Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What Flights of Fancy Might Bring

The tropical breeze interacted with the intense white clouds, creating and transforming pleasing shapes to the eye.  The gentle ocean belied any danger that might lurk beneath its luster.  As terns graced the sky, they casually steered clear of the approaching Grumman Widgeon.  Long ago, the terns understood sailing vessels and the men who believed it bad luck to touch them.  In the present day, they knew to avoid the twin engines.

The amphibious aircraft approached the island and entertained a scenic course as it flew alongside the upheaved rock formation.  Three tantalizing waterfalls cascaded into a lush lagoon enjoyed by local indigenous persons.  As the plane continued its descent, an elegant man attired in white saw fit to open the shutters of a seemingly simple office and smile in anticipation.

A diminutive figure ascended a tower, tolled a simple carillon bell, and cried, “De plane!  De plane!”

Despite the frequent arrival of guests, the locals never lost their zeal.  Beautiful young women attired in brightly patterned pa’u skirts with matching bra tops gaily raced from the building that served as headquarters.  Roarke strolled onto the porch and calmly waited for his dearest friend Tattoo.  He furrowed his brow when he saw Tattoo race to meet him wearing a deerstalker cap and Inverness cape while sporting a Cherrywood churchwarden pipe.

Roarke frowned, “Tattoo, I see you have decided to be a detective today.”

“It is January Sixth, Boss,” shrugged Tattoo.

Roarke laughed, “Indeed it is, my friend.  Come.  Let us meet our guests.”

As the two made the short walk to the waiting Plymouth Volaré, Roarke decided to indulge his friend with the deviation from the standard attire of white suit complimented with black bowtie.  He favored many works of classical literature.  In some parts of the world, winter raged with ferocity.  On his beloved Fantasy Island, the tropics proved warm and inviting.  The men entered the vehicle and the driver made way for the dock.

The car made haste and arrived as dancers and musicians assembled.  As he had done thousands of time before, Roarke cued the ensemble.  Traditional Polynesian musicians played as exotic women danced an exciting hula.  Women lined the pier ready with leis as gifts.  As the Widgeon passenger door opened, Roarke broadly smiled and cried, “Smiles, everyone – smiles!”

A tall, thin man exited the plane and Tattoo said, “Boss, he looks terrified.  I don’t think he likes to fly.  Who is he?”

Roarke answered, “That, my good friend, is Colonel Wilhelm Klink, formerly of the illustrious Luftwaffe.”

Tattoo raised an eyebrow and asked, “Wasn’t the Luftwaffe some kind of air force?”

“Indeed yes,” replied Roarke.  “He was once an experienced combat pilot but his plane suffered a mechanical calamity.  He managed to parachute away but not without injury.  His vision suffered.  That is why he wears a monocle.  His heart suffered as well and he lost his courage for a very long time.”

Tattoo watched as Klink timidly accepted the leis and kisses as welcome to the resort.  Klink could have been a businessman as he wore a suit but his Tyrolean hat served as notice for his German heritage.  Arriving next to a bird perch that served as temporary resting spot for a colorful parrot, Klink examined the various drinks offered by a beautiful woman.  Unaccustomed to such colorful beverages, he accepted the suggestion of a tropical sunrise.

Tattoo asked, “Boss, what is his fantasy?”

Roarke calmly explained, “Herr Klink is here as part of a promotional tour sponsored by his publisher.  He has written an interesting book entitled The Uncommon Jailer.”

Tattoo asked, “Was he a warden of some kind?”

“A most curious warden indeed,” sighed Roarke.  “He served as Kommandant of a prisoner of war camp during World War Two.  He escaped the vindictive wrath of the Nuremberg trials but paid the price nonetheless.”

Tattoo asked, “But how?”

With the utmost of gravity Roarke replied, “The tribunal chose not to punish him because the prisoners of that camp ran an outfitting and embarkation center right beneath the compound.  He did not know about it, of course, but was humiliated at the revelation.”

Tattoo pondered, “I’m not certain if he is a bad man or just a victim.”

Roarke said, “He will find more than meager book sales while he is here on Fantasy Island.”

Tattoo excitedly asked, “Are you going to help him?”

“There are some upon this Earth who believe he is a monster because he served under a Fuhrer,” Roarke gravely said.  “Since they have treated him with such contempt for a very long time, he is beginning to believe that he is a monster.”

A young lady approached the two hosts carrying a tray that held an iced bottle of champagne and one filled glass ready for use.  Roarke took the glass and the lady gracefully walked away.  He sported a broad smile, raised his glass, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen!  I am your host, Mister Roarke.  Welcome to Fantasy Island!”

Taking a sip of champagne, Roarke noted Klink’s reciprocation and then delighted surprise indulging in the tropical sunset drink.  Roarke’s demeanor changed after his sip and he bore a look of concern.  It was not the first time a guest arrived unaware of the fantastic elements and events that often occurred.  Some paid for their fantasies while others had them gifted.  A small percentage needed a fantasy, and Klink was among that group.  It proved easy enough to encourage the publisher to make a promotional tour stop at Fantasy Island.

A strange odor briefly distracted Roarke.  He looked towards the jungle and saw a retreating black cloud vaguely in the shape of a man.  The head turned around and glowing red eyes stared straight at the distinguished host.  Roarke did not cower at the lurker, and the cloud retreated again out of sight.  He understood the omen.

FI x HH

Klink wished he had heeded the advice from his agent.  He was unaccustomed to thirty-five degree Celsius temperatures.  Entering his bungalow, gentle ceiling fans provided some relief.  He removed his suit jacket and hat before starting the meticulous unpacking process.  He carefully unzipped the garment carrier and frowned.

The war ended twenty-five years ago.  Klink had not worn his uniform since his retirement.  His agent prodded him to wear it as part of the tour.  Klink refused but this time he had no choice.  His publisher demanded sales and if he refused, they would discontinue all promotions.  They wanted controversy and felt his donning of his old uniform would stir the pot.  However, at every engagement without the uniform, he suffered the jeers.  Damn Nazi!  Murderer!  Butcher!

Fondly, he caressed his medals.  Klink was once a war hero; no, that simply was not true.  He was an adequate pilot and earned some merit.  He slowly ascended the ranks during the first war.  He was part of the minority allowed to remain in service after the Treaty of Versailles.  The military forces were reduced to one hundred thousand men.  Enlisted men were required to serve twelve years while officers for twenty-five years.  The Allied logic declared that criteria would prevent the buildup of military reserves.

Promotion proved difficult due to the stringent implementation by the victors.  Klink graduated last in his class and suffered delayed promotions during the period between the two wars.  He held great hopes of finally achieving a promotion to general but was denied that opportunity on several occasions.  He never understood why until the Nuremberg trials and discovered what that treacherous man did.

After the war, Schultz gave him a job as bookkeeper at the Schatzi Toy Factory, which probably saved Klink’s life.  He suffered insults from his countrymen for many years.  Now, he was sole survivor of his military class.  When Schultz passed away, the company underwent a reorganization.  Fortunately, Schultz’s widow demanded that he be given a generous pension.  The war became a distant memory.  He thought he put it all behind him until the nightmares returned.

Klink hung up his uniform on the valet rack.  He sighed heavily.  Modern society distorted historical events and motives.  His beloved Germany was finally gaining respect but some people kept taunting the nation with past horrors.  It was not fair.  He was a good man and did not deserve to suffer.  Before the war, he had few regrets.  After the war, he had many.  He never married.  Even Frau Linkmeyer shunned him, expecting some miracle of him to save her brother’s life from the hangman’s noose.

A firm knock at the door disturbed Klink’s thoughts.  He answered the door and graciously smiled, “Guten tag, Herr Roarke.”

“Guten tag,” reciprocated Roarke.  “May we come in?”

“Of course,” replied Klink.  He allowed his host and assistant into the bungalow.  It was show time.  He understood that people did not come to Fantasy Island to don faces of sorrow or regret.  He continued, “What can I do for you, Herr Roarke?”

Roarke smiled, “That is not a question people typically ask of me.  It is usually the other way around.”

Klink politely laughed, “I see.”  He saw Tattoo eying his uniform and said, “Yes, I think it will still fit me.”

Tattoo asked, “You haven’t tried it on?”

Klink sighed, “Not in a long time, Herr Tattoo.”

Tattoo solemnly commented, “You may call me Tattoo.  We are all friends here.”

Klink smiled, “You are very kind.”

Roarke said, “When you are done unpacking, you may find the luau of interest.  I have taken the liberty of supplying you with some attire more suited to the tropics.”  Roarke walked to the closet and opened the bi-fold doors.  Klink started moving hangers around to look at the casual slacks and brightly patterned shirts.

Tattoo said, “I think that red one suits you well.”

Klink sighed, “This is so very different than what I am accustomed to.”

Roarke calmly reassured, “When you go to the luau, you will wonder why you hesitated to try the clothes.”

“Danke schön,” said Klink.

“Now if you’ll excuse us,” said Roarke, “I have other guests to tend to.”

“Of course,” said Klink.

After his gracious host left, Klink went to a mirror and held up the strange shirt.  It was bold and brassy.  It contradicted his stoic look.  He must look dignified.  He realized his small wreath of hair glistened black as it did in his prime.  He removed his monocle, wiped it, and returned it to his eye.  Once again, his hair was brittle and grey.  He grabbed his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow and bald crown.  It must be the heat; yes, it must be sunstroke.

Perhaps this thing called a luau is relaxing, thought Klink.  He showered and dressed in the peculiar attire.  The slacks suited him but he had misgivings about the Hawaiian shirt.  He started pacing the room, struggling with his dinner plans.  The knock at the door startled him.  He was acting foolish.  He opened the door and gasped.

An exuberant man cried, “You look great!”

Klink’s jaw dropped, “Walter, I thought you weren’t coming.”  Walter Hobson was his agent and had the odd habit of boisterous talk without really saying anything.  It contrasted with the man’s former career as a war correspondent.  Hobson seemed more appropriate for the casual clothes than he did in his usual disheveled business attire.

As Hobson approached the valet rack, his tone changed, “I’m glad you’ve decided to play ball, Wilhelm.  Put it on.”

“Not tonight,” said Klink.  “There is something called a luau.”

“Oh, you’ll definitely hate it,” chided Hobson.  “No potatoes, sauerkraut, or schnapps.  Besides, all those pretty girls don’t dig old fogeys like us.”

Klink tried to hide the hurt and said, “I’m still going.”

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Hobson.  “Just remember that the promotion starts ten o’clock in the morning.  I’ll arrange for a driver to pick you up at nine thirty.  It’s at the Fantasy Island Theater.”

“I’ll be there,” said Klink.

“Germans always knew how to be on time,” teased Hobson.  “See you then, Wilhelm.”

Klink felt relief when Hobson left.  The man was the only agent willing to represent him.  Hobson managed to have a respected publisher print an initial run of his book.  He decided to put his mind at ease and exited his bungalow.  It felt strange walking about in casual attire but he realized everyone was in a festive spirit.

Ah, the frauen!  Klink knew he was too old for the young ladies but he appreciated the revealing necklines and the minimal skirts.  He wished he were a young man again.  He sauntered along with the definite flow of the pedestrians.  Arriving at the party, he felt uncertainty.  He simply did not know what to do.  Three men entertained the crowd as they performed with lit torches.  The beating drums challenged his heartbeat.

Klink watched as several people began carving a pig.  He presumed they were local indigenous considering their skin tone and exceeding good physiques.  A young woman approached and placed lei around his neck.  He smiled and felt warm inside when the indigenous woman returned the smile.

Klink asked, “What do I do?”

The woman’s polite smile changed and she sneered in contempt, “Time to eat the filthy boche.”

Klink had not heard that word in a very long time.  His heart skipped a beat and he felt the blood drain from his face.  He turned and left as fast as he could, leaving behind a very confused woman.  He thought he had forgotten cowardice.  He was wrong.

FI x HH

One could say many things about Roarke, but he was no fool.  He watched as his tormented guest fled the luau and heard a faint sinister laugh.  He understood his priorities as he walked with determination into the jungle.  His old adversary was a cunning creature and held many trophies, claiming some of his greatest ones earned from the last world conflict.  Roarke angrily glared when he found his intruder and demanded, “Leave, Mephistopheles.”

The dark cloud began solidifying until it formed the shape of a man wearing a black suit with white tie.  Black eyes stared greedily with hunger and bloodlust.  The ruler of demons lipped his licks and refused to be intimidated.  Mephistopheles finally spoke, “You would intercede on his behalf?”

“Yes,” replied Roarke.  “Leave.”

Mephistopheles snapped, “You don’t have the power or authority.  You, sir, are as fallen as I.”

“You cannot win,” glared Roarke.

“I already have,” toyed Mephistopheles.  As he laughed haughtily, his form changed into the dark cloud.  The last thing Roarke saw were two glowing red eyes before the enemy left.  Roarke knew many things but was not all knowing.

Hurrying back to the luau, Roarke understood that he missed something important.  Someone else was helping Mephistopheles.  It was not the girl who uttered the vile sentence; no, she was an innocent that the enemy briefly possessed in order to deliver a message.  The publisher seemed adamant that Klink must wear his old uniform to stir up controversy and generate book sales.

Arriving at the luau, Roarke scanned the crowd.  His eyes landed on Hobson, the literary agent who arrived unexpectedly to join the book tour.  The man was once a war correspondent and wrote an article that hinted at an underground network in Germany that helped escaping prisoners of war.  Hobson even had a layover at Luftstalag 13, hidden in the tunnels until it was safe to travel to the next destination.

Roarke maintained his concentrated stare as Hobson took notice.  Instead of running away, Hobson raised a glass in toast.  Roarke detected no hint of malice, so he managed a smile.  Mephistopheles would have briefed his servant, assuming Hobson was involved.  His enemy was extremely clever.  Klink needed friends.

“Boss,” called Tattoo as he ran towards Roarke.  He stopped in front of Roarke and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Yes my friend,” sighed Roarke.  “Please check on Herr Klink.  He is not feeling well.”

“Okay Boss,” said Tattoo.

Roarke watched as his friend hurried away to carry out his task.  He trusted Tattoo.  Sometimes others underestimated the man because he was a midget.  Roarke knew better.  Oh, Tattoo had imperfections, as all mortals suffered.  Even immortals suffered imperfection; yet they refused to believe it possible.  He had the humility to accept that fact even though it affected him greatly when he was wrong.  He also had the humility to ask for help.

FI x HH

Someone had the foresight to stock the bar in the bungalow with schnapps and Klink began indulging.  His hands barely managed he was shaking so badly.  He downed several in a row as he sat at the table.  He looked at his uniform and noticed a peculiar addition.  He approached the valet stand and touched the holster.

Cautiously, he removed the pistol.  It could have been his old P-08.  Over the chamber, he saw the Krieghoff S code, which proved it was one of the limited Luftwaffe contracted pistols manufactured in 1935 intended for war.  Feeling a sense of dread, he further examined the pistol that most people referred to as a Luger.  He read the serial number: 594.  Impossible – May of 1894, the month and year of his birth – it was an amazing coincidence and proved he held his old sidearm.

The last time he had it, Klink had no choice but to give it to Hogan on April 6, 1945, when the 47^th Tank Battalion arrived at the camp gate.  Undoubtedly, the pilot must have kept it as a war souvenir.  Klink discovered one single chambered round.  He knew what that meant.  The person who returned his weapon intended for him to use it just once.

Hearing the knock at the door, Klink holstered the sidearm and nervously called, “Coming!”  Every step towards the door increased his heartrate tenfold.  He opened the door and sighed in relief, “Oh, Herr Tattoo.  Please – come in.”

“Thank you,” said Tattoo.  “I heard you might be sick.  Can I get you anything?”

Klink lied, “It must be jetlag.  Of course!  I’ve been traveling so much lately.”

Tattoo said, “Ah, I know just what to do.”  He went to the bar and filled a glass with seltzer.  He said, “Take off your shoes and socks.”

Klink asked, “My shoes and socks?”

“Trust me,” assured Tattoo.

Klink shrugged, “Very well.”  He removed his socks and shoes.  Tattoo handed him the seltzer and he drank slowly as advised.  He almost protested at the notion of walking outside barefoot, but his new friend reassured him that it would help.  At first, he felt foolish.

“Really squish your feet good into the grass,” smiled Tattoo.  “That’s very good, Herr Klink.”

Klink smiled, “You know, I think this is actually working.”

“But of course,” said Tattoo.  “We take good care of our guests.  Hey look!  A shooting star!”

Klink looked up at the sky and was impressed.  He watched as the star continued its descent.  Usually, falling stars remained visible for a brief moment, but this one seemed determined to make its way to Earth.  He held his breath until the star disappeared just beyond view from Fantasy Island.  He wanted peace.

“The sky is so different here,” said Klink.  “It has a different beauty than what we have in Germany, but it is pleasing.”

Tattoo said, “Yes, that is very true, Herr Kommandant.”

Klink thought he might lose his voice but asked, “What did you say?”

Tattoo replied, “I said that is very true, Herr Klink.”

“I feel very tired, forgive me,” said Klink.

“If you need anything, just call,” said Tattoo.

“Thank you,” said Klink.  He watched his friend leave before returning to the bungalow.  He convinced himself that he just had a bad case of nerves.  He needed to look his best for his book engagement in the morning.

Chapter Text

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.