Morning seemed to come extra early to the fatigued men of Barracks 2, but the early risers soon had up those who would have liked to linger a little longer in their bunks. As Kinch stretched himself to work out the kink in his left shoulder that his thin mattress always seemed to leave, Colonel Hogan abruptly appeared out of his quarters, notably earlier than usual. Kinch, looking closely at him, observed that he was already shaved and that the small lines around his eyes seemed deeper than usual. He nudged LeBeau, who had just finished pulling on his trousers.
The Frenchman took one look at Hogan and bent to his footlocker, pulling out his precious stash of real coffee. He couldn't afford to use enough to make a full pot, but he added double his usual measure of the real beans to the ersatz. "Should we try to get breakfast to the crew below before roll call?" he asked the colonel as the water finished boiling in the coffee pot on the stove where Kinch had stoked the fire.
Hogan shook his head. "Let 'em sleep till after we're done with breakfast. There's no reason to wake them early when they'll just be sitting around down there waiting for us."
"Well, why don't we let—" Carter started, only to yelp "OW!" as Newkirk trod on his foot.
"Sorry, mate," Newkirk patted his shoulder in a friendly fashion, but accompanied it with a sharp glare and slight shake of his head. Carter, never one to pick up on subtle gestures, at least got this one and shut up, sitting down on his bunk to nurse his sore toes, muttering, "Geez, you didn't hafta step on me."
"Rrroolll caaalll! Everybody out, out, out! Raus! Raus!" Schultz entered the barracks shortly after the coffee had been poured and drunk, bawling out his customary phrase and provoking the usual storm of grumbling as the men grabbed jackets and coats before falling out into the usual loose formation in the compound, Carter still hobbling slightly.
Roll call lasted only its usual chilly eternity, Klink speechifying on the glories of the Third Reich and delaying breakfast still further as the prisoners surreptitiously stamped their feet and buried their hands in their pockets or up under their armpits to try to stay warm in the bitingly chilly March morning air. For once Hogan said nothing in response to any of Klink's ridiculous claims, too distracted by the events of the night before, Kinch judged.
Finally Klink wrapped up. But he followed up the usual "Diisss-misssed!" by calling out, "Colonel Hogan! I would like a word with you."
Hogan sighed and ambled unenthusiastically over to where the Kommandant waited. The rest of the men from Barracks Two trudged off to the mess hall for early breakfast rotation, but his core team lagged behind, leaning on the front wall of the hut, waiting for the colonel.
"Yes, Kommandant?" Hogan asked irritably.
Klink rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. "I had a very good dinner in town last night," he started. "With that young lady I met at the concert last week. Fräulein Ulla," he added, drawing out the first and last vowels of her name dreamily.
Hogan regarded him with impatience; he had never been less interested in Klink's love life than he was at the moment. "That's great, Kommandant," he answered, dripping sarcasm with each syllable. "So why are you telling me about this right now?"
Klink's hand rubbing slowed, and his expression became calculating. From long experience, Hogan's antennae automatically pricked up. Klink wanted something from him, and Hogan knew he'd needed to bargain for it with his men and upcoming missions in mind.
"Fräulein Ulla is a gymnast, Hogan. Very . . . ah, physically fit. She believes quite strongly in the benefits of a strong body."
"So she's not interested in you then?" Hogan couldn't help himself saying.
Klink drew himself up in irritation. "I am quite fit, Colonel Hogan, as required by regulations!"
"Uh huh," Hogan drawled. "Well, for a man your age, I guess they lower the bar considerably."
"Insolence!" Klink sputtered, his satisfied hand rubbing morphing into shaking his right fist at his senior POW officer.
"Was there some point to all this, Kommandant?" Hogan asked, tiring of the little game.
Klink's countenance shifted back into something approximating cunning. "As I was saying before you interrupted," he paused and looked challengingly at Hogan, who merely crossed his arms and waited, silently willing Klink to finish up, "Fräulein Ulla is a gymnast. Inspired by the Strength through Joy program, she has started a gymnastics team for the young ladies of Hammelburg, to promote physical fitness and improve morale."
"And what does this fascinating bit of gossip have to do with me?" Hogan asked. "If they're looking for an audience, I'm sure the all the boys here would be delighted to go into town to watch a show."
"Fräulein Ulla particularly believes in gymnastics set to music," Klink continued, ignoring Hogan's mocking offer. "A team of fit young women who work in unison to produce beauty. It is a fine symbol of our German culture to share with our local population and improve morale."
"Yeah, right. The Rockettes do the same thing. And so where do I fit in to all this? If you want me to coach, I'm willing." Hogan couldn't help grinning a bit at the prospect.
"Fräulein Ulla coaches the team herself," Klink snapped, then recovered himself. "They have been practicing to accordion music, provided by one of our local musicians. Unfortunately, he was drafted for the Russian front last week."
"Yeah, pretty unfortunate for him," Hogan remarked sardonically. "Soooo, again, what does this have to do with me? I don't play accordion."
"But perhaps one of the other prisoners does?" Klink inquired eagerly.
The light bulb clicked on for Hogan. Keep your mind on the job! You should've seen that coming, he scolded himself inwardly.
"So you want me to find a POW accordion player to perform for Nazi propaganda and morale purposes," he summed up Klink's request. "I don't think so, Kommandant."
Klink's lips thinned in frustration, which meant they nearly disappeared from view altogether. "I am willing to pay him, Hogan."
"Because you think this will help you charm yourself into Fräulein Ulla's good graces," Hogan remarked skeptically.
"Hogan, you are a man, you understand these things," Klink implored.
"I used to understand them," Hogan answered with a certain grimness underlying his facetious tone. "It's been a while, Kommandant. Maybe I've forgotten."
Klink snorted, "I don't think so, given how you look at Fraulein Hilda." Hogan shrugged, unwilling to admit to anything. Gaining no ground with that, Klink went back to entreaty, promising, "I will make it worth your while, as well as pay the man you find."
Well, having someone who could go into town and back on a regular basis was too useful an opportunity to pass up, Hogan thought. "Okay, Kommandant, I'll look into it—on the condition of an extra hour of electricity a night for the next month for the camp."
"An hour!" Klink shook his head. "An extra fifteen minutes for a week."
Hogan rolled his eyes. "Okay, an extra half hour for two weeks—and that's just for looking. If I find anyone, we'll negotiate the price for his services then. Take it or leave it, Kommandant."
"Hmph," Klink snorted in displeasure. After a moment he yielded. "Very well. But don't drag your feet on this, Hogan. I expect an answer back today if you want any extra light."
Hogan nodded and sketched a salute at him before turning away toward the mess hall. By unspoken common consent, Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter fell into step with him, Carter having almost completely lost his earlier limp.
The chow line had gone down during Klink's negotiations, and they were able to get their black bread, margarine, and ersatz coffee rations fairly quickly. They took seats in a corner at the end of one of the common tables near the back of the hall, Hogan at the head of the table with his back to the wall, Kinch and Carter on the side at his right, Newkirk and LeBeau on his left. Hogan worked his way silently through his bread while the others kept conversation going by betting on the baseball teams the various barracks were recruiting with the hope of spring weather to come. Newkirk's contributions to this baseball discussion—as all others—mostly lauded the superiority of cricket to baseball, drawing the usual fire from the Americans on the impossibility of understanding the English national sport. Newkirk's defense was spirited, and breakfast whiled away during the debate.
Finished with his bread rations, Hogan glanced around the room; finding it free of guards within earshot he abruptly began talking when the ball game discussion hit a lull. He carefully kept his voice pitched low enough that only the two men on either side of him could hear.
"Okay, you guys have all been really polite, but I know you're dying to ask. So here's the story. But do me a favor and don't interrupt while I tell it. As you've probably guessed, a lot of it's not very pretty." His men all nodded seriously. Hogan paused, then plunged on.
"So my senior year of high school I was in love with a beautiful girl. Katie Mahoney." He grinned very slightly, staring off in the distance. "And I wanted her like only an eighteen-year-old boy can want a girl—you know?"
"Mais oui, of course," LeBeau smiled.
"Oh yeah," Kinch sighed with his own small grin. Newkirk stroked his chin, eyes softer than usual. Even Carter blushed and nodded.
"The only thing our parents agreed on was that us seeing each other so seriously was a bad idea. But we were determined to get married, despite her parents saying no and mine saying wait. Two days after graduation we took a train to New York; we came back married three days later."
"You eloped?" Carter's eyes widened till they were almost perfectly round.
"Yeah. My parents put the best face on it and gave us a party as a reception when we got back, but Katie's folks were furious and wouldn't come, wouldn't speak to her."
He sighed. "That was really hard on her, and I felt bad that I'd come between them that way, though not so much that I ever regretted marrying her. I started college in the fall and Katie worked as a secretary, but by late in the first term we knew she was expecting. That news finally brought her parents around—they didn't want to miss out on their grandchild. And she got to see more of her brothers and sisters after that too.
"So I was going to quit college and get a job. That made my parents unhappy, but I felt I had to support Katie and the baby. It was all going okay, and late in May Bobby was born. Katie wanted to name him Robert after me and Theodore after her dad, kind of as an olive branch. That was fine with me—whatever she wanted."
Hogan stopped and put his hand over his mouth, staring off down the table, but apparently not seeing anything. The other four shifted and traded glances uneasily.
After swallowing visibly, twice, Hogan continued, "Everything seemed okay, but a couple days later Katie got really sick." He closed his eyes, then added, his voice cracking just slightly, "And then—she died. The docs had a fancy name for it, but my mom just called it childbed fever."
He drew a deep breath and pushed on. "So there I was at nineteen, with a newborn baby and no wife. And I . . . didn't handle it very well. Neither did Katie's parents—they blamed me for Katie dying, and I didn't have much to answer that with. They insisted that they take Bobby, said that I didn't know what to do with a baby, that I owed them for taking Katie from them, and they could give him a good home with their younger kids. They seemed right at the time.
"So I let them have him. I still don't know if it was the right thing to do or the biggest mistake of my life." Hogan looked down at his empty plate.
Carter fidgeted, clearly wanting to say something but afraid to, remembering his earlier promise not to interrupt. The movement attracted Hogan's attention. "Yeah, Carter? What is it?" he asked patiently.
"Well, from what you and he said last night it sounds like you saw him some as he was growing up. Is that right, sir?"
Hogan nodded. "I switched schools; my parents helped me get into the Military Academy for that summer because they thought it would help me to get out of there, start over fresh with something completely different. And it did. I pretty much pretended it had all never happened, tried to have a regular academy life. That sort of worked, until the next summer when I went home to visit my folks. My mom pushed at me to do it, so I went over to Katie's parents' house. And there on the front porch, right where I used to court Katie, Bobby was toddling around following his youngest uncle, Roy, who was less than two years older than he was." Hogan worked his jaw right and left. "And that just kinda kicked me in the gut, realizing all I'd missed that year. There was no taking him back from the Mahoneys then, but I made sure I saw him on every school break or leave I had after that, and I insisted he keep my name. I might not get to raise him, but I was damned if he'd grow up not knowing who I was.
"The Mahoneys weren't real happy about that, though. As he got older we fought about me seeing him when I was back on leave. They thought it was disruptive, wanted him to see himself as one of theirs, not as mine. But I made sure he got a present from me each birthday and Christmas, wrote him regularly, and sent the Mahoneys money to provide for him so they couldn't accuse me of abandoning him. As he got a little older, I started taking him camping and fishing each summer when I could get back for visits. Then in '33 when Bobby was nine, they moved from Bridgeport up to Maine. That made it even harder to get up to see him, but I still managed it most summers. One time, when he was twelve, I got up there and found they'd sent him away to camp without telling me, to keep me from visiting him. They wouldn't even tell me where he was, at first, till I threatened to sue for full custody.
"When I went to see him in the summer of '39, I took my motorcycle up there. I didn't tell them I was coming that year, just roared up on it." Hogan grinned a little at the memory. "He was impressed, all right. The Mahoneys weren't happy, but I took him for a long ride along the coast of New England, down to my folks' house in Connecticut and back, spent a full week with him."
He looked down, toying with his tin plate for a moment. "Next time I saw him, I flew up there for an overnight visit early in the summer of 1940, just before shipping out to England. He was mad, didn't want me to go. Said it wasn't our fight, Americans didn't belong in a war in Europe. Sounded just like his grandfather Mahoney."
Hogan sighed. "We . . . well, we didn't leave the argument in a good place—I had to leave before I could convince him I really had to go. He just wouldn't see it. And that was the last I saw him, or even heard from him directly. He hasn't written me since, though I've heard a bit through my parents. I knew he'd joined up, but not what branch of the service. Not till last night." He fell silent, staring down at his empty tin coffee cup as he twirled it around between his hands.
His men traded looks, uneasy and uncomfortable, unsure what to say.
Kinch rubbed his hand over his mouth, then finally said, "That's a lot of years to miss."
Hogan nodded in agreement. "Don't I know it."
ooOoo
Author's Notes:
1) Here's part of the timeline I worked out early on as I drafted the story, if you're interested in how the dates work:
1905 Robert Edward Hogan and Kate Mahoney born.
1923 Rob and Katie turn eighteen in the spring, graduate from high school, and marry.
1924 Late May: Robert Theodore Hogan born, Katie dies. July: Rob leaves for United States Military Academy.
1925 Summer: Rob sees one-year-old Bobby.
1928 Rob joins the Army full time.
1933 Mahoneys move to Augusta, Maine.
1936 Summer: Rob tries to visit twelve-year-old Bobby, who is at camp.
1939 Summer: Rob takes fifteen-year-old Bobby on motorcycle trip. Sept. 1: Nazis invade Poland, World War II starts.
1940 May: Germans invade Luxembourg, Belgium, the Netherlands, France. They all (plus Norway) surrender in May or early June. May 27-June 4: Dunkirk evacuation of British and French troops from France. Early June: Major Robert Hogan visits Bobby, who has just turned sixteen, before leaving for England.
2) I found a picture on Wikipedia of a gymnastics team from 1930s Germany, part of the Nazi Party's Strength through Joy program. Music was being provided by an accordion player. Seemed perfect for my purposes. . . .
3) Childbed fever, or puerperal fever as the medical establishment calls it, results from an infection contracted in childbirth or miscarriage. The infection often quickly leads to septicemia (blood poisoning), and frequently kills the woman at this stage. This was especially true before antibiotics were developed in the 1940s, of course. Though the disease is far rarer today, three women still die from it for every 100,000 births in first world nations, with much worse rates in developing nations. It was particularly bad in the nineteenth century, when hospitals started being used for births but before doctors learned to wash their hands between patients. Famous women who died of childbed fever: Henry VIII's mother, his third wife, and his widow; the great early feminist Mary Wollstonecraft (author of "The Vindication of the Rights of Women") and her daughter Mary Shelley (author of the original novel, Frankenstein). Madeleine L'Engle, the author of the beloved American children's classic A Wrinkle in Time, very nearly died of it also in 1947, but was saved by the new antibiotics.