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Colonel Wilhelm Klink always woke up surprised to be alive. After all, when one’s country was being run (into the ground) by a homicidal coalition of maniacs led by an unchecked ethnic cleanser, one’s estimation of time left on Earth tended to swing downward. Stick another World War, like a rotten cherry, neatly on top of the Fatherland’s degeneration, and concerns about time left on Earth began to give way to concerns about Earth’s continued existence in general.
Of course, he was still expected to go to work. More than that, really. Klink was expected (required) to excel. Lately, he almost felt gratitude toward his parents for always insisting, grinding, nothing but the best out of him all through childhood, whether he was mentally and physically up to meeting their standards or not. It was preparation for the cards the war had dealt him. Managing to make Colonel had pacified his father, and his no-escape record at stalag 13 had kept his shaky military career bobbing at the surface of the sea of desperate uncertainty that was the entire verdammt world now.
Global conflict did not care about Wilhelm’s feelings, however. Neither did the Gestapo. Neither again did his superiors in Berlin. So, when the shock of waking up to the start of an actual existent brand-new day gave way to that sweet split-second rush of joy and wonder he’d spend the rest of his waking hours chasing, which then yielded to the daily onset of cruel and vast despair, Wilhelm did the only thing one really can do in that situation.
He got up.
Got dressed.
Put on his uniform.
Brushed his teeth.
Shaved.
By the time that was done, the ever-present sense of futility was screaming from inside his head to curl back up in bed. Wilhelm ignored it. Walked out the door. Led roll call.
That went fine, although Hogan and his men were, as usual, full of sarcastic comments. Wilhelm couldn’t remember what all they’d said by the time he sat down in his office. The usual, no doubt. Smart remarks about German intelligence, or lack thereof. A smattering of name calling. Klink had given the proper retorts, doled out the usual slaps on the wrist.
Wilhelm started the daily round of paperwork. Routine helped, as did the boredom that came with hundreds of forms to be filled out in triplicate. His secretary, Hilda, had less and less to do lately. That was Wilhelm’s fault.
The morning flew by in blessed quiet. The scratches of Klink’s fountain pen, always in the same spot on each piece of paper, lulled his troubled mind into the false sense of security he craved. When his eyes began to strain, he allowed them to flutter closed intermittently. It didn’t matter; he knew the placement of each pen stroke by heart. Slowly, his shoulders dropped; his breathing slowed and evened.
A corporal barging into his office just behind a courtesy rap at the door jolted Klink back to the present. He snatched his monocle, which had fallen onto the desk at Lanenscheidt’s entry, and repositioned it.
“Did I ask for you, Lanenscheidt?” Klink demanded, but the man didn’t budge.
“Herr Kommandant, die Fuhrer gives his speech in five minutes. All are required to listen.” The corporal clicked his heels.
Scheiße. Klink had forgotten the scheduled address. Guiltily, he switched on both his radio and the speakers outside, trying to look as if he had been about to do so anyway. The preliminary propaganda filled the office immediately, along with blaring military music. Wilhelm held back the urge to open a window. Unfortunately, this was not something he could clear from the room like cigar smoke.
Lanenscheidt, Klink realized, intended to stay until the speech was over. He cast about in his head for a reason to dismiss the corporal, came up with nothing, and pursed his lips. He was doomed to listen to the address without even the small recourse of turning the radio down. The speech droned on.
And what a speech it was. For over an hour, it continued: Overt threats, pure hatred at a level that chilled the soul, and grandstanding for a dark and twisted New World Order flowed in through the radio. Wilhelm pretended not to hear Hilda leave for the powder room early on, and forgot that he never heard her return to her desk outside his office door.
By the time it was over, the gleam in Lanenscheidt’s eye had turned animalistic. The corporal left gripping his rifle with a renewed zeal. Wilhelm heard the guards outside chatter louder as they dispersed, their voices filled with antagonism.
Klink had a ridiculous and fleeting urge to warn Hogan about the newly reinvigorated guards. He didn’t. It was nothing the senior POW officer couldn’t handle. Wilhelm knew that. He turned back to his desk, hoping to regain a little of the relative peace he’d found earlier.
His hands shook now, but he strove to stave off the aftereffects of the hate speech. Wilhelm would not recall the evil baked into his leader’s every word. He would not think about the corrupt system he was playing a part in, every day, one piece of completed paperwork at a time. He would not dwell on the caged men that he had free rein to treat worse than animals if he so desired. He would not look behind to his rigid, unfeeling upbringing, or ahead to the pieces his life would likely fall to after the war (no matter which side won.) He would not…
The first sob tore from him before he realized it was coming. By then, it was far too late to stop. Wilhelm braced his hands on the desk; tried for a deep breath; failed miserably. Frustration, fear, and resignation mingled, and a new goal appeared at the top of his to-do list: Stop crying. Which would probably take the rest of the now-afternoon to accomplish.
Wilhelm shook with the intensity of his outburst. He lowered his head onto the desk and prepared to weather his overflowing emotions. He had little control once the dam burst. He’d known that since childhood. It didn’t matter how many times his father had called him a crybaby or a sissy. The tears had always, and would always, stop when they wanted to. And as always, it was impossible to tell when that would be. Probably not until Wilhelm grew exhausted from the physical and emotional strain.
He dropped his head into his hands, let his monocle fall to the desk again, and kept at it, but quietly. He had long since learned how to sob without making a single sound; once the first wave was over, Klink could typically wrestle back some control.
“Hi, sir. So, I was thinking–”
The words registered late, and Klink looked up as his office door shut smartly behind a raven-haired man. Senior POW Colonel Hogan tossed his hat on top of Colonel Klink’s World War I army helmet and strolled into the office as if he owned the place. He wore his brown U.S. Airforce jacket and looked, as usual, very smugly pleased with himself.
Until he saw the state of his commandant.
Hogan took a step backward, something Klink had never seen him do. Klink frantically snatched a tissue from his desk and swiped it over his entire face, rankling. Of course. Of fucking course this was happening. Wilhelm couldn’t remember the last time he had let someone see him cry. And now, the worst possible person was actively witnessing his humiliating meltdown.
“What do you want, Hogan?” The words stuck in Klink’s throat, coming out raspy and barely above a whisper. Wilhelm regretted attempting to speak.
“Someone die?” was Hogan’s next question. His eyes twinkled, and the corner of his mouth turned up. Klink almost allowed Hogan’s smile to evoke a shaky answering one of his own. Then, he realized the punchline of Hogan’s joke was that there was always someone dying these days.
Wilhelm doubled over his desk, unable to stop the new round of loud cries tearing their way out of his throat. Hogan frowned. Next thing both of them knew, Hogan had crossed the small room. Without hesitation, Hogan wrapped an arm around his commandant. Klink’s shoulder shook, but he didn’t even try to shrug Hogan away.
“It…was a…speech,” Wilhelm managed in between sobs.
“Ol’ scramble-brains’ speech today?” Hogan nodded. “Moved to tears, I see.” He nudged Klink in the ribs as an accompaniment to the flippant remark.
“No,” Wilhelm whispered forcefully against the zipper of Hogan’s bomber jacket. He still felt too disgruntled to remove himself from Hogan’s grasp, although he easily could have. Instead, he closed his eyes, breathed in the smell of well-worn leather, and gathered himself.
“Just…” What could he say that wasn’t treason? Not that Hogan was going to tell anyone. Still, Klink felt the danger of negativity toward the Fuhrer, as every German did, humming along under his skin and through the power lines outside and within the glare of the searchlights flashing through the window.
“I…had a moment. It’s a lot. War.” Klink finally broke what he realized suddenly was an embrace and rolled his chair away from Hogan.
“Hmm.” Hogan kept his eyes on Klink, even after the commandant pulled away. Wilhelm squirmed inwardly under Hogan’s gaze, until he realized Hogan’s sparkling, dark eyes held no judgement.
“Well, my request can wait a bit. It wasn’t that urgent.” Hogan picked his hat off its customary resting place on top of Klink’s war helmet, replacing it on his head. He started to leave without another word. At the last moment, Hogan turned around, his hand on the doorknob.
“Hey, commandant. For what it’s worth, and it may not be much, nothing lasts forever,” Hogan said.
Klink snorted. “Oh, no. It just gets worse. Worse and worse and worse,” he muttered dejectedly.
“What about after the war?” Hogan asked. Wilhelm blinked. He had expected Hogan to make light of his tears, perhaps make fun of his misery. He hadn’t expected the slower, serious tone to Hogan’s voice now, or any prompting questions from the man.
“Nothing,” Wilhelm said simply. He didn’t elaborate, but the hopelessness in his voice did that for him.
Hogan walked back to half lean, half sit on Klink’s desk. He crossed his legs, staring down at his enemy.
“Well, maybe that’s still a win,” he offered. “I mean, you kinda have less than nothing right now, if you think about it. Your career has stagnated, and that’s pretty much all you have going for you.”
“Is this how Americans comfort?” Klink deadpanned, sniffling.
“I mean, yeah,” Hogan shrugged. He shot Klink a brief grin that was not in any way returned. It faded, and Hogan sighed. “Alright, then.”
Hogan reached toward Klink. He gripped Wilhelm’s shoulders firmly, but with a gentleness that surprised them both.
“We’re all uncertain these days, commandant. I’m the same rank as you, and I make the same kinds of decisions for my men as you do, every day. No one was made for this. And some of us are, uh, less suited than others.” Hogan said the last sentence matter-of-factly, but not maliciously. “Doesn’t mean you can’t survive.”
“So, you’re saying to keep on about my business and stop crying like a soft, sorry idiot?” Wilhelm inquired.
“No! God, no. Hell, I’m jealous you still can.”
Klink looked up, surprised at that statement. Hogan’s expression didn’t change. He continued to meet Klink’s blue eyes, steadily and unabashedly.
“You’re right.” Wilhelm sighed after a long moment. He didn’t believe it, but saying it still made him feel better. Placebo effect, he guessed. Also, Hogan did possess an undeniable, if infuriating, persuasive charm. “Maybe things will be better after they crumble.”
Hogan smiled. Not a cocky grin; not an offending smirk. Genuine. Wilhelm wasn’t sure if he’d seen him smile like that before. No. He would have remembered. Klink sorted out the breath that had caught in his throat.
“I, for one, sure hope so,” Hogan replied. He pushed his body off the desk, sidestepped the chair, and headed for the door. Wilhelm fought down a “stay.”
“Go on, finish your cry, commandant.” There was the cocky grin. “I’ll be back later to discuss access to the rec hall.” And, before Klink could respond, Hogan was truly gone.
Wilhelm, alone again, surrendered to the aftermath of a good cry. The melancholy euphoria that followed such a session was a lovely and hateful thing. He never knew how to approach it any more than he knew how to control his tearful outbursts. Today, though, he rolled his chair to the window, allowing himself to watch the afternoon sun. In another life, before the war, he had enjoyed looking out at the world. There had been far less barbed wire in that world, but the sun, he noticed, looked the same.
Maybe, Wilhelm dared to hope as his hand absently brushed the shoulder Hogan had gripped, that will be enough to carry us through.