Roll Call

Bitter winds whipped through the inadequate protection of the stalag huts, whining and crying. The arctic blast brought the already subzero temperatures down to levels even more inhospitable than their current home away from home.

Unfortunately, the driving winds, plunging temperatures and deepening snowdrifts were nothing in the face of German efficiency.

Hogan, fully dressed in his uniform, every pair of socks he owned and the least threadbare of his blankets, sat back against his bunk. He was conserving his energy, exhausted from the cold and the slew of rescue missions for pilots downed in the storm.

Normally, when the weather turned this inclement, Klink would have the self-preservation to do indoor roll calls, helpfully negating the need for him to freeze his monocle off in the snow. However, if the bitter complaints and not playful griping coming from the main hut was any indication, their beloved Iron Colonel was disinclined towards showing his usual shred of decency.

.

Schultz, cold as any of them and reaching the end of his not inconsiderable tether, cried out in frustration. "The Kommandant is waiting! Roll call! Raus!"

Hogan smirked at the predictable groaning and insolence from his cohort of not so merry troublemakers.

LeBeau and Newkirk were particularly inventive as to what they expected Shultz to do with his roll call.

Normally, Hogan would sigh and go out there and playfully tell his men to settle down, quit their griping and file out for roll call. But, normally, Hogan wasn't inclined towards leading an insurrection for five more minutes sleep and a wall that didn't have more holes in it than a crocheted blanket.

So, in view of the wind whistling past his reddening nose, and the lack of even the slightest inclination towards seeing Klink and not doing something anatomically impossible with his monocle, Hogan decided it was the better part of valour just to stay put.

And he was infinitesimally warmer that way too.

.

Moments after Hogan had settled back, resolute in his decision, Schultz's voice burst through the door again.

"You're always trying to make me look bad."

"Now, Schultzie, you're being unfair," Newkirk complained, typical smirk threading through his voice. "We always try to make you look good. It's not our fault we're no good at it, now is it?"

Kinch, Carter and LeBeau made noises of agreement, backing up their partner in crime.

Needless to say, Schultz was not a fan of this response.

"OUT!"

"Why are you always picking on us, eh, Schultzie?" LeBeau cried, bristling. "Why don't you pick on another barracks, hm?"

"Yeah," Carter's voice piped up, a little more distantly. "We're already on our best behavior for the Colonel. Pick on someone else."

There was silence a moment, Hogan imagining Shultz looking around suspiciously.

"Where is Colonel Hogan?"

"On a beach on Oahu," Hogan called out.

If only.

It had been far, far too long since he had felt sand beneath his feet, a warm summer breeze blowing through his hair.

He was torn from his fantasy of rolling waves and salty sea air, a gust of ice surrounding him. Hogan glowered at the shuttered windows, reluctantly abandoning his post.

.

"Morning fellas," Hogan called, trying for a trace of his usual cheer.

His men, wrapped up like a squad at their first Eskimo convention, offered equally enthusiastic greetings, huddled over their coffee mugs.

Hogan poured himself a cup of LeBeau's best, inhaling the steam gratefully.

Then, when he could feel the frustration coming off their loveable sergeant, Hogan nodded to him. "Schultz."

Schultz looked at him beseechingly. "Colonel Hogan, please."

The Colonel smiled easily, acting for all the world as if he had no idea what was wrong. "What can we do for you this fine morning, Schultz?"

Schultz practically vibrated in place, casting dark glowers around at Hogan's grinning men. "Roll call!"

The wind was still bitterly buffeting the camp, sounding worse than ever. Hogan's sixth sense told him they couldn't stall this one.

At a tiny nod from Hogan, Newkirk clapped the sergeant on his shoulder. "Well you only had to say, Schultz."

Carter grinned from his bunk, picking up on Newkirk's bit. "Yeah. How can we be expected to know these things if you never tell us?"

LeBeau shook his head, the image of disappointment. "Honestly, Schultzie."

"Roll call," Kinch added, grin twinkling in his eyes. "Come on, Schultz. Raus."

Chuckling to himself, Hogan drained the last of his impressively cold coffee, following his men into the buffeting gale outside.

.

Hogan and his men stood knee-deep in snow, shuffling from foot to foot in a vain attempt of staying warm (ha!) and avoiding soaked clothing. There was some consolation that this would be over quickly, but Hogan didn't really feel it. He would have given a lot for an electric blanket or hot water bottle right now.

Hoots, boos and a chorus of rude noises erupted from his men, crystallizing the air in front of them. Emerging from the Kommandantur, head down and monocle glistening, was Kommandant Klink. The Kommandant stomped down snowy steps, glowering through the dancing snow.

Hogan's men, never to be outdone, continued to voice their displeasure. The cooler was no punishment right now; in this wind it was probably the warmest place in camp for a prisoner with the solid walls and lack of windows.

Hogan wasn't about to begrudge his men a break from potential hypothermia. So, he let them boo and hoot and act out, keeping an easy smile on his face to guarantee he bore the focus of Klink's displeasure.

And then, the prisoners fell silent.

A sudden, savage gust of wind knocked into the precarious buildup of snow on the Kommandantur roof. In slow motion, it toppled, dumping itself onto the lone figure standing under the eaves.

Schultz sent the laughing men back to the barracks, rushing to help his Kommandant.

As Newkirk put it, grinning smugly around his warm mug: "Even the bleedin' wind doesn't like Klink."