#Hogan is going to punch Nimrod right in the nose

[tuttle-4077]

First Draft, Chapter 2, Untitled Post-war Story

Too much exposition? Too much exposition, right?

Gravel crunched under the wheels of his jeep as Hogan brought it to a stop outside the gates. A sergeant emerged from a nearby hut and straightened his uniform as he approached.

“Papers,” the sergeant said, holding out his hand. Hogan reached into his jacket and pulled out his identification, which he handed over with a polite nod. He hid his face in his elbow for a moment to cough.

“I hope you had a chance to celebrate, Sergeant,” Hogan said as he cleared his throat. He coughed again and then turned to look at the guard as he checked over his papers.

The guard shrugged. “Yeah, we were able to get out this morning.” He jerked his thumb back towards the huts and tents on the other side of the fence. “Not much celebrating there, I imagine.”

“You’d be surprised,” Hogan said.

“Hmmm. Well, you’re good to go, Colonel. You’ll find the command hut just there.” He pointed to the first building inside the gate. “Colonel Stewart’s not here, but Major Davies ought to be.”

“Thanks.” Hogan took his papers back and the guard motioned for someone to open the gates. Hogan drove the jeep through and came to a stop in front of the command hut.

The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out. Judging from his American uniform and silver oakleaves, he was Major Davies. “Colonel Hogan?”

“That’s me,” Hogan confirmed. Davies offered him a salute which he returned. Then the Major jogged down the steps and up to the jeep.

“Colonel Stewart said we should be expecting you at some point. Didn’t think it would be today though what with all the celebrating there is to do,” Davies said with a hint of surprise.

“The celebrations aren’t over,” Hogan assured him. “Where are all the prisoners from Stalag 13 being kept? Away from the general population, right?”

Major Davies nodded and pointed to a hut in the corner of the compound. Several guards stood watch around the barracks. “Yes, just as we were ordered. If you don’t mind me saying, sir, I know they’re a special case, but I don’t like the idea of—”

“Thank you, Major,” Hogan said, cutting him off.

“Yes sir,” Major Davies replied with a salute.

Hogan cut his engine and hopped out of the jeep. Reaching over to the back seat, he grabbed a satchel and made his way to the barracks. As he approached, a corporal banged on the door.

“Hey, you lot, you have a visitor. And you better not give him any trouble,” the guard barked. “Colonel,” he said, turning his attention to Hogan and offering a salute. “Do you need someone to accompany you?”

“Not at all,” Hogan assured him. He climbed the steps and opened the door.

As Hogan pushed open the door, a wave of warm light and the scent of wood smoke washed over him. The room was well-lit, with rows of cots lining the outer wall. He couldn't help but notice the plush mattresses, plump pillows, and thick blankets that adorned each cot. In the center of the room, a wood stove crackled and popped, its flames casting a cozy glow. In a corner, a phonograph played a Lili Marleen.

A pang of bitterness shot through him as he thought about the meagre conditions of his own hut back at Stalag 13. But he tamped it down quickly. He would not hold the comparative luxury this particular group of prisoners enjoyed against them.

A few men lounged in their cots, reading magazines, while the rest huddled around a table in the center of the room near the stove, playing a game of cards. None of them had looked up when he entered.

Someone at the table threw down a card. “Welcome, esteemed visitor,” he sneered. “Come to visit the z—” the man, who Hogan recognized as Corporal Schneider, looked up and immediately dropped his cards. Beside him, Schultz looked up and beamed.

“Colonel Hogan!” Schultz exclaimed. “Up, up,” he said to his companions. The prisoners, Hogan’s former captors, stood and all saluted him respectfully. Hogan returned the salute.

“Hiya, Schultz,” Hogan chirped as he rocked on his heels.

Schultz toddled over to him. “You are looking much better, Colonel,” he said with genuine relief in his voice. “You have colour in your cheeks again.” Schultz raised a hand as if he were about to pinch said cheeks, but dropped his hand and smiled bashfully.

“I feel better,” Hogan confirmed. “And how are you Schultz? They treating you okay?”

“Oh yes,” Schultz said. He patted his stomach. “I do not think I have eaten so well since the war started.” Hogan couldn’t help but frown at the unfairness, and Schultz matched his expression. “I am sorry, Colonel Hogan. If it were up to me, we would have fed you all as well as they are feeding us now. But of course I did not make the rules and—”

Hogan held up his hand. “It’s fine, Schultz. I’m glad you’re okay.” He patted Schultz’ arm and moved past him to address the others in the room. “How about you, Corporal Langenscheidt? Private Berger? Any complaints?”

Both men shook their heads. “Nein, Herr Komman— I mean, Colonel Hogan,” Langenscheidt said. “We are all doing well.”

“I could do without all the questions,” another German, Corporal Gantner said. “I know now you were not regular prisoners, but that does not mean I know what they think I know!”

“I know nothing!” Schultz said. That earned a laugh from everyone, including Hogan.

The truth was most of the guards had no idea about their prisoners’ extracurricular activities. Schultz and Langenscheidt were the only ones who were consistently roped into their shenanigans, and both were more than content to look the other way. But as things quickly deteriorated near the end of the war and certain rules were broken, none of the guards were particularly surprised to learn that Hogan was the infamous Papa Bear. And, in fact, they all seemed grateful to have Hogan’s leadership, limited though it was due to his bout of pneumonia, to get them through to the end in one piece.

“Sorry fellas,” Hogan said. “But the history books want to know every detail. Any other complaints?”

“Do you know when we’ll be able to go home?” Private Zeiger asked.

Hogan shook his head. “No, sorry. Have you all been able to write your families?”

“Yes, but we do not know if the mail has arrived,” Schultz said, the worry evident in his voice.

“Yeah,” Hogan said as he scratched his arm. He turned his head a coughed and, once the fit passed, his pounded on his chest. “Yeah,” he repeated. “It’s a bit of a mess over there. But, look, you give me addresses and names and I’ll make sure someone over there checks in on them to see that they’re safe.”

A chorus of “thank you, Colonel Hogan”s rippled throughout the barracks.

“In the meantime, I brought you this.” Hogan reached into his satchel and pulled out a bottle of wine. “It’s not much, but I think we can all celebrate the end of the war.” He passed the bottle to Schultz who took it and looked it over.

“Oh, ja, sehr gut. This is a good bottle,” Schultz said. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“You’re welcome.” He looked around. “Where’s the Iron Eagle?”

Schultz pointed down a small hallway at the back of the barracks. “His room is on the left. Captain Gruber is on the right.”

Hogan frowned. “How’s Gruber taking all this?” Though not a Nazi, Gruber has been a little more zealous in his duties than the rest of their captors. While no one else had seemed surprised by the revelations about Stalag 13, Gruber had nearly had an aneurysm.

“He… does not socialize with us much,” Schultz reported.

“Well, as long as he stays out of trouble,” Hogan said. Unfortunately for Gruber, he was stuck here. The special camp was dedicated to enemies with knowledge of the Papa Bear organization. Gruber might not have been a fan, but it would be too dangerous to put him in with the general population, who might take their frustrations out on him. “Anyway, enjoy the wine.”

“We will,” Schultz said. Hogan left them to it as he approached Klink’s door. He gave a curtesy knock before coming in.

The room was about the same size as his own at Stalag 13, but far nicer. One cushy bed sat in a corner. There was a desk set, a plush armchair, a phonograph, and a stove. How many times had Hogan wished to have his own stove?

Colonel Klink was sitting in the armchair, reading a book. He snapped it shut when Hogan stepped in.

“Colonel.”

“Hogan.”

“Hi.”

Klink eyed him curiously. “I didn’t expect to see you today. You aren’t celebrating?”

“I was. Still am. You got any glasses?”

Klink, dressed in a pair of pyjamas, stood and grabbed two glasses from off a nearby shelf. He set them on his desk and Hogan pulled out a bottle from his satchel for fill them.

“To victory,” Klink said, holding up his glass.

“To victory,” Hogan echoed.

They both drank. “Mein Gott!” Klink exclaimed. “What is this?!”

“Good old Scottish whisky,” Hogan replied with a cough. He kept coughing and Klink quickly steered him into the armchair.

“Are you all right, Hogan?”

Hogan finally caught hold of himself and nodded. “Yeah. Smooth. Want some more?”

Klink gave him an incredulous look. “I do not think you should be drinking in your condition.”

Hogan waved off his concern. “I’ll sip it.” He reached over and refilled both glasses. He took a tiny sip. It still burned the way whisky ought, but this time it didn’t trigger a coughing fit.

Klink shrugged and also took a sip. Reaching over, he turned on his record player and the strains of Mozart filled the room. Then, he sat down on the edge of his bed. The two men drank in companionable silence.

“Damn it, Klink!” Hogan suddenly exclaimed. “You could have told me!”

Klink chuckled into his cup. “It would have made things much easier. But that’s the way Nimrod wanted it.”

Hogan grunted. He still didn’t know who Nimrod was– and he assumed he’d never know– but he wanted to punch the man in the nose. The whole time— the whole time— Klink had been an agent of Nimrod. He had known everything.

“I still can’t believe you knew what was going on.” Hogan had to hand it to Klink, he was an amazing actor.

“There were times I wish I didn’t,” he said as he swirled the contents of his glass. “I think I made myself prematurely grey with worry.” Hogan raised an eyebrow and Klink laughed. “There were other times I wished you knew. It was hard playing against you, but Nimrod thought a few easy victories would boost your confidence.”

Hogan felt somewhat insulted by that. Winning against Klink, after all wasn’t much of a victory. Still, if he were honest with himself, he did enjoy the small wins Klink offered.

“I just don’t get why I couldn’t know.”

Klink shrugged. “If you knew I knew, then perhaps you would have expected more of me. Maybe you would have been bolder— although I doubt that’s possible— and that might have gotten you caught.”

“Still…”

“And, anyway, I had to play the incompetent fool for everyone else. I think it may have been too hard for me to switch between the two. It was easier to just keep one persona. And… well, it just became a part of me after a while. I was never a strong man you know.”

“But why?” Hogan asked, feeling frustrated. How much easier would his operation have been if he knew Klink was on his side? Half his problems had come from Klink causing trouble.

“If you and your men were caught outside the wire, it would have been easy enough to lay the blame on me without digging any deeper. I might have been transferred. You might have been shot, but there would be less chance of someone finding your tunnels and everything in them. You and I were expendable. But everything underground would have been to hard to replace or replicate elsewhere.”

“Indeed.”

Hogan grunted in frustration. That was probably true. “Seems like Nimrod thought of everything.”

“I still want to punch him in the nose though.”

Klink laughed. “I do too. I don’t think I quite comprehended what he was asking me at the time.”

“So why did you do it?” Hogan asked.

Klink looked down into his empty glass and let out a long sigh. He held it out to Hogan who poured in more whisky.

“After the war, the first one… My life… I had lost so much, including my confidence. You don’t know, but… I was once a good pilot. I dare say, I was even dashing.” Hogan bit back a snort of disbelief as Klink continued. “But then…” He waved his hand. “War. It is never kind, even to dashing young pilots.”

Hogan frowned and nodded in understanding. He had seen too many good young men killed in the most recent war to think otherwise. And many who hadn’t died had still been irrevocably altered by it.

“And then my father was killed in the trenches. I spent the rest of the war at a desk. And I stayed there. I just… floated through life. I didn’t pay attention to anything, not even the papers on my desk. Not really.”

“So what changed?” Hogan asked.

“My friend, a hero, was dismissed from service for no reason other than being Jewish. Another was sent to a camp for political dissidents. It woke me up and I started to look around and saw what was happening in Germany. And it horrified me.

“I was never a Nazi, you know. It’s important that you know that.”

“I do,” Hogan replied honestly. “I never thought you were.”

Klink blew out a breath and looked up at the ceiling. When he met Hogan’s eyes again, he looked relieved. “I thought I should do something, but what? I was one man with no resources, no power. Then the war started and I felt even more helpless.” Klink sighed. “Another friend, shot for disagreeing with Hitler in a meeting. And still I could do nothing. Until Nimrod came.

“I don’t know why he chose me,” Klink continued. “And I almost said no. But if I continued to do nothing then wasn’t I just as bad as the Nazis?” He searched Hogan’s eyes, as if searching for some sort of judgement. Hogan kept his expression neutral. He would like to think that, if he had been in Klink’s position, it wouldn’t have taken a mysterious messenger to urge him into action. In fact, Hogan had known and worked with plenty of common Germans who did what they could to fight back against the Nazis. But, on the other hand, Hogan knew that not everyone could be risk-takers, even when— or especially when— faced with such evil.

“So I said yes and thus our unlikely friendship began,” Klink said, finishing his tale with a laugh.

Hogan grinned, but stopped short of laughing. “I guess you could call it that. So it was all an act, huh?”

“As I said, it became less and less of an act. It was easier that way.”

“So let me guess: you’re really a virtuoso on the violin.”

Klink tilted his head and gave Hogan a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean your whole violin schtick was an act too.”

“Schtick?” The furrow in Klink’s brow deepened as he stood up and set his glass on the desk. He walked over to the phonograph and stopped the record as it span, cutting Mozart off mid symphony. Turning back to Hogan with a determined look, he strode over to the corner of the room where his violin case sat. With careful hands, he opened it and gently pulled out his beloved instrument. He caressed it and ran his fingers lovingly over its strings. “I’ve always played the violin well,” he finally replied proudly. “If that’s what you mean by schtick.”

Klink place his violin on his shoulder and grabbed his bow. He pulled it across the strings. It made a horrendous sound, but Klink seemed completely oblivious to it as he started playing. The noise sounded similar to a dying cat.

But Hogan didn’t fuss. Instead he simply refilled his whisky and sunk back into his chair. After everything Klink had told him, Hogan could endure one last bit of torture.