Thank you, Marilyn!
Chapter 26
Deep into the tunnels and away from any junction where someone might happen upon him, Hogan stopped, braced his hands against the tunnel wall and hung his head. His breath hissed through his clenched teeth, but not from the speed at which he had left the room.
He was shaking, felt ready to fly apart, and if it happened, witnesses – even Kinch – were the last thing he wanted.
His right hand flexed into a tight fist beside his head; slowly pounded the wall. Dirt crumbled beneath the assault, forming a small waterfall of soil that mounded beside his foot.
His shoulders heaved on a half-sob. His head lolled back and forth between his hunched shoulders, helplessness washing through him in sickening waves. The ground seemed to tilt beneath his feet; his fingers splayed on the cool earth wall, then dug deep, seeking purchase, holding on.
. . . it will cripple you, destroy you . . .
. . . you still haven't come to grips with what happened with Orion and Marta. You haven't forgiven yourself for making a mistake and killing Marta . . .
. . . your life will be nothing but darkness, anger and pain . . .
Hogan crumpled forward with a muted groan, rested his forehead against the wall. They were right. He could not continue this way. Either he dealt with what he had done . . .
. . . accept, Robert . . .
. . . forgive yourself, Colonel . . .
. . . or he should request a change of command for his men's sake. They needed a CO they could count on, not someone who was figuratively standing on the edge of a cliff trying to maintain his balance.
Slow, deep breaths gradually calmed his racing heart and brought the shaking under control. Forcing his head up, he pushed off the wall and retraced his steps at a run. Color had not yet brushed the sky when he had ducked inside the tunnels. But it would soon. First thing he would do was finish changing and get topside before Schultz called them out for roll call.
After that . . .
He had no idea.
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"Kinch--"
"He's coming, LeBeau."
"But--"
"He made it back without any trouble." Kinch waved Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk out the door for roll call and was about to follow when Schultz appeared in the doorway. The guard looked from the empty beds and table to Hogan's door, then turned to Kinch, a worried frown puckering his brow.
"Where is Colonel Hogan?"
Kinch shrugged, acting nonchalant. "In his quarters changing, Schultz. He'll be out in a second or two." He turned sideways to better fit through the crowded doorway, grunted when he bumped up hard against Schultz's shoulder and stomach. Schultz obligingly leaned back and sideways, increasing the amount of space by perhaps a foot. It was enough. Kinch sucked in a deep breath, stood on tiptoes and slid the rest of the way out.
Schultz stepped inside the barracks and after considering Hogan's closed door for several seconds, shrugged and went back outside to start his count. Over the last month, he had noticed that Hogan sometimes waited until the very last minute to join the other men at roll call. If Hogan had not appeared by the time he had finished counting the other men, he would go back and hurry him along. He refused to consider the possibility that the senior P.O.W. was not in his quarters, since that would mean there had been an escape. And that would mean that he, Schultz, was in very deep trouble of the Russian Front variety.
As soon as Schultz had passed by, Olsen leaned past Braveheart and grabbed Kinch by the arm. "You weren't just putting us on about him being back, right?"
Kinch responded with a glare fit to scorch Olsen's hair to the roots. Olsen swallowed, shrugged, and released Kinch's arm. Kinch continued his walk to the end of the second rank and settled into place. He was present, but his thoughts were still on his CO, who was still conspicuously absent. He wondered, not for the first time, if he had done the right thing in leaving Hogan alone when he was so obviously at the end of his rope.
There were almost audible sighs of relief when the barracks door opened and Hogan stepped out, zipping his jacket and stepping lively. The men sent up murmured greetings, while Schultz stuttered in his count due to a wide grin. Hogan nodded to everyone and hurried to his place at the end of the first rank. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he focused his gaze dead ahead and tuned the whispers and chatters sounding up and down the ranks into nothing more than background noise.
"He doesn't look any better."
Newkirk slanted a slit-eyed look at Carter and softly growled out a warning to keep it down. He shared Carter's opinion on Hogan's appearance, but refused to add to the sotto voce chatter going on around him.
Carter leaned forward out of rank and tried sneaking another peek down the line at Hogan's profile.
Schultz paused his count and stopped, eyed Carter curiously, then threw a glance at Newkirk. "What is wrong with him?" he asked, waggling a thumb at Carter. Newkirk shrugged.
"He seems all right to me."
Schultz's brow furrowed and just as quickly smoothed out again. The day was too beautiful to be in a bad mood. Giving Newkirk a smile and back-handed slap to the chest, he moved along to finish his count before Kommandant Klink appeared.
Standing directly behind Hogan in the second line of prisoners, Kinch shifted subtly in place. He could see little of Hogan's face, had gotten merely a glimpse of a blank expression and dead-tired eyes when his CO had passed by. Kinch took another half-step to his right. Hogan's head was tilted toward the sky and his eyes were barely open. The exhaustion on his face was so pronounced that Kinch sent up a fervent prayer for a peaceful day.
Schultz reached Hogan and finished off his count with a great air of satisfaction. All were present and accounted for, which meant that his good mood would continue for a least a little while longer. Giving Hogan a smile and nod of greeting, Schultz executed a crisp about-face and marched forward to meet Kommandant Klink.
"All present, Herr Kommandant," Schultz reported, snapping off a salute and accompanying it with a grin to match his good mood.
Klink acknowledged the report with a nod. His fingers rolled and fidgeted with the riding crop tucked under his arm, while his eyes traveled slowly over the prisoners, looking for any signs of suspicious activity or disrespect. When his gaze fell upon Hogan, Klink went still, a tingle of alarm widening his eyes. Suddenly aware of the prisoners regarding him closely as well, he barked out their dismissal. They immediately started to disperse, Hogan along with them.
"Not you, Hogan," Klink snapped, inserting a note of imperious demand into his tone. Hogan stopped and slowly turned toward him, one dark eyebrow quirked.
"What is it, Kommandant? I have a really full schedule today. Clothes to wash, letters to write, escape plans to make."
A smattering of chuckles went up from the prisoners and Klink rocked back on his heels, sneering at what passed for Hogan's brand of humor.
"Very funny, Hogan." He turned toward his headquarters, jerked his head toward it. "With me. Now. The rest can wait."
"Sorry fellas," Hogan sighed to his men, flashing a small smile their way. "Save a shovel for me."
Klink narrowed his eyes into a glare that had absolutely no affect upon Hogan. Satisfied that the American would follow rather than risk a stint in the cooler, Klink spun and led the way to his headquarters.
Once inside his office, Klink motioned toward a chair. Hogan sauntered to it and sat, tossing his crush cap onto the spike of the Pickelhaub occupying the corner of Klink's desk. Klink slammed the door shut and marched to the desk, plucked the cap off the helmet and threw at Hogan. The American caught it against his chest with both hands, then let it drop onto his lap. Klink took his own chair, secretly pleased at Hogan's small show of spirit in what Klink had come to see as a game between them. It had been some time since the American had last played it.
"What is it you wanted to see me about, Kommandant?" Hogan reached around the box of cigars that sat front and center on Klink's desk and used one finger to tip the lid up. Klink jerked forward and slammed the lid back down, just catching the tip of Hogan's finger. Hogan jerked back, shook the sting out.
Klink leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingertips. "Pick fifteen of your men for a road crew."
Hogan's eyebrows rose along with his voice. "They just had road duty three days ago!"
Klink dipped his head sideways in a regal nod. "They did." He jerked forward at the waist, slapped his hands down on the chair's arms. "And did a horrible job! This time, they will do it right and you will go along to make certain they do."
Hogan's lips pressed together. Klink jabbed a finger at him.
"No arguments, Hogan, or I'll add two weeks' worth of road duty, along with an extra day of garbage detail every week."
Anger sparked in Hogan's eyes and the muscles in his jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Klink sat back with a nod, then whipped his head toward the phone when it rang. He answered it and for a few minutes kept most of his focus upon the conversation with Kommandant Decker of Stalag 9. The remainder stayed upon Hogan, waiting with ill-grace, eyes wandering about the office and fingers smoothing along the seams of his crush cap. The American looked terrible still, even after a month of light duty. He had not even taken the time to shave this morning.
Klink frowned, tapped his fingernail upon his desk blotter, half-listening to Kommandant Decker's usual list of complaints. Why Decker thought he cared to listen to his problems when he had his own . . .
Suddenly tired of it, Klink made up an excuse to end the one-sided conversation and dropped the receiver into its cradle. Hogan's head swung back in his direction, the brown eyes refocusing upon him with noticeable effort. Klink drummed his fingertips on the blotter.
"Have you forgotten how to shave, Hogan?"
Hogan's smile was pleasant enough, but his voice carried a sharp edge. "No, sir."
Klink arched an eyebrow and for the length of a minute, they merely stared at each other. Klink folded his arms on the desk, then looked down and gathering his thoughts, slid a finger back and forth on the blotter in front of him. Hogan's gaze flicked down to watch, then rose again to Klink's face.
"Hogan . . ." Klink's eyes snapped up and he stared across the desk, once again taking in the pale features, dark-rimmed eyes and tousled hair. He had seen Hogan tired before, even frightened. But the soul-deep weariness he kept glimpsing in the dark eyes was unsettling. His fingers twitched and he barely restrained himself from reaching across the desk and asking what was wrong. If they were friends, he would have carried through with the compulsion. But they were not and never would be.
Hogan sighed, rubbed a hand along his stubbled jaw. "Lose your train of thought, there, Kommandant?"
Klink pursed his lips, opened his mouth, then sank back into his chair and waved a hand toward the door.
"Dismissed, Hogan. The work detail leaves in two hours. You and your men better be ready."
"Guess I'll have to cancel that manicure," Hogan sighed, getting to his feet.
"But not the shave," Klink snapped. "You are Stalag 13's senior P.O.W. and as such, I expect you to set a good example to the rest of the men. The next time you show your face outside your barracks, it had better be clean-shaven."
Stone-faced, Hogan donned his crush cap, saluted and left. The moment the door had closed behind him, Klink visibly deflated, stood and went to the window. Pulling back the curtain, he watched Hogan march across the compound and into Barracks Two, then let the curtain fall again and returned to his seat, oddly unsettled. He had thought Hogan would jump at the chance of spending time outside the fences.
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"Work detail!" Olsen threw his cap down on Carter's bunk. "Another stinking detail? What gives? The Krauts have some kind of road beautiful contest going on we don't know about?"
"Next thing you know they'll have us planting geraniums like ol' Crittendon," Newkirk grumbled from the table.
"Might not be such a bad thing," Carter said, pushing the last bites of his breakfast around on his plate.
Parker shook his head. "Make work, you ask me."
"At least it'll get us back outside the fences again." Kinch pushed his plate away, shrugged an apology to LeBeau for leaving half of his meal untouched.
"There is that," Olsen admitted, dropping onto Carter's bed and kicking his heels onto the bench beside Newkirk. The Englishman swatted them back down, shot a warning look at him.
Hogan turned to Kinch. "Any word on what the shooting might have been about?"
"Shooting?" Several of the men chorused, wearing almost identical expressions of surprise.
"No." Kinch yawned, then chuckled when yawns broke out around the table. "Baker said it was quiet most of the night except for some routine radio checks."
Newkirk tossed a recriminating look Kinch's way. "You run into trouble last night, Colonel Hogan?"
Hogan briefly explained hearing the shots and nothing more.
Paxton braced a foot on the end of the bench next to Kinch and rested his crossed arms on his knee.
"Could have been anything."
Olsen nodded. "Not likely to know unless it turns out to be something big."
"Or someone," Braveheart added from his bunk, expression studiously blank.
A shadow passed across Hogan's face, unnoticed by most. Kinch sighed under his breath and glanced across the table at Newkirk. The Englishman gave a minute shake of his head. Neither man wanted to contemplate the idea that it might be someone they knew.
LeBeau frowned down at Hogan's plate, at the food that had barely been touched. Hogan shook his head to warn off any comments and pushed back from the table. "If you'll pardon me, I've got a date with my razor and my bunk." He entered his quarters and closed the door, shutting out the many eyes watching in concern.
"It's going to take a lot more than a nap to fix what's ailing him," O'Malley murmured to himself.
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Hogan was just wiping the last of the shaving cream from his face when there was a knock at his door. Calling out permission to enter, he threw the towel into the locker. Kinch came in, carrying his notepad. Hogan closed the locker and turned, his eyes immediately falling to the notebook in Kinch's hand. Kinch ripped a page out and passed it over.
"New assignment, sir. London wants us to check out a transmitter tower being set up near Hammelburg."
His eyes still on the message, Hogan pivoted and went to his desk. "Grab the map."
Kinch pulled the false top from one of the posts supporting Hogan's bunk and fished out a large, rolled map. Carrying it to the desk, he spread it out and placed weights at each corner to hold it flat. Hogan looked from the message to the map, checking London's coordinates. Rather than being specific, they gave only a general area. He studied the terrain and the distance from Stalag 13 before his thoughts drifted to the matter he had been considering while he shaved. Blowing out a deep breath, he lifted his head and locked eyes with Kinch.
"Get a team together. You'll go out tonight."
Kinch blinked. "Me?"
Hogan's eyebrows rose. "Problem?"
That was exactly what Kinch wondered. Knowing he was walking a thin line, he nevertheless voiced his concern at the timing. "You tell me, sir. Is the reason I'm leading the team instead of you have anything to do with what happened last night?"
Hogan's eyes grew shadowed. "Yes."
Kinch hoped for more and his raised eyebrow said as much. Hogan sighed and looked down at the map, flattening a palm on it.
"There's somewhere else I have to be tonight."
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Klink leaned back in his chair and threw an arm over his eyes. Pain throbbed behind them and in his temples from hours of wrestling accounts and filing reports. He started rub his eye only to have his fingers ram his monocle into his cheek. Wincing, he carefully plucked the glass piece from his face and laid it on the desk blotter. Not for the first time, he thought wistfully of the perfect vision his brother had been blessed with.
"Kommandant?"
Klink lifted his head. Fraulein Hilda stood in the doorway, her hands tucked demurely at her back. Something about her expression pricked his suspicious nature. He sat up, expecting nothing but bad news.
"What is it, Fraulein Hilda?"
Ducking her head and lowering her gaze, she slid her hands from behind her back, revealing another sheaf of papers loaded with fine print. Klink fell back in his chair with a groan. Hilda left the doorway and after searching for a bare place on his desk and finding none, settled for laying the papers upon his lap.
"I am sorry, sir," she said, sympathy softening her voice. "I found them under one of my notebooks."
Eyes still closed against the sight of yet more work, Klink responded with only a dismissive gesture in her direction. He heard her walk away and leave the office, and thought she was particularly careful to shut the door as quietly as possible.
Refusing to even look at the papers, Klink grabbed them from his lap and threw them onto his desk. Muttering under his breath about bureaucrats and their endless streams of forms and orders, he pushed to his feet and went to the window.
In contrast to his gloomy mood, the day was so bright with sunshine that he had to squint to see clearly. Prisoners were scattered throughout his field of view, doing nothing in particular that he could see. His gaze cut to Barracks Two when the door opened and Sergeant Kinchloe walked out. The American paused and looked back and forth until he spotted a small group of men standing near Barracks 6. He headed their way, his long stride quickly eating up the distance.
Klink clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet, idly watched Kinchloe's progress. The group of prisoners turned at his approach, providing Klink with a good look at most of them. He easily identified Newkirk, Carter and Olsen, but the last man stood at an angle that did not allow a view of his face. They closed ranks with Kinch upon his arrival, forming a tight knot.
Thoughts of escape plans and tunnel digging instantly springing to mind, Klink tensed and threw a quick glance around the compound. Hogan was nowhere to be seen and he relaxed again with a sniff, believing such plans would not be made in the senior P.O.W.'s absence. The prisoners were likely discussing nothing more than the upcoming basket weaving contest, or maybe the 'Barracks Beautiful' contest.
Klink turned from the window with a deep sigh, bracing himself once more to face the mountains of paperwork. As he sank into his chair, he could not help tossing a look of longing toward the brightly lit window.
The prisoners were truly fortunate to not be saddled with deadlines and important duties.
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"Not going?" Newkirk squawked, shooting Kinch a look of disbelief. "He's not going?"
"That's what I said," Kinch replied with cool aplomb before his tone turned brisk. "We go out, scout the location and report back to London."
Newkirk jerked forward at the waist, hands spreading wide in a warning gesture. His stern glare flew from man to man. "Don't anyone say 'piece of cake!'"
Benson's smirk melted away as he directed his attention to Kinch. "Who's 'we'?"
"Besides myself, you, Olsen, Braveheart, Newkirk, Carter, Broughton, and Paxton. It's a large area to cover, especially in the time we have to do it in."
Olsen tipped his cap back and scratched at his forehead. "I don't get it, Kinch. He's been like a crazed cat the last month, wanting nothing more than to get out and prowl. Now after only one night of freedom, he's happy to stay here?"
"He's not staying here."
Carter's frown lifted. "Where's he going?"
Kinch patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about that, Carter. Our focus needs to be on our assignment."
Olsen pinned Kinch with a squint-eyed stare. "You don't know where he's going."
"No," Kinch said succinctly, wanting off the subject. "And if he wanted me – or you – to know, he would have said so. Let's get back to our mission, all right?"
"Okay. Go ahead," Carter encouraged, his affable nature making a reappearance. "We're all ears."
"Some of us more than others," Newkirk muttered, flicking a fond look in Carter's direction.
Happy to have steered clear of the subject of Hogan's night, Kinch went on to explain the mission in more detail.
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Hogan closed the shutters to the window in his quarters, blocking out the bright sunlight. There would be time to enjoy the day later, while he was with the work crew. Head down and hands in his pockets, he paced to the center of his quarters and stopped, fleeting images of the night before passing through his mind. He was grateful he had been alone and not on a mission with his men when he had panicked. The thought of freezing in the midst of a true crisis, when his men's lives were at stake and they were counting on him to act at a moment's notice filled him horror.
A shudder raced through him, gooseflesh raising the hair on the back of his neck. Rubbing it away, he stared, unseeing at the floor.
Everything hinged on tonight. If at the end of the night he had not reached some sort of peace with himself, then he would be left with only one course of action.
Transfer out of Stalag 13.
TBC . . . Thank you for reading!