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Chapter Ten
Klink went to one of the chairs beside the bed, stunned by the changes a day had wrought in Hogan's appearance. The eye visible to him appeared bruised and sunken, and stubble did little to hide the strikingly pale, almost translucent skin. Hogan's breathing was shallow and raspy, as if each breath were a struggle. Klink pushed aside his remorse at disturbing the ill man, the drive to know simply too strong to deny.
"Hogan," Klink called softly, reluctant to speak louder. "It is Kommandant Klink. Hogan . . . can you hear me?"
Hogan's head weakly moved, a soft groan emanating from his slightly parted lips. Klink edged forward on the chair, eagerly searched the gaunt profile.
"Hogan?"
There was no response and Klink slowly sat back, surprised at the level of his disappointment. He sat quietly for a few moments, then reached out and carefully touched the back of his hand to Hogan's forehead.
Hogan uttered another barely audible groan and shifted restlessly. His head flopped toward the shoulder closest to Klink, bringing the injured ear into the light. Klink studied the earlobe, brow furrowing with mounting suspicion. It looked painfully raw and stripped of skin – as if it had been burned rather than cut.
Burned? How could that have happened?
Klink glanced at the door, then reached for the blanket. As he grasped the material, Hogan's voice whispered through his head.
"Are you sure you want to do that?"
Klink stared in surprise at Hogan's slack features.
"Are you sure?" came the whisper again, slyly insistent. "Be very, very certain, Kommandant, because once you pull that blanket down, there's no going back. Knowledge carries more than power."
Klink thought hard, weighing his choices. Did he really wish to know? Did he?
What if he discovered Hogan actually was wounded? What would he do then?
Duty decreed he should throw Hogan in the cooler and place a call to Hochstetter, who would then descend upon Stalag 13 like a rapacious, black vulture and literally tear it apart looking for accomplices, weapons, and information. Hochstetter's triumph would be loud and limitless. And Hogan –if he survived Hochstetter's brand of interrogation - would be wrapped in irons and taken to Berlin, along with anyone else even remotely believed to be his accomplices. No doubt Hochstetter would make certain he would share Hogan's fate of torture and death by hanging or firing squad!
Klink's hand tightened into a fist in the blanket, his eyes locking upon Hogan's face.
An even worse fate would be if he were stripped of rank and sent directly to the Russian Front in disgrace, the ultimate laughingstock among his peers. His family, though not sent to the Front, would suffer, too. The name Klink would become synonymous with stupidity.
Klink winced.
On the other hand, he could simply replace the blanket and pretend – like Schultz – to know nothing.
Klink licked suddenly dry lips.
That would be treason.
"Exactly," Hogan's voice sighed in his ear.
Klink nodded. Yes. Exactly. He pondered the blanket and thought of another choice.
Don't look at all.
"Ignorance is bliss, Herr Kommandant." Hogan's cheery voice suddenly went flat. "What's it going to be? Do you really want to know? Or not?"
Klink drew a steadying breath . . . and decided that this was one of those times when he should listen to Hogan's advice. He released his grip on the blanket and sat back.
"Be well, Hogan."
Klink stood, squared his shoulders and walked to the door. Sweeping it open, he circled Schultz and Langenscheidt and went directly to Kinch, who waited, expressionless. Klink was not fooled. He had seen Kinch wear the very same look when he was assessing another fighter from across the ring.
"I did not wake him," Klink informed Kinch, peripherally aware that the attention of every man in the room was upon them. "Keep me informed of his condition."
Kinch nodded, careful to conceal his surprise and relief.
Gathering an equally relieved Schultz and Langenscheidt with sharp look, Klink returned to his quarters, leaving behind a large, stunned group of men.
HH HH HH HH HH HH
"Kinch . . . what?" Carter was so bewildered by what had just taken place that he could not string a coherent thought together. He was not the only one.
"We've been granted a miracle, is what," Newkirk muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He reached for his cigarettes and noticed his hand was trembling.
"Don't be so certain of that." Kinch turned to Olsen. "Tell Baker to monitor all of Klink's calls, and have him contact London and let them know we may need quick transport. He should contact Tiger, too, and let her know we might need her help if we have to get the colonel to safety."
O'Malley passed a hand over his head, his focus turning inward. "I'll be getting everything ready for his care should that time come."
Kinch looked to Parker next. "Keep Klink under constant surveillance. Get as many men as it takes. If he even looks like he's going anywhere, send someone to let me know."
Carter shifted nervously on his feet. "You think Klink knows and he just wants us to think he doesn't?"
Kinch nodded. "He might want us to think we're safe while he makes arrangements with Hochstetter. You know what to do."
"Plant charges in the tunnels," Carter answered with a sharp nod.
"And have everything with sensitive information gathered in one place in case we need to destroy it," Parker chimed in.
Kinch somberly regarded everyone. "Get the word out around camp. Be ready to move at a moment's notice."
LeBeau returned from checking on Hogan. "The colonel is still sleeping as Klink said. What do we tell him when he wakes?"
Kinch's mouth tightened into a frown. "Nothing for now. We can handle it. He needs time to regain his strength, and he won't get it if he knows what's going on. He'll figure it out soon enough anyway."
Newkirk blew a low whistle through his teeth. "I wouldn't want to be you when he does, mate. He'll be angrier than bob-tailed cat."
Kinch shrugged. Anger would not be Hogan's only emotion upon realizing his actions had placed his men and their operation in danger. "Right now, I'd welcome angry."
"I'd settle for awake," O'Malley sighed heavily.
Kinch turned for Hogan's quarters, wanting to personally check on his CO's condition. "So would I."
HH HH HH HH HH HH
He'd been hot before, but never this hot.
Hogan slowly turned in place, shielding his eyes against the glaring sun, looking for shade, for water. Cracked, barren ground stretched as far as he could see, only a few tumbleweeds and an occasional dust devil breaking the monotony. He looked overhead, hoping for clouds to break the heat. His tongue felt swollen, unwieldy. The skin on his arms felt drawn tight, like it would split at the slightest touch.
"Come on, Colonel."
Hogan whirled, stumbling in surprise. Kinch stood beside him, staring out at the desert landscape, unaffected by the furnace-like heat. He cast a sideways glance in Hogan's direction, as if waiting for him to say something.
Kinch? Hogan panted, collapsing onto his knees. What are you doing here? Kinch turned and knelt beside him, one hand outstretched.
"Come with me."
Hogan mutely shook his head, confused. Where?
A dust devil stirred to life on the horizon, quickly growing in strength and size as it bobbed and danced across the landscape. Kinch's head snapped up and he watched it grow nearer with apparent alarm. He looked back at Hogan, thrusting his hand closer.
"Come on!"
HH HH HH HH HH HH
"Come on, Colonel," Kinch pleaded under his breath, watching Hogan pant for breath. Sweat rolled down Hogan's face, the fever climbing dangerously high. Kinch bowed his head, his hands clenching upon his knees.
What if O'Malley had been right? What if no matter what they said or did, it wasn't enough this time?
TBC . . . Thank you for reading!