Thank you for your help, Marilyn! As always, gaffs are all mine, as I couldn't help but play with it afterward.
Chapter 31
Adrenaline flowed like electricity through Hogan's body. Pressure came at him from both sides, boxing him in, narrowing his choices to one. He dodged, sighted and took the shot, waited to see if his aim had been true. The ball tapped the rim, rolled along the metal hoop with agonizing slowness, stopped, teetered on the edge . . . and fell through. A cheer went up behind him and dual groans from either side.
"Two points!" Kinch crowed, thrusting his fists skyward. He trotted over to Hogan and they slapped palms, sharing wide grins of victory.
Newkirk chased down the basketball, wearing a sour look and grumbling under his breath. Palming the ball into a lazy dribble, he rejoined them beneath the rusted barrel ring that was their basket ball hoop.
"Lady Luck's smiling on you today, Colonel Hogan."
Benson, hands on hips, face and shirt damp with perspiration, glanced between Hogan and Kinch.
"Best of three?"
Hogan and Kinch traded looks. Hogan's lips pursed and his eyebrows rose in a 'why not' expression. He was enjoying the competition and it was keeping his mind occupied. Word had finally come from London that a squadron would fly out tonight to hit the transmitter tower. Preparations on their end had been ready for the last two days. Now they just had to endure the remaining time until they could leave camp.
The light of battle returned to Kinch's expression as he locked eyes with Benson. "You're on."
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"But of course . . . Yes, yes. Major, I will --"
The voice at the other end of the line rose to a screech. Klink threw himself back in his chair and closed his mouth, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. Hochstetter was still far from well, but far enough from death's door now to be making his life miserable again. Hurriedly pulling the receiver away from his ear to save his hearing, Klink glared at the ceiling and waited for the strident rant to lose steam. That took several minutes. As soon as the first measurable moment of silence came over the line, Klink sat bolt upright and snapped his eyes forward as if Hochstetter were standing before his desk rather than lying in a bed miles away.
"Are you certain that is wise? You – but – "
The yell that blasted from the receiver threatened to split Klink's head in two. Eyes squinted in pain, he thrust the phone to arm's length and at that distance had no trouble hearing every shouted word. When the volume dropped below deafening levels, he brought the receiver back to his ear and spoke in a rush.
"Jawhol, Herr Major. I understand, Herr Major." Pasting on a sickly smile, Klink snapped his right hand up, palm out, fingers tight together. "Heil Hitler."
A loud click sounded over the line and the phone went dead. Klink's smile swiftly changed to a glower. He replaced the receiver in its cradle with the same care he would use to handle dynamite, shot to his feet and went straight to the window.
Outside, Hogan and three of his men were deeply involved in yet another game of basketball. The four circled and danced around each other slowly, then with increasing speed. Hogan pivoted toward the ring – That was not right. The hoop. And took a . . . Klink frowned. Throw? Toss? No. Pass! Hogan took a pass from Kinchloe - who was apparently working with him against Benson and the Englander, Newkirk – and bounced the ball . . . Klink sought the correct term, a grunt of annoyance slipping out. Dribble! He snorted to himself. What a ridiculous word.
A shout went up outside, and he refocused on the action. Hogan no longer had the ball.
Kinchloe stood bent at the knees beneath the metal hoop fastened to the recreation hall, the ball gripped between his hands, a fierce grin on his face. Benson and Newkirk were bobbing and weaving before him, hands waving to and fro in the air, their good-natured taunts loud enough to be heard through the panes of glass. Klink unlatched the windows and pushed them open, drawn by the obvious pleasure the four men were deriving from a mere game.
Kinchloe's movements appeared to slow and then he exploded into action, somehow managing to slip between Newkirk and Benson.
Klink rose onto the balls of his feet without even realizing it.
Benson whirled, danced sideways into Kinchloe's path and jumped, blocking the other man from taking a shot. Kinchloe feinted left, twirled right and sent the basketball flying in a high arc over Newkirk's raised hands. Hogan leaped, caught the ball mid-air, and came down in a crouch a few yards from the basket. Benson and Newkirk immediately converged upon him.
Klink hissed in a breath, his hand jerking up and tightening into a fist.
"Wait . . ." he breathed, watching Hogan maneuver for the shot. "Wait . . ."
Hogan bounced the ball in the dirt once, twice. Benson and Newkirk hopped back and forth before him. Hogan eyed the hoop and his opponents, biding his time.
"Throw it," Klink snapped under his breath, white-knuckling the windowsill with both hands.
As if he had been awaiting the order, Hogan jumped straight into the air and with a flick of his right hand, lobbed the ball at the hoop. Klink leaned out the window, eyes following the flight of the ball as it fell cleanly through the metal ring. A cheer erupted from him, mingling with Kinchloe's loud whoop of triumph.
Klink jerked back into the room and against the wall beside the window, well out of sight of anyone outside. When the sounds of the game continued unabated, he eased away from the wall, stunned that he had forgotten himself so completely. He straightened his uniform, nervously passed a hand back over his head, and took a stand directly before the window. Spine straight, head up and hands tucked at his back, he struck a dignified pose, as if he was merely taking a moment from his paperwork to enjoy the fresh air. Within moments, however, he was leaning on the windowsill once more, completely engrossed. Only this time, his focus remained steadfast upon Hogan alone, concentration marking a crease in his brow.
The American had come a long way from the dreadfully ill man who had lain in bed for so long. The gaunt, pale reflection was finally gone. Hogan's face glowed from sun and exertion. Muscles worked smoothly under the sweat-stained shirt.
Klink nodded to himself. Not only had Hogan regained his health, the basketball game showed that his zest for life had returned as well.
That was good. Hogan would be on his toes when Hochstetter arrived. Ready to face the Gestapo officer with wit and sarcasm, a cocky, self-assured smile and ingenious misdirection. He would have no trouble . . .
Horror sluiced over Klink from head to toe. He retraced his line of thinking while his eyes, as if on their own volition, followed Hogan's every move. He was actually rooting for the American! Against his fellow country man!
A second thought made Klink feel faint. If Hochstetter found what he expected . . . then sarcasm and misdirection would be useless. Two men would stand before a firing squad before the day was over. . . and one of them would be Wilhelm Klink.
Klink grabbed the windows and yanked them closed, snapped the curtains shut and walked back to his desk in a daze. As he slowly lowered himself into his chair, his eyes fell upon the telephone and a fresh torrent of horror poured over him.
They were doomed.
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Hogan zipped the ball into Newkirk's hands. "That's the game."
Newkirk rested the ball against his hip, wiped his brow.
"Best of five, then?"
"Nope." Hogan squinted up at the sun, shielding his eyes against the glare. "That's enough. We don't want to wear ourselves out."
"That's right." Kinch blotted his face with the back of his sleeve, grimaced. The cloth was just as damp and fragrant as the rest of him. "Big night tonight."
Benson draped an arm around Newkirk's shoulders. "Good game, partner."
The praise was a poor balm to Newkirk's competitive spirit. His face screwed up in disgust. "Not nearly good enough to win."
Benson slapped him on the back. "So we practice and get them next time."
Hearing him, Kinch turned their way and extending a hand, waggled two fingers in beckoning gesture. Benson threw back his head and laughed.
"Colonel Hogan!"
Hogan looked toward Klink's headquarters. Schultz stood on the first step to the porch, energetically waving an arm. Giving in to a mischievous urge, Hogan lazily waved back. Schultz rolled his eyes and balled his hands on his hips. The look on his face spoke volumes.
Hogan ambled to the bench where he had left his crush cap and jacket. As he took his time putting them on, his thoughts turned to Klink. Over the last month, something about the kommandant had changed. It was nothing obvious. But it was enough to keep drawing his attention.
Hogan was suddenly reminded of a day when he had climbed into his bomber and something about it had felt wrong. Every one of the gauges on the plane's instrument panel had read normal. But the plane had felt different, somehow. Unable to find a problem, Hogan had taken off with the rest of the squadron. But that sense of wrongness had only grown stronger each moment they were in the air. Unwilling to risk his men's lives, he had broken formation and returned to base. There, after hours of thorough inspection of every inch of the plane and intense questioning by his superiors for abandoning the mission, a mechanic had located the problem. One of the cables that controlled the ailerons had frayed to the point of breaking. Only a handful of thin metal strands remained intact. Had he not turned back, the cable would have completely snapped at some point during the mission, sending the plane – and every man aboard – plummeting from the sky.
That troubling sensation was back now, and it had something to do with Klink. Hogan just had to figure out what it was.
"Colonel Hogan, please," Schultz whined from the porch. "You know the kommandant does not like to be kept waiting."
Hogan sauntered to the base of the steps and looked up at Schultz. "He could stand to learn a little patience."
Schultz's face fell. "Please. Leave the lessons for when I am not around."
"Gotcha," Hogan chuckled, following him inside.
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The sun was noticeably lower when Hogan walked out of Klink's headquarters. Pausing on the porch to stretch, he gave his watch a passing glance to confirm how long he had been stuck inside. Klink always tended to ramble, especially when nervous, but this time the chatter had bordered on lunacy.
For close to thirty minutes, Klink had jumped from topic to topic, never reaching a point, never giving a reason for the summons. Then, with a strange light in his eyes and an odd inflection in his voice, he had mentioned that Hochstetter would be stopping by Stalag 13. The usual plethora of complaints about Hochstetter had followed, but small seeds of useful information had been scattered among them.
Hochstetter was not due to arrive for several hours, and would not be staying. He was, for the most part, confined to bed. On the rare occasion when he left it - like today - his injuries and weakened condition warranted a wheelchair. That definitely worked in Hogan's favor. Hochstetter's legendary ego would never allow him to show weakness of any kind in front of POWs, especially Hogan. Since Klink had not ordered all prisoners be confined to barracks, the odds were very good that Hochstetter planned to stay in his staff car.
And that would be Hogan – and his men's – saving grace.
Hogan tilted his head back, breathing deeply. He had gotten more than his share of second chances in life, along with a lion's share of third and fourth ones. Had Tiger not shot Hochstetter, the Gestapo officer would have checked on Hogan a lot sooner, and that would have meant the end of everything.
Tiger. They'd still not gotten news about her and it was hard not to worry. She was more to him than just an ally. So much more. The saying about absence making the heart grow fonder definitely applied. The longer they were apart this time, the more he was coming to realize how very much he wanted her in his life. Always. But for the moment, he had to shelve his concern and focus on the more pressing matter of Hochstetter's immenent arrival.
Hogan pushed off the post and went down the steps, thinking ahead to the preparations that would hopefully keep them from facing a firing squad. A bizarre idea suddenly popped into his head, derailing his planning and stopping him in his tracks.
If he did not know better, he could almost believe that the purpose of Klink's summons had been to warn him. Laughing, he shook the thought out of his head, and walked on to Barracks Two.
To quote Kurt: "That would happen when swine flew."
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Hogan and the rest of the prisoners of Barracks Two were outside their humble abode when Hochstetter's car rumbled through the front gates. Klink suddenly appeared on his porch, as though he had been waiting just inside the door. He flew down the steps to meet the car, Schultz moving with alacrity to keep up. Hogan clasped his arms across his chest and shifted his weight into a hip-shot stance. Comfortably settled and looking as though he did not have a care in the world, he watched the black staff car stop before Klink's headquarters. The window rolled down, Klink whipped off a salute and leaned forward at the waist, his face screwed into a pained expression. The late afternoon sun painted deep shadows inside the car, hiding all but Hochstetter's shoulder from view, but his bellicose voice cut through the air quite clearly.
"Idiot! Back away!"
Klink quick-stepped backward, forcing Schultz into a sideways two-step to avoid a collision. Hochstetter's growl preceded him as his pasty, hollow-cheeked face appeared in the open window.
"HOGAN!"
Hogan drew himself up and strode toward the car, leaving his men behind. Halfway to the car, images and sensations from his nightmares engulfed him, flooding his nostrils with the smell of blood and taunting him with distorted versions of Hochstetter's face. Hogan's stomach knotted, but his stride never faltered, his expression never wavered. He stopped before the window and smiled down into the furious black eyes.
"Major. Long time no see."
Anger mottled Hochstetter's face. "Take off your jacket and shirt!"
Hogan jerked his head back, the picture of surprise. "Delousing inspection was the first of the month."
Klink edged forward. "Major, the Geneva Con --"
Hochstetter lurched back from the window. There was a flurry of movement within the car, then he thrust a gun out the window, aiming it right at Hogan's head. Klink let out a weak squeak of surprise and jumped back.
"Strip to the waist or I shoot you where you stand," Hochstetter snarled, his finger on the trigger and his extended arm steady as a rock.
Hogan unzipped his bomber jacket and slowly started peeling it off his shoulders. "Good thing I took a shower earlier."
Hochstetter's lips curled back from his teeth, malevolence twisting his expression. The gun waggled menacingly before Hogan's face, close enough he could smell cordite on the freshening breeze. Either it was his imagination again, or the gun had recently been fired. He was banking on the latter. Target practice, probably, with his face pasted on the bull's eye.
Hogan handed off the jacket to Klink, who promptly shoved it against Schultz's chest. The guard's hands jerked up in self-defense, automatically closed upon the body-warmed, butter-soft leather. Hogan's fingers skipped down shirt buttons, freeing them from cloth. Cool air tickled his bare belly. Hochsetter's eyes gleamed with avarice and anticipation. Hogan heard the muttering behind him grow louder. His men, voicing their displeasure at the turn of events. Hogan focused on pulling shirttails from his trousers, refusing to feel ridiculous about the situation. Goaded by his placid expression, Hochstetter's lips twisted from a sneer into another snarl. The gun jerked upward, sunlight glancing off the barrel. Hogan shed the shirt and let it dangle by the neck from the fingers of one hand. Hochstetter's slitted eyes roved over his torso from shoulders to waist, from side to side, down one arm and back up, across and down the other arm. Hogan obligingly held them out to each side. The black gaze snapped up to his face and the gun waggled once more.
"Turn!"
Hogan performed a slow turn and found a solid wall of prisoners had formed in a half-circle less than twenty feet away. Steel-eyed and stiff with outrage on his behalf, his men quieted when he gave them a 'come on, fellas, this isn't helping' look.
A strangled sound of rage went up behind Hogan. He peeked back over his shoulder. Hochstetter was leaning heavily against the inside of the car door, his free hand clamped upon the window frame. Klink hesitantly shuffled closer to the car, just as hesitantly bent toward Hochstetter.
"Are you all right, Major?"
Breathing hard, Hochstetter raked his gaze over Hogan's back again. "It can't be . . . the truck . . . there was blood high on the back of the seat . . . I was certain . . . "
At the edge of his vision, Hogan caught sight of looks of supreme satisfaction passing between his men.
"Turn!" Hochstetter shouted, thumping his fist upon the window frame. The gun was wobbling badly now, his arm shaking. Klink glanced from the loaded weapon to Hogan and nervously licked his lips.
Hogan made another slow turn and arched an eyebrow down at Hochstetter. "You want to tell me what you're looking for?"
"The major had the ridiculous notion that you are a saboteur and that you had been wounded by one of our patrols," Klink said, cutting a glance in Hogan's direction. "But as he can plainly see," Klink's gaze fixed upon Hochstetter and his voice gained in strength. "You bear absolutely no evidence of bullet wounds."
Hogan turned wide eyes from Klink to Hochstetter. "That's what this strip show is about?"
Klink tittered, relieved while Hochstetter was furious. "This lays to rest once and for all, the insane idea that you could simply walk in and out of camp whenever you please. Such a thing is completely implausible! No one escapes from Stalag 13!"
The lost look melted from Hochstetter's face, rage again suffusing it a deep red. His voice shook with barely checked fury.
"Klink –"
Smiling ear to ear, Klink clicked his heels together and bent toward Hochstetter. "Ja?" The end of the gun jerked and came to rest between his eyes. Klink went stock still. Schultz, holding Hogan's jacket in a death grip before his chest, literally stopped breathing. Hochstetter's livid gaze tracked from Hogan to Klink.
"Shut up or die."
Klink swallowed, too terrified to even nod. Hogan knew better than to provoke Hochstetter with any more comments. His father had taught him to never poke a wounded animal with a stick. That was when they were at their most dangerous.
He stood quiet while Hochstetter's gaze ran over him again, a range of emotions playing over the Gestapo officer's face. Anger, confusion, speculation and finally envy. Hogan imagined Hochstetter was more than painfully aware of his own crippled state, while Hogan stood before him, healthy and strong.
Without another glance Klink's way, Hochstetter spat at Hogan's feet and pulled back inside the car. The window went up and the car roared toward the front gates, leaving Hogan, Schultz and Klink coughing in a cloud of dust.
Hogan gazed down at his dust-coated torso and sighed.
"I need another shower."
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"I need a drink," Newkirk moaned to the ceiling from his bunk. "Or six."
LeBeau dropped onto one of the benches at the common room table and buried his face in his hands. "I will join you." Carter, seated next to him with his head cradled on his arms, mumbled something that no one could make out.
"Count me in, too." Olsen flopped backward on his bunk.
Paxton glanced about the room at everyone. "Ah, heck. Why don't we all get plastered?"
"Yeah," Carter scoffed, raising his head from his arms. "That's a good idea, seeing as we have a mission tonight."
Olsen's head bobbed up, his lips pursed in a moue of unhappiness. "Party-pooper," he threw down at Carter.
Everyone jumped when the barracks door opened. Hogan walked in, shirt still undone and jacket over one arm. Kinch came in behind him, shut the door and went straight to the table. Flinging a long leg over the bench, he sat down next to Lebeau, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
"The way he looked you over, Sir, I thought . . . well, I don't want to go into what I thought."
"Newkirk," Hogan called from the doorway to his quarters. "I could use some help getting these off."
Newkirk hopped down from his bunk and joined Hogan in the other room. Tossing his jacket and shirt on the topmost bunk, Hogan sat down with his right side against the edge of the desk. Newkirk switched the lamp on and angled it so the light fell upon Hogan shoulder, then grabbed a towel from the locker and took a pair of tweezers from his pocket. Hogan smiled up at him.
"You did great, oh master of disguises."
"Would have all gone to hell in a hand basket if you'd started sweating, guv'nor," Newkirk said, spreading the towel on the desk.
Hogan blew a long breath, suddenly limp from how close they had come to winding up dead. So much could have gone wrong. He laid a forearm on the desk to brace himself.
"This will smart a bit," Newkirk warned, raising the tweezers and putting a hand to the top of Hogan's shoulder.
Hogan jumped. His gaze, when it lifted to Newkirk's face, was slightly accusing.
"Sorry," Newkirk chuckled, feeling the last bit of tension drain away. "Nerves. Makes me hands cold every time."
A faint, crooked smile softened Hogan's expression. "S'okay. I was kind of nervous myself." Their eyes met and both chuckled.
"All right, then. Here we go." Newkirk brought the tweezers to Hogan's shoulder and teased at a particular spot. What looked like a flap of skin came loose under his probing. He took a firm grip on the edge with the tweezers, hesitated and looked into Hogan's eyes. "Fast or slow?" Before Hogan could even draw breath for an answer, Newkirk yanked on the flap, ripping a sizeable chunk of false skin from Hogan's shoulder, revealing the scar left by the bullet wound. Both the scar and the skin around it were tinged pink and shiny from spirit gum. Hogan glared up at Newkirk through watering eyes.
"Best to go fast," Newkirk said, an angelic smile gracing his face. He placed the small piece of fake skin on the towel and wiped the tweezers. When he turned back to Hogan, the angelic smile was as strong as ever. "Ready for the next?"
Hogan swiveled so that Newkirk could easily get at the fake skin covering the scar on his side. "Yeah." He looked up, arched an eyebrow. "Just remember that I have a very long memory."
Newkirk chuckled, clicked the tips of the tweezers together. "Right."
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Klink downed his third shot of schnapps, set the empty glass down on the desk blotter. At least that was what he had intended to do. Either he had misjudged the distance or someone had moved his desk. The glass teetered on the very edge, much like the basketball had teetered on the hoop. Klink jerked forward to catch it, but was too late. The glass hit the floor between his feet and shattered into pieces. His office door immediately flew open and Schultz peeked inside, his round eyes traveling from the scattered shards to Klink's face.
"I will get one of the prisoners to clean the glass away, Herr Kommandant."
"Never mind," Klink blurted irritably, wanting no one around. Schultz paused on the threshold, puzzlement wrinkling his brow.
"But you might cut yourself," Schultz pointed out, indicating the glass that lay closest to Klink's feet.
Klink was suddenly exhausted. After facing death, a little glass was nothing. "Leave it, Schultz. I will be fine."
"Jawhol, Herr Kommandant," Schultz murmured, confused by his kommandant's mercurial mood. He saluted and quietly withdrew.
Klink folded his hands in his lap and let his chin drop to his chest. Doubt swirled in his mind, surprisingly overshadowing his relief at still being alive. The evidence - or lack of it- indicated that Hogan was not a saboteur cleverly hiding out at Stalag 13. Yet he was finding it extremely hard to dismiss the information he had collected in his journal.
What if Hogan really was the mastermind behind all of the sabotage? What if he had somehow found a way to conceal his wounds?
Klink snickered, chuckled, then burst out laughing until tears leaked from his eyes. Conceal wounds! Not even Hogan could be such a magician as to pull off that feat!
Lurching out of the chair, Klink grabbed the bottle of schnapps and and stuffed the cork back in the top. He had definitely had too much to drink.
TBC . . . Thank you for reading!