Thank you, Marilyn!
Chapter 20
"Perhaps you would like me to tuck you in?" Tiger gave him a coy look through thick lashes, her voice sweet as honey.
Hogan quickly shook his head, acutely aware that his men were just on the other side of the door. The very thin door. She moved as if to try and he laughed, knowing she would do it if he let her. The laughter sounded and felt foreign, but he went with it, his heart swelling with love for her.
Hogan caught her by the hand and gently tugged her forward. Noses and lips only inches apart, they stared into each other's eyes.
"Merci," he whispered, gently nuzzling noses with her.
She reached up, lightly caressed his jaw. "Je t'aime, Robert."
They moved those last few inches, their lips meeting in a slow kiss.
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"Music to my ears," Newkirk murmured from atop his bunk. He grinned up at the ceiling, legs crossed at the ankles, hands clasped behind his head.
"Gosh," Carter said from the table, his eyes wide and voice soft with gratitude and hope. "He laughed. She got him to laugh."
O'Malley, LeBeau and Olsen exchanged smiles. Paxton double-pumped his fist onto his mattress, a grin splitting his face. Braveheart maintained his watch at the door, but a smile briefly lightened his usually somber features.
"A woman's love is a powerful medicine," O'Malley softly told everyone within earshot.
LeBeau, brown eyes sparkling, rested a hand over his heart. "Especially the love of a Frenchwoman."
Kinch turned away from the table and went to the stove for coffee. Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to fully share their relief and high spirits. It was good hearing Hogan laugh again, and he prayed they'd hear more of it after Tiger left. But realistically, just because their CO had laughed, didn't mean he was past the crisis. Only the weeks and months ahead would reveal that.
Above all, Hogan was a protector at heart, a guardian. To have taken the life of a child, one he normally would protect over his own . . .
Kinch sighed, sadness blanketing him. Coffee in hand, he retreated to his bunk, keeping an eye on Hogan's door and his reservations to himself.
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Helga looked up from her typewriter when Klink entered the outer office. Quickly snatching a report and pen from her desk, she held them up, extending them almost into his path.
"Herr Kommandant, if you could . . ." Her voice faded as he swept by without even a glance. She lowered the paper and pen to her lap, disappointed that her latest effort had failed to get his signature on the overdue report.
Klink paused before his office door, head down, hand on the doorknob, then spun back, startling her. Tucking his riding crop under his arm, he took the pen and paper from her, slapped the report down on her desk, and scribbled his initials at the bottom of the page. Shoving both pen and paper back into her hands, he flew into his office without a word. Bemused, Helga briefly stared after him before shrugging off the encounter. Slipping the report into an envelope, she dropped it into the outbox for the courier to pick up, and went back to her typing.
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New mattresses! Klink silently jeered, disgusted.
Why should he have to justify his visit to mere prisoners? He was Wilhelm Klink, colonel and Kommandant of Stalag 13. He could go wherever and do whatever he pleased in camp. Unless, he quickly and silently amended with a grimace. Hochstetter, or a higher ranking officer like Burkhalter ordered otherwise.
Barring that, if he wanted to take a walk about camp, or visit barracks unannounced, then it was within his rights to do so. It was more than his right. It was his duty as Kommandant. Take the prisoners by surprise, catch them at clandestine activities, make them quake in their boots, wondering every minute if his iron fist of discipline was about to smite them down.
He stared across his office at the cuckoo clock's gently swinging pendulum. Now that he thought about it, the mattresses had appeared quite thin. The pillows, too, had seemed in poor condition, though not to the degree that the Englander Newkirk had claimed.
Thin and in poor condition, Klink thought, studying his hands. Just like Hogan.
Shaking such thoughts out of his head, he applied himself to the stacks of paperwork crowding his desk. It wasn't long, however, before he set the work aside and reached for the camp accounts ledger.
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Benson waited until Tivoli had secured the entrance and climbed down before turning to make his report.
Hogan had insisted upon walking Tiger to the emergency exit, claiming he felt stronger after the full day of rest. O'Malley had been quietly worried, furious and resigned by turns. Kinch, on the other hand, had appeared unsurprised. Even with his assistance, the climb down had left Hogan exhausted again. His movements were lethargic, a glaze of pain back in his eyes.
"Real quiet out there, sir," Benson said. "Nothing out of the ordinary. The guards are keeping to their routes; the dogs are in a good mood."
"Beautiful night, too." Tivoli's teeth flashed white against the black camouflaging his features. "No moon. Not a breath of wind."
"Thanks for checking it out. Better get to your beds." Hogan hitched his head toward his shoulder and the men, after nodding to Tiger, edged past them. Once they were out of sight, Hogan faced Tiger with a thin smile. "Midnight. Pumpkin time."
She glanced up the ladder, biting her lip, steeling herself to leave. It was time for her to rejoin DuBois and her men, yet it was hard to pry herself away from Hogan's side. He'd put up a good front all day and into the evening for her benefit and everyone else's as well. But it was just that – a front. A mask to set their minds at ease.
It hadn't worked, at least not in her case. She'd seen the flashes of guilt that came and went in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. She was worried about what it would do to him if it continued to gnaw at his soul. She didn't even want to contemplate – but how could she not – what would happen the first time he encountered a situation where he had to defend himself. Would he hesitate to shoot? Would he even pull his weapon? Would he freeze rather than take the chance of shooting the wrong person?
She felt as if she were holding her breath, waiting for disaster to unfold. It was the same feeling she'd had as a child, following her brother Gratien across the frozen pond behind their house. Their parents had forbidden them to walk on the ice. The pond was spring-fed, the ice treacherous. But Gratien, her beloved, daring, and impulsive elder brother, was not to be denied the adventure. They'd waited until their parents had gone to visit an ill neighbor, then grabbed their coats, boots and mittens and ran to the pond. The frozen water had looked solid. But as she took hesitant, careful steps across that murky, pitted ice with her brother's assurances and cheers ringing in her ears, she was trembling, barely breathing, certain the ice would shatter at any moment and plunge her into the freezing water below. The ice had held, though, and she'd made it across, collapsing into the snow at Gratien's feet and sobbing in relief.
That panicky feeling was back, despite Hogan's calm front. Despite the small talk and little jokes, the smiles and even the laughter.
Looking into the carefully shielded, dark-rimmed eyes, she felt her heart thump heavily in her chest. He was treading ice. And she was petrified that it would not hold him.
"Tiger?" Hogan prompted, brow furrowing.
Tiger sent a quick glance into the tunnel at his back. Satisfied they were still alone, she moved closer to him, drawing his head down. His good arm wrapped about her waist, the kiss deepening, quickly growing passionate. For a few moments, thought became impossible, and then Tiger felt another ripple of worry go through her body. Theirs had always been a fiery relationship, but this kiss had the feel of desperation.
"Get out of here, Tiger," Hogan breathed against her ear.
Before she could respond, he stepped back, turned and disappeared into the shadows. She stared after him, finding it hard to breathe.
TBC. Thank you for reading.