A/N:With this chapter, we are back with Klink. And now, dear readers, this is where I begin departing from a literalist interpretation of the Canon. Up until now, I've been using the space left for my vision of Hogan and Klink, but now is when I begin respectfully altering what was presented on screen. My justification consists of 2 points: The first, is that the classic sitcom formula did not allow characters to grow or develop. Each episode began with the formula, and no matter what happened in the episode, at the end all the presets were back in place. Obviously, this is not how "real life" works, and I am working under the gentle fiction that these are real people experiencing a real sequence of events. Naturally, they would not be the same at the end of the war as they were at the beginning of the war. People learn, grow, and change every day, especially in extraordinary circumstances such as those presented in the series. I will continue to use the plots given by the Canon, but gradually you will see more and more additions, deletions, and alterations. It is my hope that my development of the characters will still ring true for all of you who love and respect them as I do. My second justification is the old standby: poetic license. If CBS doesn't like it, they can let me know and I will (regretfully) stop.

Movies Are Your Best Escape - 4

"Keep smiling?" I repeated dumbly, as I turned off the radio, "he tells us to keep smiling!"

I fumbled my way back to my desk chair, sickened.

So, no one can ignore it now, that madman has driven the Fatherland to ruin. Will Germany survive?

"Ah, Colonel, about our orchestra..." Hogan was leaning over at me from the other side of the desk.

"Not now, not now," I exclaimed, sounding more distressed than I would have liked.

I was quite rattled. I had gone from a pleasant discussion with Hogan about possibly performing in an orchestra the prisoners were forming, to the even more pleasant experience of listening to Hitler's speech. That is, the way Hogan leaned against me, almost affectionately, was very pleasant indeed. I was surprised, but I responded in a like manner, my heart thundering in my chest as I smiled at him. Would he make any further advances? I did not dare, but at that moment I wasn't sure how I would react if he took the initiative. I would be placing my life in his hands to accept an overture from him, could I count on his discretion?

But, my mind was pulled away from these thrilling and terrifying thoughts as I listened to Hitler speak. The man was clearly insane, and seemed to be preparing us for the end of the war, an end orchestrated by the Allies, rather than Germany. My personal life faded into insignificance.

"We are winning the war...but negotiations have started," I looked up at Hogan for an explanation.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Hogan said dismissively, "Hitler's like everybody else, he has his moods."

"Of course," I said, although a bit uncertainly.

"He probably had one of his temper tantrums this morning," continued Hogan.

"Yes," I mused, "perhaps he had a bad day at Berchtesgaden." The man does seem like a spoilt child at times, maybe his dinner was burnt.

"But! You can never tell..." replied Hogan, seeming to rethink his position.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean you go along running the toughest camp in Germany and then suddenly one day you look out and through the gates comes a Sherman tank with its pea-shooter pointed straight at your monocle."

Hogan had raised his hand and pointed it at my face as if he were attempting to impersonate the tank. I instinctively rose from my chair, trying to get away from the imagined tank, which was beginning to feel a little too real for comfort.

"What?" I stammered, and moved around the desk, out of the way.

"Yeah, yeah," Hogan said, deep in his story, "and then out steps a second lieutenant, nineteen years old," Hogan was swaggering now, impersonating this imagined youth, "six feet four, a high school senior," Hogan was pacing around the desk toward my chair, "from Wichita, Kansas, and he says: 'SIR! YOU ARE MY PRISONER!' very correct, and if you move? He shoots you," Hogan finished with a broad smile, and dropped down into my chair.

My mind raced quickly. There was much I did not know or understand about Hogan, but I did know that he wielded power and influence. It wasn't why my heart desired him, but my brain was smart enough to realize that I needed him to think well of me, for my own safety.

"Colonel, I am going to play in your orchestra," I said, standing where Hogan had stood just a moment before.

"Thank you, sir," Hogan replied with a pleased smile.

There was an awkward pause. I burned with shame and embarrassment, but I couldn't stay silent longer.

"You are sitting in my chair," I pointed out, although I knew that he was well aware of how he had maneuvered me into this humiliating position.

He had enough compassion to act embarrassed, "Sorry! I got carried away!" he said as he quickly got up and joined me on the other side of the desk.

He then pressed up to me closely, causing my heart to lurch dangerously.

"Um, I'd get rid of that German helmet if I were you," he said, nodding at my pickelhaube, "it's got that Hun feeling about it."

I snatched it up and held it to my chest, about to protest when Hogan continued, "And, uh, you don't have to worry about going to the Russian front, the Russian front's coming here."

With that, he strode off to my office door, cast me a significant glance, and left.

I spent most of the night sleepless, worrying about my fate. I fervently hoped that if my camp were to be taken over that it would be the Americans, not the Russians. I was far more confident that I would be treated well, and perhaps under a measure of Hogan's protection, if I were imprisoned by the Americans. With the way we had treated the Russians, I felt I had good reason not to expect kind treatment in return.

My heart ached a little that Hogan had not openly offered me his advocacy as he had Schultz. I wondered why. Did Hogan dislike me for some reason? I felt that I had always treated him with respect, if not outward friendliness. I couldn't think of a single instance of mistreatment of any of the prisoners, and I was certain Hogan would have informed me if one of the guards had acted inappropriately.

So why was Schultz offered a signed declaration and not me? What could I do to convince Hogan that just because we were on opposite sides of the war, I was somebody he could at least feel care and compassion for, as he evidently felt for Schultz?

My decision to play in the prisoners' orchestra was a good start. I resolved to look out for any further opportunities to prove myself as a caring, concerned guardian of those under my watch.

TBC...

A/N: Next time, we're back with Hogan!