fuses she liked on demolition packs, but didn't know if she took cream in her coffee." He set his fork down. Picking up his coffee cup, Hogan sipped thoughtfully, looking inward to someplace distant. "She was married, before the war. She and her husband, first husband, were college students in Paris. He was killed early on in the Resistance." Hogan shook his head. "I didn't know about any of that until we were already married. I mean, it didn't matter, but still…" He trailed off. "We never had a chance to talk about the things people usually do if they're dating, or engaged. And there was the rush because of William…"
"But surely Marie…" Klink began.
The clatter of the coffee cup hitting the saucer cut Klink off. "That's another thing," Hogan said sharply. Another thing what? Klink thought with dismay, as yet another conversation with Hogan seemed to have gotten away from him. "She doesn't go by 'Marie'. Never did. She goes by 'Louise'. I didn't even know that for a whole year until I was at her mother's house in France and Tiger's sisters showed up. Marie Michele. Marie Bernadette. Marie Colette… Apparently it's a French Catholic thing to name all the girls Marie—Mary—then add another name."
He rubbed his eyes, then gave Klink a somewhat pained smile. "Sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that. It's just…"
Waving his hand in the air to stop Hogan, Klink said, "It's quite all right. I understand having trouble with women. Though," he added judiciously, "I have always quite liked Marie… I mean Louise, Marie Louise. I found her charming from the first. And she's always been quite pleasant to me even though we weren't quite on the same side of the war."
"Not quite on the same side of the war?" Hogan repeated. "That's an understatement. But, yeah, Tiger told me how you were fawning over her when the Gestapo brought her into camp that time."
"I like pretty girls," Klink stated defensively. "And so do you. But I had the sense to remain single so I could continue to enjoy them." Thoughtfully, he said, "I recall how enjoyable it was dancing and romancing the lovely Lily Frankel. I think if I'd had a bit more time with her, I could have…"
A soft snort from Hogan halted Klink. "I don't think so," Hogan said. "Lily wasn't interested in you."
"How would you know…?" Klink began sharply, then the gears turned and he realized. "You knew Lily Frankel," Klink said.
Hogan gave a shrug. "She was in the Underground. One of my contacts."
Something about the dismissive way Hogan said it told Klink more than the words themselves did. Hogan, master of duplicity and concealment… "You knew Lily Frankel," Klink said flatly as he rearranged his thoughts and memories. "You knew Lily Frankel," he said again. Was that a faint blush on Hogan's face? An avoidance in his glance? "Oh. You knew Lily Frankel."
"Say it as many times as you want," Hogan said. "It won't change it."
"You knew Lily Frankel in the, uh… that is to say, in the Biblical… uh…" Klink stuttered. "Heavens to Betsy!"
"Hey!" Hogan cut in brightly. "Nice use of American idiom."
"Thank you. I've been practicing," Klink acknowledged, but refused to let Hogan sidetrack him. "So, you knew Lily Frankel. You know Lily Frankel. And she… and you…" Then he did another searching study of Hogan's face and the sudden miserable avoidance in his eyes. "Donnerwetter, Hogan!"
"Forget those American idioms?"
"Stop that!" Klink ordered. "You met Lily on this last trip, didn't you? You… you cheated on your wife with her, didn't you?"
"Klink…" Hogan started warningly.
"No wonder Marie—Louise—left. She still has contacts over there. She was in Underground intelligence, too. She could find out. That dear, charming, beautiful woman…" Cutting off his near-babble, Klink glared accusingly into Hogan's now-angry eyes. "Shame on you!"
"Klink! I did not cheat on my wife with Lily Frankel," Hogan snapped. Then he dropped his eyes, his tone also dropping. "Almost," he murmured. "Almost. I would have. Lily stopped it." Hogan shook his head. "I never thought I'd be the sort to cheat on my wife."
"Hmph! You never were the sort to even have a wife, Hogan," Klink said. "How old were you when you arrived at Stalag 13? Nearly forty? Never married. Hot-shot playboy pilot. How many women were there? And none of them a Mrs. Hogan?" He waggled his finger at Hogan. "You're just like me."
With a scowl, Hogan retorted, "I am nothing like you."
"Really," Klink countered. "You said there is going to be another war, and you sounded almost eager when you said it. Hmm? Because in the war you were full of purpose, on the top of your game. You never felt more alive, I'll wager, than when you were dodging death every moment. Playing cat and mouse with the Gestapo, and with me—"
"Well, you were easy."
"—so you find yourself yearning for the next war, even though you say you want nothing but peace, because those were the best years of your life. Wanting to relive the old glory days when everything was sharp and bright. Isn't that right?"
Hogan shrugged, but also appeared to be considering Klink's words.
"Like me?" Klink concluded softly.
Meeting his eyes, Hogan repeated, "I am nothing like you," but much less firmly.
"Really?" Klink asked, holding Hogan's eyes. "By the time this next war starts you'll be how old? Too old to fly fighters, certainly. Even too old for bombers. No, you'll be just about the age I was when I took command of Stalag 13. Maybe they'll assign you to command a POW camp. Hmm? Still a colonel, too. You'll have been a colonel quite a while by then. You certainly have the qualifications to be a POW camp commandant, don't you? You'll be trying to keep a bunch of conniving young hotshots contained. And all your great courage will pale as you get older and realize just how precious life is, and how foolish most of the reasons to die are. So you'll hang your flight gear on a hook, put photos of old planes on the walls, and fly a desk."
"I am nothing like you," Hogan murmured again.
"Nothing like me?" Klink challenged. "Hogan, you are me. Just… you know, with more hair."
Hogan chuckled at that. Straightening up, Hogan pushed his breakfast plate away. "Well, you're wrong about that, but I will keep the thought in mind… or in my nightmares." He smirked at Klink, who smiled patiently back.
Cigars after lunch on the porch, the day having grown pleasantly warm, eased the conversation onto other, meandering paths. Willy stayed in the house, 'helping' his new friend Magda tidy up. The occasional crash followed by a burst of rapid Polish gave Klink cringing progress reports.
Returning to the question at hand, Klink said as dismissively as possible, "Well, when someone comes along and tells you you're great, perfect, superior in every way…" He shrugged. "Who am I to argue with that?" He waved his hand as if to erase both question and answer from the air, for Hogan's question—the great, overriding, unanswered, never-to-be-fully-answered, 'Why?'—hit rather too closely to home for comfort.
"Yeah." Hogan stared thoughtfully inward a minute. Then he peered hard at Klink, jabbing a finger toward him. "But never once, not even one time, did I ever hear you use the phrase 'Master Race'. Not about you. And not about anyone else."
Klink pursed his lips together. "No." Standing abruptly, he strode to the edge of the porch railing. He turned to Hogan with a small smile. "You see, while 'Klink' may be a five hundred year old aristocratic family name, I also knew full well it was a family with more than a few, uh… as you would say, 'woodchucks in the lumberpile.'"
Hogan winced. "So much for your mastery of American idioms. That wasn't even close to the right expression."
"Then what…?"
"Never mind," Hogan cut him off. "I know what you mean." He gave Klink a knowing look. "The aunt with the…" He waggled his fingers near his upper lip."
With a grimace, Klink conceded, "Yes. And the boy who never… And the girl…"
"Yes," Hogan agreed. "So sad."
"Mmm." Klink shifted and tried to readdress the original question, hoping somehow to find the answer for himself if not for Hogan. "So how did Hitler convince all of us to go along with everything he said and did? He told us we were superior. He told us we had a great destiny. Who would ever stand up and deny that? As for the rest…"
"Yeah. I saw that for myself. It was glorious and exciting—for those on the top. And if you're one of those on the top, it's hard to see those who are getting trampled down on the bottom."
"But," Klink inserted, "I could see the others who were on the 'top', as you put it. Hochstetter-types. The SS were supposed to be the best of the best, the very epitome of the Aryan Master Race, yet there they were—arrogant, cruel, inhuman."
"Cruel and inhuman. God…" Hogan stretched the word out like a prayer, or a plea. "And you don't even know the half of it."
It took a certain force of will not to look away from Hogan as Klink quietly asked, "You went to some of the concentration camps, didn't you?"
Hogan nodded, his eyes taking on a hollow look. "Just one. Dachau, by Munich. And I wish to hell I hadn't. It was a week or more after it had been liberated. A lot had been cleaned up, yet it was still like stepping into some nightmare of Hell worse than any I'd ever imagined."
"The nightmares you have…" Klink didn't finish the thought.
"Sometimes," Hogan admitted. "That's in there, along with other stuff. But usually it's…" He broke off. "Say, if we're gonna talk about this I could really use a drink."
Not arguing this time, Klink went into the house, covertly itemizing his more valuable possessions to see if they were still intact as he did so. He heard Magda chattering, with Willy babbling cheerfully, from the bedroom. Snatching up the decanter of brandy and two glasses, Klink returned to the porch.
"Here," he said, handing Hogan a glass, then poured one for himself. When Hogan didn't resume speaking, Klink said, "After the Great War I used to dream over and over about being in a burning plane as it crashed. It would spiral down forever as the flames burned me alive."
"That ever happen?" Hogan asked, peering seriously at Klink.
"Not to me. I saw it happen to a friend of mine. I followed him down but couldn't do anything. I crashed once from a low altitude—the Blue Baron incident—but the plane didn't burn. I saw others, though…" Even after all these years it gave him a shiver. "It's strange how years later something can bring that back just like it happened yesterday.
"Yeah," Hogan murmured. "I know what you mean." He cleared his throat. "I don't know how many lives I'm responsible for taking. Can't even count. There were the bombing raids—you never see the faces, just explosions far below. The sabotage missions—factories full of workers, guards. Bridges. Convoys… Still, somewhat remote and impersonal. I was in dogfights but in those you're not really shooting at people; don't think about the pilot. You're shooting at an airplane."
"I know," Klink said. "That's why I couldn't do it." Hogan gave him a questioning look. "We had open cockpits then," Klink explained. "And flew at slower speeds. I saw the face of the enemy pilot I was supposed to shoot down. He looked as scared as I was. Luckily, my guns jammed."
"Sure they did," Hogan said agreeably. "Whatever else I have a nightmare about, it always ends the same way. I'm on my knees with a gun to the back of my head…"
"I won't apologize," Klink blurted out.
"I don't expect you to," Hogan said mildly. "That moment you really were trying to save my life. Well, yours too."
"Always."
A quick smile passed between them. Hogan gulped the rest of his brandy and poured another glass, filling it more than Klink had. Hogan's expression turned dark. "Then it turns around and I'm the one holding the gun, looking right at him as I pull the trigger. It was one of Hochstetter's goons in Berlin. I shot him pointblank between the eyes." Hogan made an exasperated sound and took a quick drink. "It's not even like I feel guilty about it. I did what I had to do and I'd do it again. I just keep seeing his eyes at the moment I pulled the trigger." He shook his head and said to Klink, "You wouldn't understand it."
"Hogan," Klink said softly, "I didn't shoot Hochstetter in the back."
Hogan blinked and stared. "Right." He turned away, nodding thoughtfully. "Right."
As twilight colored the sky and the lake in gold and orange, Magda called to them from inside the cottage that supper was ready for them and she needed to return to her own home, expressed as, "You supper now. I go."
Stretching and rubbing his bad leg, Hogan took charge of Willy. From the way the boy's eyelids drooped, he'd be asleep in no time, worn out from his day playing with Klink's housekeeper.
The dinner passed quietly, Hogan apparently lost in his own thoughts, possibly reflecting on all they'd spoken on this day, Klink considered. How many times at Stalag 13 had Klink felt Hogan, an officer of equal rank though an enemy, was the only one he could speak with of deeply personal things. It turned out Hogan had never felt the personal connection at those times; only saw Klink as an adversary to use and manipulate. Yet, somehow, through all that, something real had developed between the two men so now, in some way, Hogan felt Klink was the only one he could speak to of these private and troubling things.
"Funny," Hogan said, looking out the window at the last shards of the sunset glistening on the water. A loon hooted from the far shore, its eerie call one with the twilight. "I used to dream of a place like this sometimes at Stalag 13. Peaceful. Quiet. A simple life with Tiger and our family. I did not dream of it for you, however." He gave a faint chuckle. "How'd you end up with the American dream, and not me?" He fell silent again.
Needing to break the moody quiet, Klink commented on something that had occurred to him as they talked about Klink's aborted promotion. "They offered to make you a general. Why'd you turn it down?"
Jerking as though startled from a dream, Hogan said, "Because it would have been General Hogan, R. E. T."
"Hmm?"
"Retired," Hogan said. "No war, no need for more generals. We have an excess as it is."
"Still, why not take it?" Klink persisted. "Stay home with your wife and raise a family. This 'American dream' is still there waiting. It's yours for the taking."
"And do what?"
"Go into civilian flying," Klink said, "and leave all this… this… danger and intrigue behind."
Hogan shook his head. "There are as many spare civilian pilots now as there are spare generals. And I'd go crazy flying a regular route. Nope. It will work out. Tiger and I will work it out. We'll fight and we'll make up. And if we keep making up the way we do we'll end up with a big family.
"But," Hogan added, "I can't quit doing what I'm doing until I can look Stalin square in the eye and tell him to back down."
Klink knew better than to try to dissuade him. "Hmm… that would be the last of the great leaders of the war you've met. You met your president, I assume." Hogan nodded. "And Churchill. And Hitler."
Hogan said, "I never met Hitler."
"What?" Klink shook his head. "I saw you meet him. At the camp. He kept going on about barbed wire."
A grin split Hogan's face. "That was Carter."
"Carter?" Klink echoed blankly. Suddenly Klink slammed his hand down on the table, making the dinnerware jump. "I hate it! I absolutely hate it when things like that come up." Simmering down with an effort, Klink glared as Hogan laughed at him.
"Oh, come on, Klink… they'd never have let me within a hundred feet of Hitler even if I was in chains and had a squad guarding me." Hogan choked down another chuckle. "I thought you said you'd figured everything out and were just playing along the whole time."
"Yes, that's right," Klink lied. "Oh, maybe I missed one or two things, but on the whole I was right there with you, shoulder-to-shoulder, comrades in arms, battling the evil…"
Hogan's laugh cut him off again. "Don't overplay it."
"Yes, well…" Klink began, but the telephone ringing cut him off. Rising, he picked up the receiver. "Yes… yes…" He struggled to hear and understand what was being said over the crackly line. "I think it's for you," he said to Hogan, holding out the receiver.
Hogan spoke into the phone, then began speaking what even Klink recognized was truly ghastly French. There seemed to be much repeating before Hogan appeared to have gotten the message with full understanding.
When he hung up the phone, Hogan turned toward Klink with a pale, strained expression on his face.
"What is it?" Klink demanded.
"I have a daughter," Hogan said.
"A daughter?" Klink echoed. Shouldn't he look more happy?
"Yeah. A daughter," Hogan repeated. "A little girl. But…" He seemed to be having trouble saying the next part. "But it was too early. Tiger is in trouble. She may not make it."
The small grass airstrip nestled in the Wisconsin woods shone with autumn sunlight, made brighter by the blazing colors of the surrounding trees. The Mustang stood on the edge of the strip, prepped and ready to go.
"Sure you'll be okay with William?" Hogan asked Klink as he stood by the wing.
Klink studied the dark-haired little boy whose mischievous eyes were so like those of his father's, Klink's greatest nemesis and, yes, his best friend. "I'll be fine. As long as it's fine with you if I lock him in the cellar to cool off when he becomes unruly," Klink said.
"Fine with me," Hogan responded, equally deadpan. "I've taught him how to dig tunnels. He'll be out in no time."
Giving as much of a smile as he could muster, Klink handed the boy to Hogan for their farewell. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather take a commercial flight from New York?" Klink asked again.
"Take too long," Hogan said. "I can pick up auxiliary tanks in Toronto. From there it's Nova Scotia, to Greenland, to Iceland, to Ireland and straight to Paris. Easy." He hugged Willy close.
"You can't land in Greenland this time of year," Klink insisted again. "The fog, and the ice… You're crazy."
"So I keep hearing." Hogan handed his son back to Klink. "Take care of him."
"I will. You be careful."
"I will," Hogan responded with a grin. He climbed onto the wing of the plane. Then, maneuvering his sore leg, eased into the cockpit. "I always am."
No, you're not, Klink thought, yet somehow it all always seemed to work out. Would the fates be so unkind as to let him save Tiger in the war yet have her snatched away now? Could life be so cruel to deny the happily-ever-afters those who had survived hell deserved?
The Mustang engine roared as Hogan aimed down the runway and gave it full-throttle. Lifting off with room to spare, Hogan made a pass over the field, tilting a wing down so he could give Klink and his son a small wave.
Klink watched as Hogan's plane headed away over the treetops. He hugged little Willy close as the boy continued to wave at his father. "Let me tell you a story," Klink told the child, "it's about a Papa Bear and a Mama Bear… Oh, and I think a tiger is involved…" Then the plane flipped a neat victory roll so William was squealing with delight as it disappeared into the distance.
The end
