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 is a fine day, the sun peaking out from behind a few puffy white clouds marring an otherwise almost perfectly blue sky.
Crittendon quietly hums a tune to himself as he saunters down the street; it's one of those rather bawdy songs he learnt at the Academy. He doesn't sing the actual words, of course, because they're unfitting for a gentleman such as him, but he likes the melody nonetheless.
The street is as good as deserted, the pavement flanked by husks of what used to be beautiful buildings. He remembers these blocks well from his childhood, back when they were still vibrant and full of life, full of people running errands, yelling to one another from across the street, and chatting amiably on the street corners. He really loved this particular area when he was a boy, partly because of the kindly Ms Potter who used to live in that small yellow house with the blue and red-striped curtains and would come out to offer him candy when she saw him outside. Her garden was the prettiest, most well-kept one in the whole neighbourhood, and she would take great care of her dear flowers as if they were her children, watering them with utmost concern and fret over any brown leaves or wiltedness she spotted among the garden beds.
He would sometimes help her with that, and she would smile and ruffle his hair, telling him what a sweet boy he was. Ms Potter even kept geraniums in her garden, something that Crittendon had only rarely seen before. It was such an inconspicuous flower and most would opt for more colourful plants instead to decorate their gardens, but he always enjoyed the sight of them. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of his mother, who had always loved geraniums and who used to ruffle his hair just in the same way that Ms Potter would.
He visited her occasionally as an adult too, even a few times during the war. But the last time he came here, the blue and red-striped curtains were gone from the windows, and so were the geraniums in the garden. He had knocked on the door, only to be greeted with the surly face of a middle-aged man telling him that there was no one by the name of Ms Potter living her anymore.
He turns a corner to the left, continuing down the narrow alley. Some children push past him, laughing and jostling among themselves.
There used to be a florist shop here, he recalls, but it has all closed down now. Instead, there are only dark steel grates covering the door, and the windows gape emptily at him. The beautiful red roses and purple lilies that once overflowed the little table outside are all gone. The place is empty, abandoned and there has been no one to take over the establishment.
He remembers buying a bouquet for his mother from this store once. He only had a few pennies, so what he could afford was rather modest, but his mother had been overjoyed anyway, placing his gift on the living room table where it remained days even after the flowers were wilted and the vibrant colour all but gone from the petals.
The alley widens into a larger square, and he crosses it, well familiar with the way. He's walked here more times than he can count, both as a boy and as an adult. Only a few minutes later, he arrives outside one of the parks where he used to play during his childhood. Carefully, he presses down the rusty handle of the gate surrounding the greenery area and walks in, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
There has been no one to care for this park in a long time, though. No one has planted any flowers in years, and what remains of the flower beds have been taken over by thistles and nettles. Crittendon used to know the gardener, Mr Anderson, who worked in here, but he hasn't seen the man since the war started and the man was drafted. He isn't sure if Mr Anderson ever came back once it was all over, but if he ever did, he's not a gardener here anymore. He would never have stood for letting his park decay into this unkempt mess.
The grass hasn't been cut at all, and long straws are drooping over the walkway. Neither has it been watered, given the brown and withered appearance of what should have been a luscious green. No one has trimmed the bushes either that are now sprouting like unruly mops of hair, their long, uncut branches reaching out for him as if to tug at his jacket in protest at their current state as he walks by.
It used to be so beautiful, this park, and the sad remains make his heart twinge uncomfortably. He just thinks there should be someone to take care of it, to offer people some well-deserved beauty after all the long years of war.
He exits the park on the other side, pressing down another rusty, creaking handle.
The street outside is not very busy, so he crosses it quickly and walks on, northwards towards his destination. As he walks by the lumbering houses flanking him, he can't help but to recall how their windows used to have potted plants in them, proudly displayed by their owners. But there are none left now, only curtains and a chapped porcelain vase. On one of the walls there is a grey and faded propaganda poster still nailed to the facade, encouraging young men to sign up for a war that is now non-existent.
But no flowers.
Turning a corner, he pulls a key out of his pocket as he stops at the sign hanging over the entrance bearing the inscription Crittendon's flowers.
He did get his own florist shop after the war was over. However, it would seem that people have no need or desire for such things as flowers anymore. It was the war that did it, though he isn't sure if it was the bombings or the letters about loved ones not returning or the poverty and lack of amenities that still hang as a shadow over the country. The conspicuous absence of all those weddings and celebrations and anniversaries that he wanted to provide his flower arrangements for is almost painful.
Still, he can remain in business, despite people's lack of need for this type of soothing beauty in their lives.
Because there is one thing that's still needed, there is still one thing that people want him to provide his services for.
The funerals. They will always be there, again and again.
And if he had known this was the only thing his little shop would be needed for, he would never have made his choice to become a florist.