Question posed by: Tirathon

Which of our heroes would be most likely to write Harlequin romances?

Chapter 10: It Was a Dark and Stormy Night in the Communications Hut

A sudden whoosh of cold night air sent a sheaf of papers scattering from Sergeant Kinchloe's radio table in the tunnels below Stalag 13. Corporal Newkirk was the first of the three men in black to drop into the tunnel, and thus was the first to see Kinch scrambling to gather up a No. 2 pencil and six or seven loose pages from the floor of the communications room.

Kinch turned and greeted Newkirk as he quickly buried the papers under his radio handbook. "How'd it go tonight, Newkirk?" he asked casually.

"Piece of cake," Newkirk replied, looking past Kinch to the pile of pages he had slipped from view. If there was one thing Peter Newkirk recognized on sight, it was sneaky behavior. "What you got there, Kinch?" he inquired.

"Oh, just some letters," Kinch said dismissively as Colonel Hogan and Corporal LeBeau rounded the corner into the communications room. Kinch swiveled around on his stool to greet them.

"You can let London know we accomplished the mission," Hogan told Kinch. "Both spans of the bridge came down like a deck of cards, and right on time. The munitions train won't be making that crossing tonight. Too bad Carter had to miss it."

"That cold's knocked him for a loop," Kinch said. "You'll have to tell all about it in the morning, complete with sound effects," he added, trying to keep his tone light-hearted even though he wanted nothing more than for everyone to leave. Behind him, he could hear Newkirk shuffling papers, and the sound was making him nervous.

Hogan and LeBeau disappeared briefly, then reappeared in their uniforms. "Time to get some rest," LeBeau said. "It's been a long day, and we must have hiked eight kilometers each way," he added, yawning. He ascended the ladder, with Hogan waiting at the base to begin climbing.

"More like five," Hogan said, shaking his head as he watched the figure of LeBeau disappear above him. "You should be able to wrap up soon, Kinch," he added before he reached up to grab a rung. "Just get that transmission off to London and then hit the sack. What's keeping you, Newkirk?"

"I'll be just a tick, Guv," Newkirk replied. "Need a moment to check on some of the uniforms for tomorrow's raid."

"Tomorrow can wait. Get changed, wash up, and get upstairs," Hogan said firmly. "We're all going to be a mess in the morning if we don't get our beauty sleep," he added with a wide grin, then turned to climb.

"Right-o, Sir," Newkirk replied. He had one hand resting on the radio table, fiddling with the edges of the papers Kinch had so carefully hidden from view. As soon as Hogan was out of sight, he turned to stare down Kinch.

In one swift motion, Newkirk grabbed up all the loose pages, which were crammed to the edges with Kinch's careful penmanship. He squinted at the first page. "The Courtesan and the Colonel? Blimey, what's that, Kinch?" Newkirk said with a glint in his eye. "It sounds rather naughty."

A scarlet flush came over Kinch's cheeks. "Give it back, Newkirk," he said menacingly. "I mean it."

"Oo-hoo, struck a nerve, have we?" Newkirk chortled as he shoved the papers into the front of his trousers. "Well, I've finished making dirty drawings in the margins of our copy of Mein Kampf. I could use something new to illustrate. So if you want your little story back, you're going to have to come and get it." He dodged away from the radio table as Kinch lunged toward him, chasing him around the table.

But just as Kinch was on the verge of cornering Newkirk, a humming tone on the radio beckoned him back to his work. As Kinch donned his headset, he shook a fist at the Englishman and pointed him to a chair.

Newkirk smiled insolently, then made an elaborate show of withdrawing the papers from where he had tucked them. He settled into the chair, arranged the papers to his satisfaction, and began to read, pursing his lips and peering down at the writing. Of course, he could have taken off with the manuscript, such as it was, but Peter Newkirk was no fool. Kinch had five inches and at least three stone on him, and there was no way to hide from him in camp. Anyway, Newkirk was simply enjoying having the upper hand psychologically. No need to exert himself unnecessarily.

Newkirk mostly kept quiet while Kinch was on the radio to London, flipping through the pages, oohing and ahhing just a bit, and looking over now and then to smile and nod agreeably at the Sergeant. Finally, Kinch whipped off the headset and stood with his hands on his hips.

"That's mine, Newkirk. Give it back to me," he demanded.

"What's the rush? This is rather good," Newkirk said. "I like the bit where the Colonel is … what's the word you used? Oh, thrusting. Or was it throbbing? And then a bit of reveling and romping– good stuff, that. Nice strong verbs." He grinned like a cat, then suddenly looked sober. "What the bloody hell are you doing, mate?"

Kinch was looking down and digging the toe of his boot into the dirt floor. "Just a little creative writing, Newkirk."

"I can see that," Newkirk said, thumbing through the pages again. "Very creative indeed." He looked back at Kinch. "Is there something you want to tell me, mate? You can talk to old Newkirk. What you say won't leave this room, or dungeon, I suppose." He looked absolutely earnest.

Kinch sat down heavily on his stool, looking utterly resigned.

"OK, you caught me. I'm writing a romance novel. Are you happy?" Kinch said. All anger had drained away; what remained was embarrassment and a touch of irritation at having to explain his hobby to Newkirk, of all people.

"What's a bloody romance novel?" Newkirk said. "This is … well, this is just flowery rubbish, this is. How can you write about our Guv that way? Doing such things with that courtesan? What's a courtesan anyway?"

"Uh, a courtesan is kind of an escort or a mistress. And a romance novel is escapist fiction for women. You'd be amazed at how popular romance is," Kinch said. "And … I don't know, Newkirk. It just gets so boring down here, sitting by the radio, listening to you guys coming back with all your tales of adventure. And the Colonel … well, he's a much luckier guy than any of us, isn't he?"

"That he is," Newkirk had to admit. "It's bloody hard to take. Any red-blooded man would be a bit jealous. I know I am. But you, Kinch. You're so … ruddy unflappable."

"Believe me, Newkirk, I'm flappable. Writing helps me deal with the fact that I never get out, and I never get near a woman, you know?"

"All right, I can see that. But what … what were you going to DO with it?" Newkirk asked. "You said it was a novel?"

"Oh, yeah. Women lap this stuff up!" Kinch said. "There's this publishing house in London called Mills & Boon and they publish eight to 10 new romance novels a month. I figured I'd finish up my manuscript and, uh, find a way to get it to them."

Newkirk gave him a quizzical look. "Are you telling me you're going to try to send this… narrative, for lack of a better word … to a publisher in London? What, in our official packets to London? You're mad. HQ will go bonkers if they see this. It's a breach of security. And it's just not done, mate. This is the Guv you're writing about."

"It's not Colonel Hogan! It's Colonel Drake Harrington! He's an original character," Kinch protested.

"Drake—my stars, that's a very romantic name," Newkirk replied. "But look at this description, mate." He peered at an ink-blotted page and read dramatically, "His hair was black and slick, framing his head in airy swoops, and the eyes that stared back at her were pools of melted chocolate, small but penetrating."

Newkirk put down the page. "That's our Colonel, mate. I'd know him anywhere. Good thing you set the action in the Crimean War or it would have been a dead giveaway, especially the part where he wrestles a tiger," he added, rolling his eyes for emphasis. Whether Newkirk's eye-roll was a commentary on the writing or the specific Tiger he had in mind was anybody's guess.

Kinch sighed. "All right. OK. It was a dumb idea. Maybe I need to disguise the characters a little better. Maybe I'll have to wait until after the war to publish it."

"But you still haven't told me why," Newkirk persisted. "Why are you so bloody eager to send it to a publishing house?"

"I don't know, Newkirk," Kinch said wearily. "Probably because fanfiction hasn't been invented yet. And I guess it'd be a feather in my cap to be a published author. Having my work accepted would really mean something. Mills & Boon pays £100 for an accepted manuscript."

"A hundred quid?" Newkirk asked. That got his attention.

"That's right," Kinch said. "That's $400 American, Newkirk. It's big money."

"Hmm. This could be a nice little earner," Newkirk said thoughtfully. "How long does it take to write one of these romance novels, anyway?"

"I don't know—a month or two?" Kinch replied. Leave it to Newkirk to warm to an idea once he saw the commercial potential, he thought.

"Right-o," Newkirk said. "Well, look mate. I've got a better title for you. How about Hold That Tiger? Or That's No Lady, That's My Spy? Ooh, that one has a nice ring about it, doesn't it? How about Cupid Comes to Stalag 13? That's real winner, that is. Here's how I see our partnership working out: You concentrate on the writing, lad. I'll read everything and edit it and make sure we get noticed in the papers, and I think we could have a nice tidy business waiting for us after this war is over. We can do an entire series and end it with a bang-up book called…." His eyes scanned the ceiling. "Rockets or Romance..."

===THE END==

Author's Note.I've been yearning for two things: A story where Kinch is neither noble nor perfect, and a way to work him into this series of vignettes based on the "Which of Our Heroes" forum thread so that I could call it a day. I wanted each of the five heroes to be the focus of at least one chapter, and Kinch's story was elusive.

I think I've accomplished my first goal by showing Kinch to be capable of being as sneaky, embarrassed and vaguely amatory as anyone else. As for working him into this story, I had to cheat big-time to finally mark it "complete" with each of the heroes properly represented. You see, every other chapter in this story was based on a response I wrote to the "Which of Our Heroes" thread. But I wrote absolutely nothing with any real story potential about Kinch, except for an impossibly complicated yarn about how he was abducted by Nordic pirates and forced to invent the cell phone. When your own crazy idea gives you a headache, you know it's not worth pursuing.

So, resolving to channel my inner Newkirk, I simply stole an idea. I considered dozens of possibilities, but the response that ultimately inspired me came from CaptainSmirk, who wrote on December 13, 2009, in response to Tirathon's question that Kinch, of all people, would have gone on to write Harlequin romance novels. Specifically, CaptainSmirk stated:

"My guess would be Kinch. He's articulate, has an excellent grasp of language and after his long stint in a prisoner of war camp he certainly understands longing, denial and fantasy."

"Oh, he does, does he?" I asked myself. "You could say the same of Newkirk or LeBeau, but let's give Kinch a chance to disgrace himself, shall we?"

There was a little hitch: Harlequin Romance novels didn't exist until the 1970s. But conveniently enough, Harlequin's British predecessor, Mills and Boon, began publishing escapist women's novels in the 1930s. (They also published serious works by people like Hugh Walpole and Jack London.) So rather than have Kinch wait 30+ years for his big break, I tidied up the historical timeline to match the idea of writing romantic novels rather than Harlequin novels specifically.

So here we are, at the end of what was (for me at least) a very fun romp through one of my favorite forum topics. A hat tip goes to AnotherJounin, who started the "Which of Our Heroes" thread in the first place. I can't close without extending a special thank you to Atarah Derek, Terri Spencer, Tiny1217 (x3!), Konarciq, Snooky-9093, Kamkats, Tuttle4077 and CaptainSmirk for asking the questions that sparked these responses.