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Chapter Text

January 31st, 1959
Heidelberg, West Germany

He was driving late at night, down the back roads, on his way home. Sort of.

It should have been hard to call anything and anywhere home, that wasn't where Hilda and the kids were.

It wasn't.

The Schatzie Toy Company had become his second home; the people there, his extended family.

And because they were family, no threat against them would be taken lightly.

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At first it was only a rumor: a group calling itself 'Odessa' had been created in the death throes of the Third Reich. Its mission was to create and maintain escape routes out of Germany and the Allies' hands, over the ocean to safety in South America. The dark mirror of his own “Travelers' Aid Society”.

And unfortunately, one equally successful. Thousands of minions of der Fuhrer, running for their lives and freedom.... it was terribly ironic, especially to the man once called Papa Bear.

And Papa Bear knew better than to ignore rumors in Germany.

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So he’d begun to investigate, years ago, when the rumors (and the trails) were still fresh. But the brass had pulled him (pulled them) off the job and reassigned him to the latest bloodbath (all the subsequent Administrations have continued to call it a ‘police action’ long after even the history books called it the Korean War). The real reason was revealed in a discussion with his immediate superior in a Jeep in the middle of Korea in the middle of nowhere:

“Let the locals deal with it, Hogan. I need you and your men to help me keep the UN Coalition together.”

“And how am I supposed to do that when you want to sideline my men...Sir.”

“I'm not sidelining your men, just the one.”

“But I need”

“No, out of all of them, he's the one that you need the least in Korea. But we need him to stay on in Germany, and no one better.”

“But he can't do it alone! The Plan is at a crucial point and we need to make sure it succeeds. We can't afford to re-create another Weimar Republic.”

“Which is why we need him there.”

“Which is why the rest of my men and I should stay put, and let us do what we do best. We're a team, and we know Germany inside and out by now; we have a certain reputation, and we use it to our advantage. We get better results in half the time than anybody else that MI6 or Langley can send. Why fix something that isn't broken? I've just about got Faust in my cross-hairs and”

“So that's what this is about! Com' on, Rob. Still paranoid about a dead man?”

“He isn't dead, Pop. I swear. He's still alive, and while he is, not a soul I care about is safe.”

His superior sighed: “Fine, let's say that Faust is alive. He's got to be running scared. If he stays to make trouble, there are still plenty of your people around, watching your back. Your old Kommandant's too. Faust's nothing if not intelligent, and even for revenge, making a play against anyone in the Underground now, especially Klink, even if your back is turned? That would be stupid. He'll high-tail it out of there, get to some place safe, THEN start plotting his options. So you've got time. Years of it.”

“BUT” said Pop, interrupting Hogan's attempted interruption (and for a instant, Hogan dwelt on the fact that he was not only arguing with Lieutenant General Tillman Walters, director of the former OSS now CIA, but that he could get away with calling the man 'Pop'), “we don't have time to spare in Korea. You speak Chinese; you still know people from the old Flying Tiger days. People you can trust who trust you. You even have Russian contacts, several in fact. At least that White Russian owes you a bucket of favors; what was her name again?”

“uuuhhh,” the mere mention of the Lady makes Hogan's head spin and his eyes roll, “...Marya,...her name is Marya.”

“And this war is moving faster than the tide during a storm.”

“For now, until the Chinese cross the line. Then you'll have a real fight on your hands.”

“Our analysts say not.”

“Not?” A derisive snort followed, “Then they're either incompetent or lying. No way is Mao going to take a challenge like that lying down. He'll need to 'save face' and he doesn't have a Congress or a Parliament to cajole or tiptoe around; he can issue the decree tonight and make it stick tomorrow.”

“See? We need you for analysis like this! And face it, you’re one of the few people MacArthur respects and may MAY possibly listen to; too damn bad that you weren’t in the Pacific the whole time,” the older man trails off with a wince, remembering where they had first met – so no, better that Hogan to have stayed where he’d been. Then Walters added, “But not just that...and not for your crazy schemes either.”

Looking extremely uncomfortable, the older man cleared his throat and continued: “Hogan, I'll come to the point. You're right about one thing; dead or alive, Faust is a threat. We found his list of, er, 'undesirables'...and Klink was on it.” Walters threw up his hands in a conciliating gesture: “Not that I think that Klink IS an 'undesirable'! And he's no subversive. Or a Commie. Or even a Nazi. He's a good man and an exemplary officer; I still wish he'd take that star we offered him.”

“He won't. He knows that it would make him too high profile, too much of a target. Stopping Hitler's ghost and saving Germany is more important to him than a general's retirement pay. He has to fly under the radar to do it.”

“Anyways, we found the list, and we panicked. All your friends in high places tried to grab the thing. Simultaneously. Without telling any of the others. It's a wonder the sheet wasn't torn to pieces with half a dozen aides snatching away. But all the secrecy and the bad Stooges routine caught the attention”

“Don't tell me, let me guess....Hoover?”

A nod in confirmation: “Yep, old J. Edgar himself. And what Hoover suspects, his bosom buddy McCarthy gets told. Those two are more of a threat to the country than any union organizer.”

“And you think that they'll go after Klink. Why? He's no threat to them!”

“But you are; you've already shut them down from dozens of inquiries”

“Witch-hunts you mean.”

“Exactly. Instead of pink elephants, McCarthy sees pink Commies every time he downs a fifth of Jack Daniels. And since you've interfered or intervened on behalf of plenty of innocent people, they can't wait to take you down.”

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The tired general was suddenly snatched from the past by a troop of deer crossing the road.

When the car (and his heart) were back under control, he started thinking again.

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Walters was correct; they'd had time to deal with Faust. McCarthy and his ilk had been the more pressing threat – along with the war of course.

Of all the wrong moves in that disaster, at least getting Wili out of the firing line was one of the right ones.

That, and renewing ties with Pierce. As Kinch had remarked more than once, Hawkeye was like a younger version of himself, and each gang never hesitated to back the others' plays. Especially when it was in a good cause, like harassing that semi-insane martinet Flagg, he thought. Hmmm, better not let Flagg slip between the cracks either.

Hogan mentally gathered the strands of solutions to this problem in his mind: to keep Flagg bottled up ‘training’ new recruits would only work so long…Houlihan might be able to help there. Her and her new protégée, Mairi, Mirra, Moran, no Moira! The girl has a good head on her shoulders, with a nose for trouble and a flair for the dangerous and daring…would his new baby be like that? All the signs and old wives tales read ‘girl’ but one never knows for sure until the little stranger welcomes the world.

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Hogan sighed and shook his head to clear it again; the ability to track several lines of inquiry at once was normally an advantage, but for right now, he knew what his brain was trying to do. He was trying to avoid the current unpleasant problem.

The aftermath of Korea could now wait.

The loose end of the Second Battle of Stalag 13 could not.

His greatest enemy had finally shown his hand.

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It had happened a little over two weeks before, the tail end of the holiday season.

It had been an accident, an accident all the way.

An accident that a flight bound for Frankfort was re-routed to Dusseldorf.

An accident that the parts they needed to fix the plane were in Frankfort.

An accident that two airport taxis taking their fares into town got into a minor fender-bender.

An accident that a former Gestapo Major, (still on parole from his former life), was one of the passengers.

A coincidence that the other passenger was known to him, even disguised.

A greater coincidence that the parolee was meeting his parole officer at the Dusseldorf Police Station anyways.

Pure fate that the military parole officer was Capt. Brian Olsen.

And they all accidentally ran into each other on the steps of the police station.

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“I'm telling you, Rob, it was like a bad Stooges routine.” Olsen, their invaluable 'Outside Man', had remained in the Air Corps, (Air Force - Hogan's mind immediately corrected) and was 'technically' stationed in the American's Bremen Section, just another member of the General Staff.

And if you believe that one, Major General Robert E. Hogan has a bridge in Brooklyn he's considering renting out, along with some prime swampland to sell near Secaucus in New Jersey.

Anyways, Olsen had picked up the trail that Hogan had been forced to abandon, and had found so many layers of Byzantine deception, it would make Machiavelli proud. Olsen had also managed to piece together the real reason that Hogan had been pulled out of Germany:

“You were too good, too close to getting it right and closing down the entire network. The politicians and the high brass wanted German tech and know-how and the best way to get it was to get the scientists and have them work for us. Which wouldn't be so bad if they were all decent guys like Dingel and Gruber, but far too many were card-carrying Nazis only looking to save their own necks and whore themselves out to whoever would keep them in style. 'Operation Paperclip' was the biggest of all those types of Allied operations, and it's how we got people like Von Braun and his whole team. Not that Von Braun was the worst by any means.”

“Are you saying the Allies were running Odessa?”

“No, thank God, but … Odessa was completely independent, but a lot of the same contacts and escape routes were used. Bust the one, and you'd find and blow the cover of the others. That, and there were too many in too many high places in too many countries who needed their German partners to disappear. You and the Kommandant were running right into the hornet's nest.”

“And now?”

“Now, the guys we and our Allies wanted have all been 'de-nazified', and the rest are being hunted down. That Lehnsherr kid alone has 20 notches on his belt! I'd track the kid down and get him to off Faust, but he's got his own agenda and it's personal. Kid's also a loose cannon; he's too suspicious to trust anyone getting a government check, so you can't even get near enough to ask.”

“I'll keep that in mind, but Faust? How come he gave you the slip...and are you sure it was him? You said he was disguised?”

“Yeah, he dyed his hair dark brown and grew a Van-dyke, but it was him alright,” growled Olsen. “I may not have been in the compound with the rest of you guys, but I had a bird's eye view from the lookout, and me and Sam kept our binoculars peeled on him. I will never forget the sound of little Wally's voice when he babbled for help on the radio, and I will never forget the look on Faust's pasty gob when he made you strip, the bastard! Not in a thousand years, Rob. It was him.”

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It was HIM.

And he had disappeared like smoke in the wind.

No matter.

Schultz had known something was up since the end of October.

Heidelberg was a regional American HQ, and thus had one of the biggest American enclaves in Germany. So it stood to reason that a bunch of American sports, customs and traditions had made their way into the mainstream of this international University town.

So it was no great shock when American kids started Trick-or-Treating in the American neighborhoods. Or when it caught on with their German classmates. Or even when shopkeepers started limiting sales of toilet paper and eggs on the 29th and 30th of October.

But this time, Halloween ‘58 came with a very nasty trick.

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His military secretary was getting ready to go home after a long day when the phone rang: “General, switchboard says there’s a call on your private line from a Lt. Schultz in Germany.”

He ran to grab the phone.

Schultzie never called him at the office and never used his official rank….unless.

“Hey, Schultzie, what’s wrong?”

“Robert, we have a sit-u-A-tion, und I thought it best to call you rrrright away.”

“Well, don’t keep me hanging, Schultz, what’s up?”

“SOMEone tried to firebomb the factory und BLAME it on the amerikanische Kinder as a prrrrank!”

“WHAT?! Is everybody ok?”

“Ja, ja, not to worry. Almost no damage, und alles ist gut. We were even able to go on with the Haunted House without the Kinder and their parents the wiser.”

“Details, Schultz, I need details.”

“At 1800 hrs, Doofi was with Fritzie and my eldest, setting up for the big E-vent, when he heard a window break und a bottle smash. They rushed IN to the room and saw a burning Molotov cocktail. The boys put out the fire, und Doofi ran outside, and stepped on a bag of eggs. There was a rrroll of toi-let pai-per next to it, but he thought he heard some-THING, so he ran to the noise and saw some damage to the bushes und footprints leading away. He could not follow them verrry far, they went strrraight to the road, und many people were coming to the festivities.

Herr Schiff was helping his son mit the food, so he was there early, so we did not haff to call him. He said it looked clearly like some Amerikaner boys, with the eggs and paper, but it bothered him, it did not seem right. He has been police chief ten years, he knew that no Amerikan boy would hurt me or you. And all the deutscher Kinder think the world of you, you are BIG hero in Germany. Nein, it did not feel right. But Doofi told us of the smell und than solved everrrry-thing!”

“Smell? What smell?”

“It reeked in the bushes, unmistakable. No. 4711.”

“Faust and his favorite aftershave.”

“Jawohl. No young person would wear something so old-fashioned; no Amerikan boy would know how to make a Molotov cocktail; and no one in Heidelberg would harm their fa-vor-rrrite place on a special holiday.”

“I’m coming.”

“Nein. Do not. Not yet! Listen to me, Robert. We are safe. We will pretend that it was just vandals. Schiff will have extra men, trrrust-ted men, looking and watching. Let them think they fooled us. Faust does not want ME, he wants YOU. Wait until after the holidays. We will plan. HE will show himself and make another mistake, ja? Then, we will POUNCE! Und, POOF, away he will go!”

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So they planned.

Schultz had reached out to everyone: the Ladies' Auxiliary; the 'retired' members of Unit G-13 (“Don't worry, General, we are only retired as far as the Government is concerned,” said Lt. Col. Otto Wagner, USAF and better known as “Huntsman”, “For you? We are ready tomorrow.”); the Underground, like Max and the Schnitzers; Doofi and the Drusselsteiners...pretty much everyone they could think of who might be compromised or in danger.

Hogan had just spent the last two weeks quartering the country to make the final arrangements, and making sure that everyone who wanted to leave could.

Of course, not everyone wanted to leave. The members of the Hammelburg Resistance were sitting tight, as were the Drusselsteiners, since both communities were too small to be infiltrated (“No reason for me to move, we are just simple peasants,” reasoned the former Obersoldat Doofenshmirtz, “but maybe my son will move to the Tri-State area when he is a little more established, his first-born, Heinz is just a baby after all.”) But many of the rest, especially the factory workers who had been part of the Stalag 13 operation, were relocating along with the factory and the Schultz family.

Just a few more days for head count and set-up and then the plan comes together, mused the American. Just a few more days, and then we buy people out, a few at a time, steady but just slow enough not to cause any red flags, and with that in mind, Hogan pulled into the driveway of the converted garage that served as Klink’s apartment and office for the clerks of the Schatzie Toy Company.

Hogan didn’t knock; he never knocked when his fink was concerned. He had a key, why should he? He let himself in and strode up the stairs to the apartment area, then used the second key and as he was just about to bellow, “OH, KOMMANDANT! I’M HOME!” when he heard them.

Screams, heart-rending screams - coming from the bedroom.

Chapter Text

Heidelberg, West Germany
1st February, 1959

My Blue Angel:

You asked me last night, and again this morning, what I was dreaming. More accurately, what I was screaming about.

I refused to answer, and changed the subject.

But you know, you know already, my Rob. Just from the date.

After all, you were there too.

And while it could be the time I was accidentally shot by the Gestapo (and you, you wonderful foolish man, saved me and spent 4 days of what you called 'mediocre questioning', better known as torture, in Gestapo custody, for your trouble), we both know it was not.

So, shall I tell you, now, while you are away with Schultz? Shall I sit here and exorcise the past, while you build our future free from terror? It seems a waste of time. I could be doing other things. Important things. Useful things. Ordinary things. Anything!

But you have asked and asked and asked again, and I should know by now I can refuse you nothing.

So, I shall speak of what we do not speak of, and hope that you are correct, and that writing this down will trap that demon on the page and away from us once and for all.

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You know, I am very vain, and boast and clamor about small accomplishments, but this is a thing that is true and odd and I can take no credit for, but it merely is...I dream in color. Only when the scene before my mental eyes is dark or terrible will the colors of the daylight world abandon me.

So this vision begins with green green grass taller than my head, and bright blue sky above. I make my way down a tiny path until the grass shrinks to rolling moss, green, gold, russet red and brown. A warm wind blows a tang from the Sea, and a shadow ghosts over me. Startled, I crane my head back back back and then I see the shadow of a bird, a great Eagle, flying across the Sun.

I am happy!

I skitter over the short moss and see for the first time that I have tiny paws with even tinier nails. My paws are slim, my legs blue-gray and they dart back and forth. I feel whiskers twitching in anticipation, as the Shadow above swirls lower and lower, until the Sun is covered by Shadow, and the Earth trembles as mighty talons pound the ground besides me, so close are they to crushing me.

For once, I am fearless. I squeak with joy, and run up the leg, higher higher highest...and then even higher, until I am at the great Eagle's shoulder, deep gold red brown in the Sun. And you, great Eagle, you look at me fondly, the beak that could tear me to bits, me, your natural prey and perhaps enemy, you only use to preen my fur. You tuck me gently under your ruff, at the joint where neck and wings meet, and I rise, floating as you take me flying.

I see the world below - hedgerows and farm fields, rivers and towns! All is peace and freedom in the sunlight and I laugh. Your head turns and your golden eye winks, and I swear that you smirk, if ever an Eagle can smirk.

BOOM! Something large and dark and smothering...a blanket? a net? a sack? rises from a cannon, and as swift and clever a flier you are, you cannot evade it and we are enveloped by Darkness and we fall.

We fall, but you are still strong, stronger than our enemies, and we land lightly. Next, I am on the ground, and you are in a cage. A stupid, silly cage for a songbird, with a little wrought iron sign above the flimsy open door that says 'Stalag 13'. You are so large, you press against the bars, breaking and twisting and bending most without even trying to move. I shake with mirth; are they really such dummies?

You shrug and mantle your wings; the cage bursts open, shards sparkle like glass. The shriek of an Eagle tears skyward and you only wait for me. I run to you, scurrying as fast as fast, but you seem so far away!

Before I can reach you, two things come at once: a dun colored truck....and a murder of crows.

The truck spews dirt and filth; a cloud of steam that tastes like chalk and sickness rolls over me as the tires scream to a stop.

The doors at the back swing open, and two men stumble out. Both are dressed in identical American USAAC uniforms, wearing identical crush caps and worn leather flier’s jackets. I see one is tall, and dark haired, the look and bearing of a king of old. It is you, my Rob, and you help to support your companion, pale and ill, the look of a gaping mackerel, phiff! Me, of course.

Caw caw caw! I hear the lead crow tell his minions to attack...and a dead-black bird, ten times my size, looms over me and stabs downward. I shoot away, fear giving me speed, and I head for you (the Eagle). You (the Eagle) rise up on your tether and pounce, and the crow explodes into a cloud of night colored feathers and soot. I reach the shelter of your wings, and I am safe.

Safe, but you pay the price. I can see the plain that we are on, flat and treeless, grass going gray, sky gray-white. I see from the outside, as if I were an invisible spectator, or an ingenious cameraman, filming from all the correct angles. I see the crows attacking, pecking and pulling and shredding. You can shield me; you can shield your head and eyes, but that is all, as the evil birds crowd you, scattering the all-important pinion and primary feathers. And you bleed, my Rob! You bleed.

I know now why they call them, a 'murder' of crows.

A voice, low, urbane, even pleasant, sounds out: “My pets, we must stop now. The Eagle cannot die quite yet.”

I look to see who speaks. I cannot believe it. I recognize him. He is famous. He is also dead. But perhaps Col. Johann Schmidt is immortal; perhaps he sold his soul to the Devil, and that is why his skull is red.

As an Eagle, you gently trap me beneath your talons. The 'bars' of your toes are far apart enough that I may squeeze out, but otherwise nothing can come in to harm me. As a man, you stiffen and stand straighter, taller, tightening your grip upon me. And that is when I see there are three men – three men who will decide our fate.

The Red Skull speaks first: “Cousin Klaus! Marvelous to see you. Come, take a look at this one.” He nods his head in your direction: “This one is no ordinary prisoner, no common spy or saboteur. This one is the most dangerous man in Germany, and except for my American opponent, I believe that for once, Hochstetter is right.”

I do not know this ‘Cousin Klaus’. He is tall enough, sandy haired, blue eyes, small mustache, wire-rimmed glasses, a fine gray suit and white lab coat complete the picture. Nothing out of the ordinary. Yet the look he casts towards us chills me and I shake, cowering closer to you in both my forms.

I am a bug to him, this Doctor. He dismisses me from his mind at once and bores holes into you with his eyes. He shakes his head and says: “Cousin Johann, I am afraid that I do not have the gift to know when I am in the presence of ubermenschen, such as ourselves, simply by looking. Little Erik seems no more than any Jewish child, and had I not seen him use his talent, he would have died like the others.” He searches your face, as so many have done before, looking for answers. Others have endlessly walked away unsatisfied. This one sees something, and asks his kinsman: “You say that strange things happen in his presence, that he is always where he needs to be, that he can manipulate any situation to his advantage?”

My voice leaps to defend you, this man cannot be allowed to think that you are above the common run: “No no, Herr Doktor, you must know, Hogan is no more than clever, it is I who am so stupid that a child could have his way around me! I can scarcely believe that I have risen this high and survived this long…”

“Shut up, Klink!” The Red Skull does not like the sound of my voice.

You squeeze my arm tighter still. I obey the silent order, and say no more.

The Doctor laughs and I cringe: “The little mouse roars at last! Does this pathetic fool love you then, Colonel Hogan?” He turns to the third man: “Major Faust, I think you must share your catch with my cousin and I. Johann, do tell me if Zola has perfected the ersatz fertilization methods that Mengele designed?”

“Not quite, but patience! We are using the methods together with earlier versions of Erskine's serum. It is only a matter of time before we reach the stage of viability. This worthless carcass,” the Red Skull glares in my direction, “may become useful after all. You would like to be of use to the Fatherland, would you not?”

I am frozen to your side. I do not move. I do not understand the conversation, only the menace behind the words.

Meanwhile, my little alter-ego has not been idle. I know that I have chewed through the leather thong holding you (Eagle) to earth; now, I am running after your feathers, and as I come near one, woofff! off it goes sailing in the wind. I run, I run and again, this way! that way! in a misery of haste. But the feathers find you, even if I do not seem to catch any, and they stab you as they press back home. You speak in my tiny head: “Run!” you say and expect to be obeyed. But for once I do not run, for once I will not go without you.

The Cousins Schmidt are gone; only Major Faust remains. He sneers at us, at me.

Faust is in Gestapo black; the death's head on his cap both shining silver and dull gray. Which makes no sense, that this tiny insignia should glow and darken that which surrounds it, but so it is. I suddenly understand Tolkien's words: “A corpse light illuminating nothing.”* I tear my glance from the cap, but fall to his eyes. They are a hard slate gray, like the death's head, hidden in the dark of a mine, with no light from without or fire within. His hair is so blond it is white, tied back in a revolutionary pigtail with a black ribbon, his features chiseled and regular, bit shorter than we are, but not short. He is handsome in a cold way, hawk to your Eagle, but where you are a golden rescuer, he is a vicious butcher bird.

He pounces, his hand swooping down to catch a tiny mouse. I am that mouse; I am in his hand, and I do not like it. I squeak, I shiver, I snap my teeth as fiercely as I can, but my neck rests tight against his index finger, his thumb presses down, the remainder of his fingers curl around my body, pinning my limbs. One leg is curled awkwardly against his palm, and while it does not hurt, if he squeezes harder, it will. But it is the stroking that unnerves me, his thumb traces my snout, follows the crest of my head, fondles my ears. He has no right! Only you, my Eagle, have that right! My heart is beating so fast, his entire hand shakes.

You, dear Eagle, you scream. Scream an Eagle's cry, and the words in that sound, words yet not words, are well understood by us there. You are covered in crows, holding you down, and still your defiance makes the empty plain ring.

“What will you give me for his life?” he queries, as he waves his hand, crows melt away. “What will you do, if I let you go, but keep him? What will you give, if I agree to release him instead? What is this creature, this worthless vermin, worth to you?”

Tears wet my face; I did not know mice could cry. I beg a single word, all that I have courage for: “GO!”

I look again. You mantle, pull your head as straight and high as it will go, then crane your neck to the side.

Again, we all understand the offer.

“I am a man of my word. Keep the pest. He may freely leave once you are dead.”

Faust stoops and tosses me to the ground. I tumble and run, straight to you and then up your leg until I am cowering into your nesting feathers on your lower breast. I will not leave you.

I will die for you if I can.

I will die with you if I cannot.

And Faust looks at the captive airmen (us). He walks slowly around us, looking up and down, side to side. Like he is inspecting the livestock for culling. Then he leers. And it is not only culling on his evil mind.

SS soldiers pull me from your grasp. Gestapo underlings hold you back. I look into their faces, wanting to reason with them and I feel faint. These men are all faceless; they have no faces at all! Blank putty where anything and everything human should be. Nothing. There is nothing at all.

I should be screaming now. I should be, but I do not often do what I should. I only gape, stunned so, that I cannot think, I do not react when they push me on all fours. I sink down into the dark mud, sink down until my hands, my wrists, my knees, lower legs and ankles, all are covered, encased, manacled in mud.

Until I hear the ripping of your borrowed shirt, I do not even realize that I am naked.

And I am more upset that these automatons are destroying your spare clothes than I am of my lack of modesty.

Faust has my riding crop in his hands. He makes it whistle, then turns it so the flat runs gently along my back, down my backside, a gentle stroke. Several times, over and over.

I should be terrified (as I was), but now, all I am is annoyed. That hard-to-reach spot on my back is itching horribly, and that bully keeps just missing it. And no matter how I try, I cannot free my hands to scratch.

Then I look over to you. You look as if you were carved from stone. No one else would see it, but I know you too well. Rage. Shame. Hurt. Worry. And one more emotion that I dare not name, not now. If I did, I might howl in grief. We cannot give Faust the satisfaction.

Faust looks at you, smiling: “Not much to look at, but all sheep are gray in the dark, no? I'm sure that your taste is far better than this, but 'beggars cannot be choosers', you Americans say. Do we make him beg for it, Hogan? As a courtesy to a fellow officer, I could give you the first taste, just a taste, as you are my prisoner, but a bit of a reward for your cooperation?”

Your eyes lock on mine, the question clear – 'do you trust me'. My answer is the slightest nod yes. So you begin the last gamble:

“Cut the crap, Faust. We both know what you really want. Sure, he'll get a rise out of you, but face it, he's been there before. Used goods. Me, on the other hand? Something brand new. A real challenge. Let's see if you can break me, Faust. Let's see if I'm just another pretty face.”

“You cast a gauntlet down; a true Knight. Of course, you are correct; this one, for all his blood-line, is pathetic. Too much in-breeding, perhaps. I realize that you are trying to spare your pet. You are too soft, you Americans. I could deny you. I could begin with him. I could throw him to the guards and we would watch together. I could even leave him to these servants and take you while they play. But then, in all of those scenes, I would be distracted. You are the prize here. As you say, a real challenge. I do not wish to give you anything less than my very best efforts.” As he speaks, Faust paces between us, absently stroking me with the crop when speaking of me, pointing the crop at you for emphasis when speaking of you, and his eyes never leave your face.

Looking for weakness, he finds none.

Oddly pleased, he reaches his decision: “Strip,” he commands.

You nod and quip: “Just let me get ready for my close-up.”

There is a tree stump. You carefully remove your flight jacket, and neatly fold it on the stump. Your crush cap follows. You stand tall as you efficiently undo the knot in your tie and whip it off, the zing of cloth on cloth loud in the silence. You wrap the tie around your hand and wrist like a bandage, and then you proceed to unbutton your shirt, cuffs first.

You are not stripping like a woman: not like the poor girls at the burlesque houses that I have seen when I was bullied into going, either slow and teasing (if they enjoyed their work) or careless and rushed (if they did not). And not like I would imagine some frightened maiden to be, shaking and fumbling, clumsy and in a great hurry to be done.

Not you.

You are all business. You undo each button with the simple care the act requires. No more, no less.

LeBeau might call it 'nonchalant'; you are an executive disrobing after a hard day, pleasing no one but yourself.

A challenge indeed!

Faust devours you with greedy eyes; you have his complete frightening attention.

Challenge accepted.

Your shoes and socks are gone; I did not see you remove them. The mud is gone where you are; the grass is dead and gray, but it is clean grass at your feet. You undo the thin belt at your waist; you wrap it around your other wrist and forearm, and buckle it like a bracer.

You are girding for battle in plain sight of our enemy, and I can only hope that he does not notice.

Now for your trousers. Unbutton, unzip, and one swift motion they are down (and your underwear with it). One foot, then the other, and you are folding and placing atop the stump. Again, all business.

You stand, neither slow nor fast.

HE looks.

I look.

Everyone (and I am suddenly aware that we are facing the barbed wire fence of the huge Oflag Stalag XIIIC, and there are men lining the fence from horizon to horizon, not to mention the guards) looks.

And there you are.

A God.

No matter the scars (some childhood mishaps, some Gestapo interrogation), healing bruises (definitely the Gestapo), or the pronounced ribs (we are all too thin by now, and you are always sharing your rations), you glow in the sunlight. Michelangelo could not have sculpted better.

You are not ashamed. (And why should you be? You've done nothing wrong.) You seem calm, bored even, as Faust walks towards you.

I? I am terrified to my soul – and hard as stone. I can feel myself leaking (I’ve heard of wet dreams before, but a wet nightmare? Ridiculous!).

“No.”

The word is quiet, a whisper only. But it is so loud in the silence, it may have well been the Angel's Trumpet.

It does not come from any of us. Then I look back over to the fence and see Group Captain James Roberts, hands clutching the wires so tightly that blood drips from the cuts, blood drops smoking on the snowy ground (and why there is snow by the fence and nowhere else, I can't tell you, except to say that it always seems like winter in the camps). His face is twisted in hatred. He will climb the fence to rescue you.

We all know he would die in the attempt; he will die in the attempt.

“Roberts, stand down!”

I can never remember if you outrank your dear friend or not, but you outrank Churchill here and now, regardless.

Your dear friend Robbie bows his head and turns away.

Faust sniffs and starts walking towards you again. He is only a few feet away, but each step takes an eternity. Faust moves his hand forward as soon as he is within arm's length. He reaches out...

I do not know where his hand will land.

I do not want him touching you.

I am in despair. Hate and fear course through my veins, but the mud, the cold, the evil, has robbed me of strength. I cannot move; my limbs are lead. The mountains will move before I can.

I am desperate. I try to shout a warning, a distraction, a plea, anything. But my lips cleave to each other. Glue dipped in cotton coats my tongue. I am mute.

Faust reaches out; his hand lands....

I scream. I SCREAM. I SCREAM!

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The next thing I know, you have your hand over my mouth, one knee pinning my arm, while the free hand is shaking my other shoulder, trying to prevent my lashing out.

And that was my nightmare, dear Rob.

I hope that you are right.

I never want to see Faust or his Nazi ilk ever again.

Not even in my dreams.

Yours, Wili