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And a big thank you to Marilyn for her continued help.
Chapter Nine
"Colonel? Sir, are you still awake?"
Hogan blinked, groggily looked in Kinch's general direction and saw little more than a large, vague shape.
"Klink's gone, sir."
Kinch . . . what? Klink? Oh, yeah. Klink was here.
It was getting harder and harder for Hogan to think and it felt as though a fire was blazing away right next to his bunk. He feebly pushed at the blanket's constricting folds, feeling suffocated by heat, yet icy cold at the same time.
"Leave that there, sir. You've a fever."
Hogan squinted, trying to find O'Malley in the darkness starting to creep in around the edges of his vision. He recognized the bit of dark, auburn color that momentarily loomed closer as the medic's hair. Hands carefully repositioned the blanket, tucking it around him.
Something incredibly cold passed over his forehead, moved on to his cheeks and chin, then his neck. He flinched away from it, gasping as pain rocketed through his shoulder, chest, and side and stars flickered across his vision.
A hand briefly cupped his neck, just under his jaw and then fingers touched his throat. He thought he heard O'Malley mumble something.
Leave me alone. Please . . . just leave me alone.
He struggled to free his hand from beneath the blanket and felt the limb barely move. Groaning in pain, frustrated by his body's betrayal, he rallied rapidly fading strength. He managed to slip his hand free, only to have it immediately enclosed within a strong, but gentle grip. Kinch's voice floated to him from what sounded like a great distance.
"Take it easy, Colonel. Everything'll be all right. You're going to be okay."
All right? Nothing is ever going to be all right again, Kinch, and I'm not going to be okay any time soon, either.
Marta . . . Hogan silently cried out, going limp. His hand was gently placed under the blanket again.
It would have been better if the patrol had caught me. Or killed me. At least then . . . Marta would still be alive.
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Kinch gazed down at Hogan, the wet cloth in his hand momentarily forgotten. His CO was ghostly pale, trembling with fever. O'Malley and Kurthad both assured him that Hogan would recover.
So, Kinch sighed to himself, fingering the cloth. Why don't I feel reassured?
Leaning forward in his chair, he gripped the top of Hogan's good shoulder and spoke just above a whisper.
"You'll be okay."
Hogan twisted beneath Kinch's touch, pushing his face into the folds of the pillow. Kinch's frown deepened. Something about the reaction made him uneasy.
"Kinch? Is something wrong?"
Carter's whisper sounded loud in the silence of the room. Still watching Hogan closely, Kinch dropped the cloth into the bowl, ignoring the splash of water onto his foot. Hogan had grown quiet, though his forehead was deeply furrowed. Kinch bit the inside of his lip.
"Mate?" Newkirk knelt beside Kinch's chair, looked up at him in concern. "Why don't you let one of us take over here for awhile and you go have a rest?"
"Oui, mon ami." LeBeau came up behind Kinch and rested a hand on his shoulder. "We will let you know if le colonel wakes."
Kinch did not respond, his eyes still fixed upon Hogan. O'Malley sighed, and with a slight shake of his head, moved to Kinch's other side.
"He'll sleep now, which is the best thing for him."
Kinch cocked his head, listening. O'Malley's words made sense. Dragging a hand over his face, he finally gave in to the yawn he had been stifling all morning.
"Kinch," Carter gently prodded, taking up position beside LeBeau. Kinch smiled briefly. He was surrounded and outnumbered. He glanced once more at Hogan, then slowly rose.
"Okay." He went to the door and then looked back, one hand gripping the door frame. "But the minute he wakes up, I want to know about it."
They nodded agreement and he started once again to leave, only to stop short. Tired or not, he needed to take care of his friends. He looked back at them, seeing his own worry and exhaustion in their faces. Facing them fully, he dredged up what he hoped looked like a smile and not a grimace.
"One at a time, okay? I'm not the only one who's been up all night and needs rest."
Carter plopped down in the chair beside Hogan's bunk, presenting a determined expression to the group. "I'll go first."
Kinch's smile faded quickly. He swept the men with a steady gaze, pressing the order home. "Two hour shifts."
"Right," Newkirk agreed, nodding. "Just like last time."
"Yeah," Kinch said softly, his exhaustion suddenly weighing more heavily upon him. "Just like last time."
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Kurt dragged himself into his office and across the endless distance to his desk. He stood looking down at it for several moments, not really seeing it, then sank into the chair and leaned it back as far as it would go.
So much has happened, he thought, closing his eyes and wearily rubbing his temple. So many lives have been affected by that split second decision.
Worried about his parents and wanting to report on Hogan's condition, he had stopped at the farm before going on to the Krankenhaus. He found his mother huddled in her rocker, Hogan's blood-dampened jacket face up on her lap. She acknowledged his arrival with a glance, then looked back down at the jacket. She spoke slowly, as if drugged.
"I thought the blood was Marta's . . . until I found this." She slipped her hand inside the jacket, stuck a badly trembling finger through the bullet hole in the shoulder. Lifting her head to lock eyes with him, she stroked her hand across the black material to the jacket's side and pointed out another hole. "And this."
His throat had suddenly grown too tight to speak. His father's hand came to rest upon his shoulder, squeezed gently.
"I had asked Kurt not to say anything of Robert's injuries until he knew more, Mater."
Romie looked back down at the jacket, nodding slowly. Taking a deep breath, she whispered, "Did he . . . is he . . . ?" Her voice crackled with unshed tears.
Kurt went to his knees beside the rocker and gathered her into his arms. His touch broke her control. Sobbing, she laid her head upon his shoulder, holding him tightly.
"No, Mater, no."
Once she had calmed, Kurt explained Hogan's injuries and expressed his firm belief in Hogan's recovery. Relieved, she retreated to the kitchen. There, she busied herself making a breakfast that no one felt like eating.
Kurt and his father had retreated to the porch. In the half-light of dawn, his father told him what had happened when they returned Marta to her parents.
Karl and Margaret had – after a flood of tears and questions – accepted the false explanation of Marta's death. Having lost a child of their own, Kurt's parents understood that nothing they said would lessen Karl and Margaret's pain. They left the grieving young couple, taking Mozart with them, since Karl and Margaret could no longer bear to have him in their home.
A fluttering sound drew Kurt out of his thoughts and he traced the sound to the window. A pigeon flitted about on the other side of the grimy glass, wings beating the air as it decided whether to alight upon the sill. He watched it with little interest until it flew away, then squeezed his eyes shut, restlessly rocking the chair.
'What ifs' haunted him.
What if Karl and Margaret had helped Marta look for Mozart instead of promising to do so in the morning?
What if Robert's rendezvous with Orion had been at a different location or had taken place even a few minutes later?
What if Mozart had chosen to wander a different path?
What if Marta had stayed hidden rather than ran?
What if Robert's impeccable aim had been off for once?
What if . . .
Every answer came up the same. Marta would still be alive.
Kurt's head lolled on his shoulders, a weak, watery chuckle escaping. He was second-guessing, falling into the same trap he had after Evangeline and Phillip's deaths.
Do not do this. It changes nothing – only sharpens grief's jagged teeth.
As if mocking him, another pair of questions flashed into his mind.
What if Robert had collapsed outside the tunnel rather than inside?
What if he had never made it back at all?
". . . don't forget that it just as easily could have been the colonel who died out there . . ." Kinch's voice whispered to him.
Kurt shot to his feet, paced to the window and gripped the sill so hard his fingernails dug into the peeling paint. After a few seconds of staring blindly at the sky, he turned and flung himself back into his chair. He rocked it back again, drumming his fingertips upon the scarred wooden arms as he stared up at the cracked ceiling.
"And I am not certain I wish to see him either."
How he wished that he could pull those ill-spoken words back! He had known from the first that Kinch was right. Robert had only been defending himself and would never have expected a child to be in the woods at that time of night. Caught in the open with the enemy trying to kill him, his first instinct would rightly be to shoot at any movement, at anything that might shoot back. He could not possibly have known Marta would be there.
Of course she would run from the horror of seeing men shot down – and by a man she knew and trusted.
Her death had been a tragic accident. No one's fault. Not even Robert's.
Kurt bent forward, put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
Robert . . .
". . . don't forget that it just as easily could have been the colonel who died out there . . ." Kinch reminded him yet again.
Yet again, his friend – his brother – had almost died. That, Kurt realized after leaving Stalag 13, was at the very foundation of his anger. It was not because Robert had killed Marta, nor was it because Robert had placed his parents in a dangerous position. Kurt had done the very same more than once. And though he hoped never to do it again, he was not foolish enough to dismiss the possibility that he still might.
"And I am not certain I wish to see him either."
"Verdamnt!"
Kurt lunged to his feet, grabbed a paperweight from his desk and drew back his arm. At the very last possible second, he realized what he was doing. With a broken sob, he collapsed into the chair, gently returned the paperweight to its place, then folded his arms upon the desk and rested his chin upon them.
"What if?" he choked out, staring into space. Robert's face appeared before him, his expression solemn, the brown eyes calm.
". . . just as easily could have been the colonel. . ."
Kurt closed his eyes, slowly shook his head.
If events had happened differently, the name Robert Hogan would have been added to the growing list of loved ones he had lost to the war. Evangeline, his beloved wife and their unborn child. His Uncle Leidel. His brother Phillip. And now little Marta.
". . . could have been the colonel. . ."
Kurt groaned.
He had directed his anger at the very one he was afraid for!
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Hogan drifted in a haze of heat. Darkness blanketed him, occasionally disturbed by whispers and a soft voice - not always the same one, but always familiar.
Carter. LeBeau. Newkirk. O'Malley.
His men. They were worried about him. He could hear it in their voices. His silent response was always the same and always held a sharp, bitter edge.
Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.
TBC . . .