Thank you for reading and especially to those who have reviewed. Thank you, also, to Marilyn for her continued help.
Chapter Seven
"He's out again."
"Boy, that was close."
"Aye, that it was. Let's not be doing that again, sir."
"Here, then." Newkirk leaned past LeBeau and extended his open hand toward the waste can they had used to catch the vomit. "Let me take that out and empty it. Don't want the smell to bring on another round."
"From any of us," Olsen muttered, laying one hand upon his stomach.
Carter passed the waste can to Newkirk. He headed for the door, holding it at arm's length and breathing through his mouth.
"Wait!" Kinch ordered, throwing his hand out.
Newkirk paused and looked back. His eyebrows jumped in surprise when Kinch crooked a finger, motioning him to return.
"Set it there." Kinch pointed to a spot near the head of the bed.
"Why leave it here?" Paxton hugged the wall, giving Newkirk and the waste can plenty of room to pass.
A faint grin curled Kinch's lips. "Because it's perfect."
"Oh, that's good," Newkirk grumbled, placing the waste can back on the floor. "And here I was thinking you weren't making any sense."
"I get it," Carter grinned. "You're going to tell Klink the colonel's sick and can't come to roll call and the . . ." he gestured toward the waste can. "will back you up."
"That's the plan." Kinch turned to O'Malley, who was crouched beside the bunk, fussing with the blankets. "Be sure they're clear up to his chin. We don't want Klink to see the bandages."
"And what of the ear?" O'Malley gently rolled Hogan's head toward them, displaying the injured left ear. A raw, open wound cut across the very top. "How will we be hiding this? If Carter hadn't just cut his hair, it could have been brushed to cover --"
"The haircut!" LeBeau exclaimed. "We could say the scissors slipped!"
Kinch's speculative look switched from Hogan to Carter and his eyebrow arched. A sheepish grin crossed Carter's face, one shoulder doing a quick shrug.
"What can I say? I'm not good with sharp objects."
A glance passed between Newkirk and Olsen, but they did not have any better ideas to offer. Wanting a better look at his CO, Paxton leaned forward to see past the group. Hogan lay silent and still, his earlier struggles having sapped his remaining strength. "Do you think Klink will buy it, Kinch?"
"I hope so," Kinch murmured, glancing toward the common room as Schultz's voice rang out for roll call. His gaze returned to Hogan and the helplessness he felt showed in his expression. "Maybe I should stay with him."
O'Malley stood, lines of weariness etched in his face. "He should be all right until we get back. We won't be gone long, anyway."
"Not when Klink realizes the colonel's missing from roll call," Carter said softly, turning for the door.
Kinch cast a last, lingering glance at Hogan's pale, sweaty face and followed.
HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH
Roll call.
The two words blazed in Hogan's mind, floating in a sea of darkness.
Roll call.
Why were those two short words so important? Why wouldn't they fade instead of growing brighter, larger and more urgent?
Hot and uncomfortable, he tried shifting to another position. The dull ache in his side exploded to full-fledged pain and the words vanished in a flare of throbbing white light. Trembling, he peeled heavy eyelids open and blinked until he was able to pick out recognizable details from his blurry surroundings. Desk. Stool. Locker. His quarters. He was in his quarters.
The room felt cold, but that was probably because he felt so hot. A sour smell tainted the air and an awful aftertaste coated his mouth. He had been sick. On the heels of that revelation came another. Saliva flooded his mouth and only repeated swallowing convinced what little he had left in his stomach to remain there.
Marta.
He groaned, bolts of pain searing his shoulder, chest and side. It was hardly the worst pain he had ever felt, yet it was sharp and deep enough to cause his vision to gray over. Lying perfectly still and breathing carefully, he waited for it to ease and his sight to return.
He had to concentrate. He had to focus beyond the horrifying reality of what he had done and look instead to what must be done now. He had to be clear-headed for whatever Kinch had planned.
Marta's face flashed before him, bright and full of life, her joyful laughter at mastering the origami swan ringing in his ears. A sob caught in his throat.
I'm sorry.
HH HH HH HH HH HH HHH HH HH
"Sick," Klink repeated, pausing by the woodstove to throw another derisive look at Kinch. The rest of the men entered the barracks, gathering as a silent, unified group. Schultz, Stalag 13's sergeant of the guard, pushed his way inside far enough to close the door, then took one look at the crowd and decided to remain where he was.
"Yes, sir," Kinch answered. "Really sick."
Klink's eyes narrowed. "This illness came on rather suddenly. I distinctly remember Hogan felt well enough at last night's roll call to make derogatory remarks about our illustrious Luftwaffe." He glanced toward Hogan's door. Before he could take a step in that direction, Kinch moved to block his path. Klink glared, purposely crowding him in an effort to intimidate.
"Step aside, Kinchloe."
"I'd rather you not disturb him, sir," Kinch responded, his expression impassive.
Amusement glittered in Klink's eyes. "He isn't in there, is he?" He tried shoving Kinch aside, but lacked sufficient strength to do so.
"He is in there, Kommandant, and he needs rest. He was sick all night."
"Get out of my way," Klink snapped, losing patience. "Or you and every man in this barracks will find yourselves in the cooler for a week."
Several moments passed and then Kinch sighed and moved aside. Klink swept by, pushed Hogan's door open and went inside. The men crowded around the door, anxious to see if Hogan had regained consciousness. Schultz started forward, realized he stood even less chance of getting by than before, and resigned himself to waiting where he stood.
Klink's nose wrinkled at the unpleasant and unmistakableodor of fresh vomit wafting from the waste can near Hogan's bunk.
"Hogan, what is the . . ." Klink's brow furrowed. Hogan's eyes were partially open and glassy, his expression blank. Klink bent forward at the waist and into his line of sight, trying to catch his attention. "Hogan?"
The brown eyes blinked, and slowly, Hogan looked up. Concern shivered down Klink's spine. Hogan's eyes had never held such desolation. Not even after days of intense interrogation by the Gestapo.
"Kommandant." The voice was raspy and so low Klink went to a knee beside the bunk without even thinking. At this range, he got a very good look at the sweat-soaked, ashen face, and the blood crusting Hogan's ear.
"What happened to your ear?"
Hogan stared at him, as if trying to make sense of the question.
"It was my fault, sir."
Klink looked toward the door. Carter brushed past Kinch, his quiet voice contrite, his eyes downcast.
"I cut it while I was giving him a haircut."
Klink winced, jerked his hand up to cover his own ear.
A low moan came from the bed. Hogan's eyes were tightly closed, his jaw taut. Sweat ran down his face and neck, staining the pillow beneath his head. He clutched the blanket, twisting the material in his fist. Alarmed, Klink rested a hand on the edge of the mattress and bent toward him.
"Are you in pain, Hogan?"
"Stomach," Hogan forced out, gasping and gray with nausea. "You might . . . want to . . . move." He made an abortive attempt to roll toward the side of the bed, moaning in pain.
Klink quickly stood and moved away, placing himself well out of range. Kinch lunged forward, swooped the waste can up and set it in front of Hogan.
"Easy, sir," Kinch whispered, supporting his CO and keeping him covered. Brown eyes glazed with pain flicked up to his face, then slid shut again.
Klink watched, his throat tightening in sympathy. There was no question Hogan would be unable to stand, let alone attend roll call.
After a few moments, the nausea appeared to ebb and Hogan sank deeper into the mattress, sweat glistening on his face. Kinch set the waste can aside and with a gentle touch, wiped the sweat away.
Klink glanced toward the doorway. Déjà vu catapulted him back in time, to another occasion when he had seen such fear in the eyes of Hogan's men, when Hogan had lain in this same bunk, unconscious and unresponsive. As he had then, Klink wondered if Hogan's condition was more serious than what he was being led to believe.
"Very well, Hogan," Klink said, worry softening his voice. "You are excused from roll call until you have recovered." His words received only a vague glance in acknowledgement from Hogan and none at all from Kinch. Frowning, strangely reluctant to leave, Klink returned to his headquarters, Schultz and a sense of uneasiness dogging his heels.
TBC . . .