Thank you, Marilyn!
Chapter 16
Hogan chewed the small bite of food slowly, only half-listening to the conversations around him. He could see O'Malley from the corner of his right eye, keeping close watch on his every move. Braveheart was playing a losing game of solitaire to his left, sitting close, but not close enough that he felt crowded. He could hear LeBeau moving around behind him, puttering with a pan on the wood stove, and Olsen pitching laundry basketball style into the communal hamper. It sounded like he was four for seven. Not bad, considering the room was lit with only a single lantern trimmed low, and the hamper sat in deep shadow.
Swallowing the food with slow deliberation, Hogan looked down at his plate and suppressed a sigh. He'd managed only a third of the scrambled eggs and several bites of dry toast. His stomach was sending out occasional growls, uncertain whether or not it was happy with the food. Happy or not, it was getting at least one more bite. He needed his strength back, as soon as possible.
Favoring his bad shoulder, he pushed some more eggs onto the fork and put it into his mouth. Even fresh eggs didn't taste good right now. He worked on the food, focusing his mind on other things and hoping his cranky stomach would quiet down.
Kinch had returned to the barracks long enough to let him know there'd been no word from their men. Not that Hogan had thought there would be. They hadn't been gone long at that time. But hours had passed since then. Long enough for them to have blown the fuel depot and be on their way back.
Hogan forced the egg down his throat and reached for the toast, noting with relief that his hand was steadier. He nibbled the toast, his thoughts circling back to Kinch's decision to proceed with the mission.
He would have given Kinch hell under any other circumstances. But in this case, he'd limited his displeasure to a direct stare and a few low words of warning. Kinch was well aware of his feelings on the matter. There was no reason to belabor them.
He quit nibbling and bit into the toast, focusing heavy-lidded eyes upon the tunnel entrance. Without consciously making the decision, he tried rolling and flexing his right shoulder, testing it. Pain drilled into the muscle, causing him to almost choke on the toast. He cleared his throat, ignoring Braveheart and O'Malley's sharp glances of concern.
"Schultz is coming," Parker warned, leaving the door and diving back into his bunk.
The door swung open and Schultz charged in, his gaze doing a quick sweep past Hogan and around the barracks. It darted back to Hogan and with a wide smile, he closed the door and lumbered over to the table. Before anyone could react, he landed a hard slap to Hogan's back, jarring him forward over his plate. O'Malley shot off his bunk, restraining himself from yelling at Schultz only at the last moment. As far as the guard knew, Hogan was recovering from an illness, not bullet wounds.
"Colonel, you are up!" Schultz's gaze fell to Hogan's plate and his smile grew wider. "And eating!"
Hogan looked up and attempted a smile, unable to answer due to the agony Schultz's blow had awakened in his shoulder and chest. The slight dimming of Schultz's happy expression told him the attempt had not been entirely successful.
"Colonel Hogan, it is good to see you doing so much better, but you know what the kommandant would say if he found out . . ." Schultz tipped his head toward the lantern on the table.
"I could not prepare the food in the dark," LeBeau huffed, his voice sharp with defiance and indignation. "And the colonel could not see to eat it."
O'Malley took Schultz by the arm and pulled him toward the woodstove. "The colonel's doing better and we want to keep it that way. Once he's done eating, you have our word that we'll douse the light and go back to our beds."
Schultz's lips pursed with indecision. O'Malley patted him on the arm, offering a smile that he hoped would sway the balance. "No harm done, so no need to tell the kommandant about this. Right?"
Schultz looked around the room again. "Where is Kinchloe?"
"In my bed," Braveheart rumbled from the table, staring down at his game. He flipped a card over, and then laid the red three of hearts atop a black four of spades. "That's where he fell asleep and I didn't have the heart to wake him."
Schultz stared at Braveheart's bunk. It did appear someone of Kinch's size was asleep in it. Of course, he had no way of knowing that 'someone' under the mound of blankets was actually four pillows.
"Don't wake him," Braveheart warned, frowning down at his cards. "He's really tired."
O'Malley turned Schultz toward the door and away from Braveheart's bunk. "Be a good fellow, Schultz, and let the colonel finish his meal in peace."
Schultz gave Braveheart's bunk another narrow look and then decided to let the matter drop. Despite all the shenanigans that had ever happened in Stalag 13, Hogan and his men had never let him down. After another reminder about the light, he returned to his patrol.
LeBeau slid onto the bench on Hogan's right, his eyes soft with concern. "Are you all right, colonel?"
"No damage done," Hogan sighed, resuming his assault on the toast.
O'Malley ran his eyes over Hogan's face and slumped posture. "That was some whallop. You sure you don't want to lie down?"
Hogan didn't even deign to answer. Olsen, hands in his back pockets, ambled into his line of sight and motioned to the entrance with an easy twist of his shoulders.
"Think I'll go below and see what's happening. Anything you want me to do while I'm down there, Colonel?"
Hogan let what was left of the toast fall to his plate. A swarm of possibilities flew through his mind, none of which O'Malley would allow. There was one, however.
"Have the guys report to me as soon as they get back." Hogan caught the looks that flashed between LeBeau and O'Malley and tensed, ready for a fight. They had absolutely no hope of getting him back to his bed before that time.
Olsen nodded. "Yes, sir. Anything else?"
Hogan shook his head, lips curling slightly into a faint grin of thanks. Olsen hesitated as if to say something more, apparently decided not to, and went to the entrance. Moments later, the bunk rattled closed behind him.
Hogan pushed the plate away, carefully folded his arms on the table and settled in to wait. Regardless of O'Malley's wishes, he wasn't budging from the spot until he'd seen every one of his men come back through that entrance safe and sound.
HH HH HH HH HH HH HH
Romie slowly sat up in bed, pausing to see if the movement had disturbed Josef. He snorted, rolled over and after a few moments, his snoring continued. She threw back the blankets on her side, slid her feet into her slippers and stood, reaching for her robe at the foot of the bed.
Mozart's head flew up and he left the little pallet of rags Romie had fixed for him on the floor at the end of the bed. Tail wagging low, he snuffled the hem of her robe and looked up at her, over-long ears flopping back onto his shoulders. Romie knelt, put a finger to her lips and looking into the little furry face, pointed up at the bed. Mozart's tail wagging sped up and his mouth opened in a doggy smile.
"We do not want to wake him," Romie whispered, knowing there really wasn't much chance of that happening. Still, she didn't want Mozart to give voice in his piercing bark. His tail whipped back and forth, his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. To Romie, it seemed that he had understood every word.
She belted her robe about her, crooked a finger at the little dog to follow and padded out of the room. Mozart stayed close, his toenails clicking on the bare floor between the rag rugs.
In the kitchen, Romie poured fresh water into Mozart's bowl and then walked into the gathering room, easily finding her way around furniture in the dark. Head cocked, Mozart watched with interest while she laid a log in the fireplace and stirred the coals to life. Flames licked at the dry wood, quickly setting it afire. Romie basked in the heat like a cat for a few moments, then rose and went to her rocker. Mozart circled several times near her feet, dropped to the floor and curled into a ball. He watched the flames' flickering dance, his ears pricking and falling with each pop and hiss of steam, his eyelids drooping lower and lower. Soon his head dropped to his paws and he fell asleep with a deep sigh.
Romie smiled down at him, then went back to staring into the fire, only vaguely hearing the clock chiming midnight. Her hand crept into the pocket of her robe and slowly withdrew a length of bright, royal blue ribbon. She stroked the narrow band of satin, slowly running its length between her fingers. As it had every night since Marta's death, her mind replayed memories of the little girl's brief life.
Marta had loved to sing and dance, nearly from the time she could walk. If allowed, she would happily entertain Romie and Josef for hours, singing her favorite songs or making them up at the spur of the moment. They had never tired of it, and Karl and Margaret had often joked that they were raising the next Marlene Dietrich.
A tear welled in Romie's eye and broke free to trickle down her cheek. She dashed it away and looked down at the ribbon, sliding the silky length through her fingers again. It had been Marta's favorite and Romie had used it many times to tie the little girl's hair into a ponytail. The last had been the night Marta and Robert had met.
Marta had been captivated by the tall stranger in black from the first moment he had appeared at Romie and Josef's door. Naturally shy, she'd peeked at him from the safety of the kitchen. After some encouragement from Romie and Josef, she had overcome her shyness and approached Robert. He had gracefully gone to a knee and bowed his head, flashing that full on grin and paying her all the respect due a princess. Marta had loved it. Her shyness forgotten, she had moved in close, taking in every detail of his face, from his smile and deep brown eyes to his wavy, black hair.
She had of course, asked his name. Robert had answered easily and without hesitation, saying he was 'a friend'. Marta had not been satisfied.
"But you must have a name." Marta studied him with serious eyes, a frown furrowing her brow. "May I choose one for you?"
Robert's head dipped. "I would be honored." His dark eyes, alight with amusement, briefly lifted to Romie and Josef. Marta suddenly placed her hand upon his shoulder. Her cheeks dimpled with a smile.
"I will call you 'Galahad'."
A choked sob welled in Romie's throat and she covered her mouth, pressing the sound back so not to disturb Josef. Mozart shot to his feet with a soft whine. Romie bent down, quickly hushed him. His tongue shot out, bathing her fingers with warm, enthusiastic licks. She patted his head, soothing him with touch and whispered assurances until he lay down at her feet once more. Drying her face with the sleeve of her robe, she sat back in the rocker again. Her gaze returned to the fire, her thoughts carrying her back to the bittersweet memory.
". . . 'Galahad'."
Robert's expression had been priceless. Once he'd gotten over the shock, he'd accepted the moniker with good grace and considerable fortitude. Each time Marta had used it, he, as well as Romie and Josef, had been hard-pressed not to dissolve into laughter. At some point in the visit, Josef asked the reason behind her choice.
"Mutter and Vater tell me stories before I sleep. My favorites are of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table." She looked up at Robert, her eyes sparkling with reflected firelight. "That's why I chose 'Galahad'. You remind me of him."
"He appears more an 'Arthur', to me," Josef chuckled, sending a teasing glance in Robert's direction.
"Oh, no," Marta argued, ponytail flipping back and forth with each shake of her head. "Arthur stays at Camelot. But Galahad and the other knights go on quests and rescue damsels and slay dragons. They get to be the real heroes."
Sniffling, Romie tucked the ribbon back into her pocket and left the rocker, being careful not to trip over Mozart. He sat up and yawned, blinking sleepily. Romie went to the small, carved chest upon the mantle. Raising the lid, she reached inside and lifted out the delicate paper figure. Apparently deciding she wasn't going back to bed, Mozart stretched, then curled up again. Head upon his paws, he watched her, just in case she changed her mind.
Cradling the origami swan in her cupped palm, Romie returned to the rocker and set it in motion.
HH HH HH HH HH HH HH
Kinch had always considered himself an optimist – a "glass is half-full" type of guy. Yet that optimistic nature was faltering.
He tore his gaze from his watch and checked his calculations again. The men should have had more than enough time to travel to the fuel depot, blow it, and travel back.
"Kinch?"
Kinch looked toward the doorway, more than a little startled that he hadn't heard anyone coming. Olsen walked out of the tunnel, hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. His gaze shifted from Kinch to the radio and roamed over its dials and switches.
"I thought I'd come down and see if the guys were back. The colonel's about ready to tear his hair out worrying." At Kinch's look of disbelief, Olsen rushed to add, "Not that he's actually said anything, just keeps eyeing the entrance like he's thinking of coming down here to check for himself. O'Malley's on pins and needles watching to be sure he doesn't."
Kinch frowned. "He can't see the entrance from his bed."
Olsen's mouth tightened into a thin smile. "He isn't in his bed. He's dressed and shaved and sitting at the table in the common room."
"He's not worn out from all that?"
Olsen's gaze shifted to the radio again and he considered the question. "He's white as my ninety year-old grandmother's handkerchiefs and about as tottery as her, but other than that? Doing great."
"Has he eaten anything?"
Olsen nodded. "LeBeau scrambled up a couple of the eggs the doc brought the other night. He's been working on them and some toast. They're staying down so far."
Kinch smiled. "Now that's good news."
"Yeah. About time, too." Olsen suddenly looked around the room. "Where's Baker?"
"I sent him back to his barracks." Kinch shot another frown at his watch. "He's been pulling some long—" He broke off as the bell to the emergency tunnel rang. A full smile burst upon Olsen's face.
"Hey, they're back!"
Kinch merely nodded, his eyes having gone to the tunnel beyond. He'd noticed what Olsen hadn't. There'd been no sound - no indication at all - of an explosion in the time the men had been gone. If the mission had been successful, they would have felt some vibration from the explosion, even at this distance. But there'd been no far-off rumble, nor vibration to bring dirt sifting down from the tunnel ceiling and onto their heads.
He shot to his feet, brushed past Olsen and headed for the emergency exit. Déjà vu dogged his heels, driving his steps faster.
To be continued. Thank you for reading!