Flying into Uncharted Territory

It should be a happy moment but Klink felt as if he readied for a funeral. He carefully donned his old uniform. Surprisingly, it fit very well. He left his double-breasted fur lined wool overcoat on its hanger. It was too hot to wear it. Even his publisher could not fault him. He began pacing the room. Klink nearly jumped at the sound of a firm knock at the door. It was time.

Presenting another false face as he opened the door, Klink smiled, "Guten tag." The young man attired in a casual sarong with sandals smiled pleasantly. Klink felt relief. The man seemed friendly enough yet maintained a hint of professionalism as he escorted him to the car. It was already twenty-six degrees (Celsius) – too warm for the standard uniform. The car lacked a top, so the ride to the theater proved tolerable.

Arriving at the theater, Klink swallowed hard before exiting the car. Hobson eagerly greeted him before leading him inside and to the stage. Klink thought it a peculiar arrangement with the table on the stage laden with copies of his book. He stood behind the podium while a photographer took promotional pictures. Then he patiently sat in a chair while Hobson busied himself with details.

The theater opened its doors ten minutes before ten. Klink felt knots in his stomach but no one entered. Nerves built as the hour approached. Several person entered, taking seats in the middle of the theater. A crowd of thirty persons entered one minute before ten. Klink sensed the arrivals acted in concert, mostly older men with young sons.

Hobson took the podium and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? I am Walter Hobson, and I'd like to thank you for taking time out of your busy day. Today, I present to you a man who fought two world wars for his beloved Fatherland. He was a skilled fighter pilot until a tragic accident left him grounded. His last assignment was Kommandant of Luftstalag 13, a prisoner of war camp that no one escaped from, yet hundreds escaped through to return to England. He is here today to teach you about the forgotten history of mankind. I proudly introduce to you Colonel Wilhelm Klink."

Klink barely had opportunity to stand before the cacophony started. He heard the insults before and prayed to God that he might never become accustomed to them. Every slur stung his essence. He was a proud German. He was a true patriot. He struggled to raise his voice above the clamor. He knew better than to deny the atrocities that occurred. While he did not commit such acts, he did nothing to stop them.

"Go to Hell!"

Klink sighed, "You are as closeminded as those who once issued the order to kill all of my prisoners, an order I refused to obey. Don't buy the book."

Retaining what dignity remained, Klink solemnly walked off the stage. He barely noticed that Hobson tried quelling the near riot in the theater. He was done. He did not care if his book became wildly popular. He only cared that it made a difference, even if to just one person. He did not know where to go but heard a creaking sound. Then he realized a door with a star was slowly opening. Yes, hiding was the better part of valor now. He would patiently wait for the crowd to disperse and then return to his bungalow.

Entering the room, Klink realized it was a dressing room intended for a woman. He sat on the couch. His pistol pinched his side so he removed it from his holster. He stared hard at the weapon. One squeeze of the trigger and his troubles would be finally ended. A gentle knock at the door returned him to his false façade and he quickly holstered his pistol despite the discomfort. The door opened and he saw his friend.

Tattoo said, "Cheer up. They are leaving."

Klink managed a small smile, "Ah, Herr Tattoo! I am done. I don't care about selling books."

"But you have an important story to tell," pleaded Tattoo.

Klink stood, "They don't want to hear it."

"They need to hear it," said Tattoo.

Klink shook his head, "It is not meant to be."

Tattoo said, "I read your book. It's very good."

"Really?" Klink was surprised by the comment. He asked, "Why?"

Tattoo shrugged, "I was impressed by what you did. I was even more impressed by what you didn't do."

Klink began pacing, "I was a soldier, not a butcher."

Tattoo said, "I know. When I was growing up, I learned to hate all Germans. The war had not been over very long. It took me a long time to learn a better way."

Klink asked, "How?"

"Release the hate," replied Tattoo. "The war is over, Herr Klink."

Klink sighed, "Not for some."

"Sometimes, it takes longer for certain people," said Tattoo. "You are making a difference."

"It doesn't feel like it," Klink said with dejection as he slumped onto the couch.

"You made a difference for me," smiled Tattoo. "Come on. I'll sneak you out the back way."

With a heavy heart, Klink conceded defeat and accepted the offer. He followed his new friend through the back area of the theater. The brilliance of the tropical sun nearly blinded him when he exited the building. Tattoo's shouts of encouragement helped him make his way into the car where his driver sat patiently.

Tattoo confidently stated, "Let's go."

While the ride to the theater seemed to take hours, the return to the bungalow felt as if only a couple of minutes had elapsed. Klink was glad to be out of sight. He thanked Tattoo for rescuing him. His mind raced out of control but he maintained his disguise of relative calmness until Tattoo left. He removed his pistol from the holster and realized his hand shook uncontrollably. Not yet, he thought.

FI x HH

Roarke found it difficult to remain seated behind his desk. Hobson showed no sign of remorse for the theater incident. The usually magnanimous host made no effort to hide his anger. The literary agent sat in a chair wearing a broad smile despite the stern lecture.

Hobson shrugged, "It's good publicity."

Roarke said, "I see, Mister Hobson. You are not disturbed by what happened?"

Hobson waved his hand and scoffed, "Why should I be? The publisher wants controversy."

Roarke said, "I see. Tell me, Mister Hobson – how much did you pay those people to put on that despicable display of hatred? Perhaps thirty pieces of silver?"

Hobson angrily stood and snapped, "That's not fair!" Softening his tone he continued, "I like Wilhelm. He just never got a break after the war because the world put him in the same class as Hitler, Mengele, and all the others."

"You are playing a dangerous game," warned Roarke.

Hobson put his hands in his pockets and said, "No one made Wilhelm write that book."

Roarke tried reading his unwanted visitor. The man was hiding something. Mephistopheles was lurking in the shadows. Klink did not have much time left. Roarke knew his guest neared the end of his life expectation. Yet Hobson proved difficult to read despite Roarke's typically reliable empathic ability.

"I warn you, Mister Hobson, that I am not someone to be trifled with," glared Roarke. "Herr Klink was invited. You were not."

Hobson said, "Well, then I'll be about my business. Good day."

The literary agent left and Roarke knew he must learn more about the man that earned Klink's trust. He had a crude plan that must be refined if he expected to succeed against Mephistopheles. He understood that a damned soul proved tempting to his adversary but Klink still had time to redeem himself – not much, but Roarke remained determined to help him.

FI x HH

The shattering glass startled Klink. He looked around the room and saw a large rock on the floor. He ran to the door and opened it, but the person responsible was fleeing in a recreational jeep. Someone wanted to frighten him. A Molotov cocktail would have proven a better weapon if the person wanted him dead.

Klink saw locals regain composure along with other guests. One man was dressed as – Klink struggled to remember the term – ah yes swashbuckler. Another man looked like a flamboyant playboy. An elderly woman was dressed in fine clothes with a hat and Klink thought she could pass as the queen of England. This was Fantasy Island.

Without fear, Klink started walking down the street. No one objected to his attire. Two indigenous girls cheerily greeted him as they passed by and Klink smiled warmly. Oh, he was too old for them to have interest but they treated him kindly. The sun shone brightly. A car pulled up alongside him and he saw Hobson.

"Hello Walter," greeted Klink.

Hobson said, "Wilhelm, you shouldn't be walking around by yourself in that uniform."

"This is probably the only place that I can," said Klink.

Hobson laughed, "Yeah, you're probably right. Come on. Someone wants to meet you."

Intrigued, Klink entered the vehicle. He enjoyed the scenery as the two departed the town area and ventured past jungles. Yet he felt concern when he realized the car was driving up an elevation. He needed his ears to pop, which they eventually did.

Klink asked, "Where exactly are we going?"

Hobson replied, "It's a place called Cabo Del Diablo. The natives have a superstition that bad spirits inhabit the area but that's just nonsense."

"Sounds like a peculiar place to meet with someone," frowned Klink.

Apprehension: Klink was tired of it. He was too old to have so many worries. He felt his heart race wildly. Something bad was about to happen. Part of him wanted to run away but he was worn out from the flight. Hobson was the only friend he had.

The car arrived at a spot near a cliff. The two men exited the vehicle. Hobson cautioned Klink not to get too close to the edge, which suited him just fine. Yet he saw a beautiful cape and forgot his fear. The breeze felt cool and refreshing. He lost track of time as his thoughts dallied with pleasant memories. He wished that Marlene had never married Count von Heffernick. She was the one true love of his life.

The last time he saw her, Klink had to pretend that he was a slovenly drunk. It pained him to do it. He told Hogan it was to avoid a one-way ticket to the Russian Front but that was a lie. He wanted Marlene to have the best possible life, even if it meant she shared it with someone else. Von Heffernick loved her passionately. It pleased him that she still held a torch for him but he had to let her go. He never knew what happened to her after the war.

"I guess we've been stood up," sighed Hobson.

Klink asked, "By whom?"

"Aw, some guy the publisher wanted you to meet," replied Hobson. "He had some kind of proposition for you."

Klink said, "I see."

"Come on, Wilhelm," cheered Hobson. "I'll buy you a beer."

Klink scoffed, "American beer is nothing more than hops flavored water."

"They got the real stuff in town," suggested Hobson.

The car made its way down the road and Klink felt a sense of dread. It gained speed excited by the descent and several curves seemed barely manageable. He finally cried, "Walter! Stop the car!"

Hobson snapped, "What do you think I'm trying to do?" In sheer panic he cried, "Hold on!"

The car went careening off the road into the jungle. Klink shielded his face as the car made its way through the foliage until one tree of sufficient girth blocked its way. Briefly, Klink felt dazed. He turned to see if Hobson was all right and realized the man was no longer in the car. Panicked, he undid his seatbelt and started looking around.

"He's run away," a man's voice calmly and deliberately stated.

Klink turned and saw a man attired in an impeccable black suit. He straightened his uniform in the face of a man with obvious high standards. Klink was grateful someone was in the area but thought it peculiar that such a man would choose to be in the middle of a jungle in such attire.

Klink said, "Something went wrong."

"No introductions?"

Klink fawned, "Forgive me. Where are my manners? I am Herr Wilhelm Klink."

The man toyed, "Don't you mean Oberst? Or would you prefer Kommandant?"

Klink closed his eyes and replied, "I assumed a man dressed in such clothes was one who regarded good manners."

"Very well," said the man. "You may call me Mephistopheles."

Klink scoffed, "The devil with you!"

"Indeed," smiled Mephistopheles. "I have a small proposition for you, Herr Kommandant. I can help you set things right. I have many contacts. Your book will become a best seller on the New York Times list for weeks."

Klink said, "That's impossible. It's not that kind of a book."

"I can make that happen," said Mephistopheles.

Klink folded his arms across his chest and said, "I see. And all you want out of this is my soul."

"Your eternal soul," said Mephistopheles. "You can meet old friends once again."

Klink felt entranced. He had one friend in the world and the man abandoned him in the jungle. He felt as if he was in a trance. A rustling among the brush helped him regain his focus. He saw the mysterious Roarke. While not a friend, Klink felt that he should trust the man. His mind started losing focus.

"Enough," Roarke calmly said. "You can't win."

Mephistopheles angrily snapped, "Be gone! I can win."

"You are out of time," said Roarke.

Mephistopheles looked at Klink and said, "You can spread your message. People will know that Germany did not deserve its fate. The Allies crushed your beloved Fatherland. Young Germans and others need to hear your story."

Klink shook his head, "Why?"

"To restore Germany to its previous glory," replied Mephistopheles. "You are in a unique position to do that, Wilhelm."

Klink felt extremely confused. He loved his country. He was a true patriot. No – that was a lie. True patriots suffered the firing squads when they opposed Hitler. He did nothing. He wanted Germany among the great nations of the world where it belonged. He felt pride. Then he remembered a day when a strong wind carried the smell of burning flesh into Stalag 13. That was a horrible day.

Roarke said, "You linger here too long. The flowers are dead."

Mephistopheles said, "Occupational hazard."

Klink asked, "What?"

"Everything he touches or touches him dies," Roarke said in a matter of fact tone.

The grass under the spot Mephistopheles stood became shriveled. Flowers on bushes started withering. Klink did not understand. Another sound from the brush and Klink stared incredulously as a man from his past emerged. With confidence and determination, the black sergeant walked up to Mephistopheles and slammed his right fist into the jaw of the devil, causing Mephistopheles to fly backwards.

Another man emerged and cried, "Way to go, Kinch! You just sucker punched Old Nick."

Klink became entirely confused. Kinchloe and Newkirk looked exactly as they did when they were prisoners in his camp. It had to be a trick of some kind. He stared incredulously and said, "Herr Roarke, you said everything that touches him dies."

Kinchloe said, "It's okay, Kommandant. I died two years ago." Klink raised his eyebrows in shock. Kinchloe added, "It was the damned cancer."

Newkirk said, "Me? Some bird didn't know how to drive a lorry. I was minding me own business crossing the street. That's no way to go."

"Aw, I missed it!"

Klink saw yet another person from his past. Kinchloe and Newkirk enthusiastically greeted Carter. He turned around when he heard another voice say, "Hello, Kommandant." He did not know if he should be angry or happy to see Hogan. The man humiliated him at the Nuremberg Trials.

Finding his voice, Klink asked, "What are you doing here?"

Hogan said, "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Klink sarcastically replied, "I didn't need enemies with friends like you." Changing his tone he asked, "Where is the Cockroach?"

Hogan shrugged, "He hasn't died yet."

Newkirk gravely said, "It won't be much longer for him now."

Hogan approached Klink and said, "Yes, we were enemies. That was a long time ago."

"You made a fool out of me," hissed Klink.

Hogan sternly said, "And your Fuhrer murdered millions of people in the ovens, gas chambers, and firing squads." Softening his tone he continued, "You stood for something other than that."

"You ran an embarkation center underneath my camp," said Klink. "I should have been promoted to general several times but you took that away from me."

Hogan posed, "Did you really want to be a part of that?"

Klink stood silent. He wanted to be a general. That never happened. He wanted great things for Germany but not terrible things. He could have done something. He finally said, "I'm a soldier, not a butcher."

Carter said, "You're not a bad fellow. You were just at the right place at the right time."

Klink snapped, "And all of you took advantage of that!"

Hogan lowered his eyes, "We did. I can't apologize for that. We knew you weren't like Burkhalter or Hochstetter. When you got in trouble, we always found a way to bail you out of it."

Newkirk said, "That's why we're here now."

Roarke said, "It's time, Herr Klink."

"Yes," said Klink thoughtfully. "I know. Very well. Let's go."

Roarke watched as the group of men started walking through the jungle. Mephistopheles did not return because he knew he had lost. Roarke smiled when a large man excitedly ran up to him and asked, "Where are they?"

Roarke pointed down the trail and replied, "They are going that way, Sergeant Schultz."

"Danke schön," replied Schultz. As he started running he cried, "Wait for me boys!"

Roarke approached the wrecked vehicle. He managed a small miracle. Occasionally he granted fantasies to ghosts. It was no instant cure to Klink's troubles. Klink could be sleeping peacefully. The chest no longer displayed any movement indicating breathing. While the mortal life ended, another immortal life for the soul was beginning.

FI x HH

Roarke stood graciously with Tattoo at his side when the car arrived. He looked at Hobson who cradled his broken arm. The Tyrolean hat did not hide adequately the bandaged forehead. One of the men helped ease Hobson out of the car while another grabbed the luggage and headed towards the plane.

Hobson said, "Ah, Mister Roarke. I'm grateful for everything you've done."

Roarke smiled, "I trust book sales are satisfactory?"

Hobson lowered his eyes and said, "Dead authors have that effect on human curiosity."

Tattoo said, "It's too bad Herr Klink won't benefit from the sales."

Hobson said, "It was never about profit for him. All the proceeds are going to the Holocaust Memorial."

Tattoo exclaimed, "Really? What about your ten percent commission?"

Hobson joked, "What commission?"

Tattoo solemnly said, "You were a good friend to him."

Hobson sighed, "I tried to be. He wasn't a bad man. I hope he found peace."

Roarke confidently smiled, "Indeed, Mister Hobson."

As he had done so many times, Roarke waved a final farewell to his guests. He was man enough to admit that he underestimated Hobson. Neither man was motivated by money. The war ended twenty-five years ago but the healing remained a work in progress.