Author's note: Thank you so much for the reviews, everyone! :)
And since a couple of reviewers asked about it – yes, this story will end on a happier note than what it may look like at first. ;)
Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while.
It's strange how that is, Kinch thinks. That one day you're this one person, and the next you're another man entirely.
And once he was a hero, once he was important.
But that was back in Germany. Now he's just nobody.
Again.
His old job as a telephone technician wasn't there anymore when he returned to Detroit. Heck, his former employer wasn't there anymore; another man who didn't live to see the end of the war.
But he eventually found another job, though. Those long years spent manning their secret radio in the tunnels beneath Stalag 13 did do him some good after all, he supposes.
He also supposes he should be happy; in the end, their side won the war and he made it back home safe and sound, which is more than can be said for a lot of other people. But he can't shake this feeling that something is missing.
Readjusting is hard, he thinks. Even though he's lived most of his life as a civilian, suddenly returning to that life after everything he's been through feels strangely off.
He's now wearing the clothes of an ordinary civilian, clothes that could have belonged to any man he passes on the street. The green jacket he always used to wear got lost somewhere along the way, after his repatriation and between the debriefings he got shuffled around to. At times he sort of misses that jacket – it was shabby and filthy and had holes in it after being worn for so long, but in a way it had grown to become a part of him.
Well, it doesn't matter. It's not like he could have walked around in it now anyway. The looks he gets are disdainful enough as it is even with him wearing clean, proper clothing.
The looks. He had almost forgotten about those while he was in the camp. No, not forgotten, because that's a thing you just don't forget about, but perhaps chosen not to remember, not think about.
No, Detroit hasn't changed one bit since he left it. Of course, it wasn't like he had expected it to, but secretly he had been kind of hoping that maybe, just maybe, things would have changed while he was away, maybe people would have changed, and…
Right. As if. People don't change. They're the same everywhere, he thinks as he walks by a restaurant with a "No blacks" sign flapping in the wind.
Maybe Germany and America aren't so different after all, when it all comes down to it.
And that makes him want to scream, just scream at the people who give him all those all-too familiar, disapproving looks as if he doesn't have a right to even be there, I fought to keep all of you safe and free. Fought in this miserable war, so that they could all live in a world free of oppression and tyranny.
But they don't see that; all they see is another nigger.
And that's when he realizes that he misses Stalag 13.
Well, he doesn't miss the camp as such with its lousy food, barbed wire and early morning roll calls. He's glad to be rid of all that. But he misses the men he served with, he misses the camaraderie between them all.
Most of all, he misses being respected, and people seeing beyond the colour of his skin when they look at him.
It's so ironic, he thinks, how he used to long for home while he was in Stalag 13, but now that he finally is home, he finds himself missing the camp instead. Part of him even wishes he were back, because there, at least he mattered. He made a difference, and the people around him acknowledged that.
Still, it's a stupid notion. Perhaps there's something wrong with him, because really, what kind of ex-prisoner would miss his former jail?
But he can't help but think that in a way he was freer back there, despite being surrounded by fences and guard towers and machine guns. Because no matter what some might think, the worst prisons aren't necessarily physical.
He takes another look at the "No blacks" sign. And then, he suddenly recalls how the prisoners in the camp would pass the time talking about all the things they would do after the war. Once they were home, and their lives were once more their own.
Some dreamed about big things. They would travel the world, or become rich and successful. Others were more modest; they were content dreaming about eating a nice steak with fried potatoes, or asking the redhead next door out to the movies. Others yet were practical, down to earth, and talked about getting an education or finding decent employment.
Someone had asked Kinch, then, what about him? What would he want to do after the war, once this was all over?
And he had said, I want to start a family.
There were some eye rolls and dismissive snorts at this – and Kinch admits that it probably wasn't the most interesting or exciting thing to say – but it was his heartfelt wish. He wanted a family; he wanted sons he could teach to play basketball, and daughters to sit on his lap as he read them bedtime stories.
But as he looks at the sign swaying gently back and forth in the wind, he realizes that he isn't so certain anymore. After all, would he want his sons and daughters to grow up as second-class citizens? Never to be truly equal or have a given place in society?
They deserve better than that.
And perhaps he is just being conceited and entitled, but after everything, he can't help but think that he deserves better, too.