Summary: Immediately following Pearl Harbor, a young, gifted black man reaches a crossroads and must make a decision regarding the path to take in life.
Disclaimer: Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!
Copyright: February 2008
Hero's Welcome
by Syl Francis
James Kinchloe stood outside the Army recruiting office, shivering in the frigid December morning. Detroit winters could be brutal, and the winter of 1941 was certainly living up to expectations. He had fully expected to be first in line this morning, but to his surprise the line was already snaking around the corner by the time he arrived at 6:00 a.m.
"I guess we're not the only ones who thought of this, huh?"
Kinchloe turned toward the voice behind him. A young man, slightly built, gave him a chagrinned look. Kinchloe smiled at him quizzically. The young man took this as an invitation to talk.
"I mean, I guess I should've thought of it," he said eagerly. "What with Pearl Harbor, and Roosevelt declaring war and all--" He stopped, an idea dawning. "Good gosh! I'm supposed to be at work in another half hour. You think we'll be done by then?"
Kinchloe shrugged. "I doubt it."
The young man looked suddenly nervous. "My boss is a real stickler for timeliness."
Kinchloe gave him a penetrating look. "Do you think the Army will allow you to go back to work after you've raised your right hand and signed on the dotted line?" At the young man's stricken look, Kinchloe grinned. "No, I can see you haven't given that much thought."
The young man had taken on a sheepish look. "I guess I didn't think…just like Dad would say." He sighed and shrugged. "By the way, my name is Doyle. Mike Doyle." The two men shook hands.
"I'm James Kinchloe, but everybody calls me Kinch."
Doyle grinned. "I'd rather not say what everybody calls me…especially my dad. 'Doyle' or 'Mike' are plenty good enough, I guess."
They took a few steps forward.
"Hey, it looks like we're finally moving. Boy! I can hardly wait to tell my folks I enlisted. Will they be surprised. Especially my dad. I guess this'll show him I'm not just a screw-up."
They were stopped at the door by a hard-bitten military policeman. The MP blocked the door, giving Kinchloe a look of pure disgust.
"Hey, this ain't no 'Coloreds Only' recruiting station, boy." His accent spoke of the Deep South. "I think you'd better turn right around and leave—"
Doyle stepped in. "What are you talking about? Uncle Sam wants soldiers, and my friend here is ready to volunteer. What does it matter what the color of his skin is--?"
But Kinchloe stopped him from going any further. "That's okay, Doyle. I'm used to it." He began to walk away, but turned back and faced the MP. "One way or another, I'm going to fight for my country, whether my country wants me to or not." With that, Kinchloe disappeared into the morning traffic.
He walked blindly, automatically dodging other pedestrians, crossing against the light, narrowly being missed by a taxi that swerved at the last minute. Kinchloe barely heard the angry driver's tirade, continuing without stopping.
It's always like this, he fumed. A guy tries to do what's right, and someone always comes along and knocks him down.
He thought of the war raging in Europe and the attack at Pearl Harbor, giving due consideration to the people living under the yoke of Nazism in Europe and Japanese imperialism in the Pacific.
Well, what do I care if these two cats, Hitler and Tojo take over the world? It's not like my own country is giving me any breaks.
As if in answer to his dark thoughts, he was accosted by a familiar voice.
"Yo! Kinch, my main man!" The owner of the voice materialized next to him—Buddy Freeman. As usual Freeman was dancing around Kinchloe, his energy unable to be contained by anything as mundane as a crowded Detroit sidewalk.
Kinchloe ignored him and kept on walking.
"Howya been, Kinch?" Freeman asked, his voice taking on its usual sing-songy rhythm. "Long time, no see!"
"More like six months, Buddy," Kinchloe said without turning around. "Isn't that how long the judge gave you this time?"
Kinchloe was suddenly grabbed by the arm and steered toward one of Freeman's favorite watering holes, The Horse Head Tavern. Struggling only half-heartedly, Kinchloe complained, "Look, Buddy! I don't have time--" But they had already reached the bar, and Freeman was ordering a couple of beers for them. "Beer?! Are you crazy? It's seven in the morning!"
"Like you said, Kinch…I've been in stir for six months. It's only fitting that you should buy me a beer in celebration of my being a Free Man, in both name and in fact." Freeman grinned proudly at his pun.
Kinch gave him a sour look. "Oh, brother." Rolling his eyes, Kinchloe glared at the painting of a scantily clad, buxom female with a horse's head, prominently displayed above the bar. "Hey, Pete!" Kinch addressed the bartender. "Make mine a coffee—black."
Pete nodded and poured a beer and coffee, placing them on the bar. "Nice to see you again, Kinch," he said quietly. "It's been awhile."
"Sorry, Pete…I've been a little busy. You know how it is."
"Sure…I know. Don't be a stranger." With a friendly nod, Pete was about to return to his duties but was interrupted by Freeman's sarcastic voice.
"Hey, it was nice to see you, too, Pete!"
Pete gave Freeman a dark look. "You just tell your pals, the Baxter brothers, that this place isn't for sale, you got that?" Pete turned to Kinchloe. "Be careful who you're seen with, Kinch. Some people aren't as understanding as I am."
"What are you talking about, Pete?" But Pete had turned his back and started setting up bottles and glasses. Perplexed, Kinchloe looked at Freeman. His friend was doing everything he could to avoid eye contact, however. "What's he talking about, Buddy?"
Kinchloe studied his suddenly fidgety friend, wondering what Freeman might have gotten himself into. He had known Freeman since grade school, but he had dropped out in high school. They managed to stay in touch, despite Freeman's tendency to spend more time in jail than out of it. After Kinchloe graduated, he noticed that Freeman always seemed to be either rolling in dough or down on his luck, hitting him up for enough cash to tide him over.
Since they were kids, Freeman had toyed with the idea of being a "player" in Detroit's glamorous underworld. He had made contacts with the Baxter brothers' organization, a local cartel that ran illegal gambling casinos, had a hand in the local black market, and was now apparently into extortion. Up until now, Kinchloe had assumed that Freeman was only running errands, playing lookout, and perhaps a few shadier dealings that he did not want to know about. However, if what Pete said was true, then Freeman was in deeper than even Kinchloe would have imagined.
While Kinchloe dressed in casual work clothes necessary for climbing telephone poles and doing other types of heavy, outdoor labor, Freeman would often make a grand entrance, wearing expensive jewelry and dressed sharply in the latest zoot suit fashion. At other times, he would disappear for months, serving yet another jail sentence.
As these thoughts and others flitted through Kinchloe's mind, he saw that Freeman had somehow managed to shrug his shoulders and keep drinking at the same time.
"Buddy, it's not going to work. Tell me what Pete's talking about." He paused, and then said threateningly, "This doesn't have anything to do with the last time you were sent up, does it?"
Choking at the accusation, Freeman took a moment to recover, and gave him an exaggerated look of hurt. "Kinch, how could you even say such a thing? Me--? Hurt Pete? Why we're best pals! Aren't we Pete?" He looked to Pete for confirmation, but the other man studiously ignored him. "Well, maybe not best pals, but Pete's my friend. Why, I would never do anything in the whole world to hurt—"
"Shut up, Buddy!" Pete said, whirling around and slamming his hands on the bar. "You know what your pals did, and you did nothing to stop them!"
"Me? But I had nothing to do with it, Pete. I swear on my mother's grave."
"Your mother's grave…" Pete snorted in disgust. He grabbed Freeman by the collar. "I outta kick your butt from here to next year!"
"What happened, Pete?" Kinchloe spoke quietly. He waited patiently as Pete cooled down and released his hold.
"His pals, the Baxter brothers, sent their goons over to my cousin Ernie's place—you know, the little coffee shop on West 79th—and broke up the joint. My cousin was laid up for three weeks afterward—concussion, broken ribs—he was pretty busted up." He glared at Freeman. "But it'll be a cold day in hell before he sells out to them. And me, for that matter! And you can tell your pals I said so!"
"Pete, I swear, I had nothing to do with it. I just got outta stir. You can ask Kinch here. He'll vouch for me."
Pete looked at Kinchloe, who nodded. "Yeah, Pete…Buddy just got out."
Pete nodded. "Okay, Buddy…maybe you weren't involved this time. But just remember…if you play with fire, you're gonna get burned. If you're in with the Baxters, don't bother stepping through that door again, 'cause you won't be welcome. Got it?"
Freeman nodded. "I got it, Pete."
"Good…remember what I said. Be careful who you're seen with, 'cause some people ain't as forgiving and understanding as I am."
After Pete turned back to the business of tending bar, Kinchloe gave Freeman a piercing look. "Buddy, just what did you do this last time that got you sent up for six months?"
"Kinch, how many times do I gotta tell ya? The whole thing was a premeditated miscarriage of justice! It was a setup, man! I was framed. I swear that's the truth."
"Buddy, you wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit you." Kinchloe paid the tab. "Look, I've gotta go. I've got a few things to take care of!"
"Oh, yeah? What kinds of things?" Freeman asked
"Nothing you'd be interested in."
At Kinchloe's cryptic words, Freeman grabbed him by the sleeve and asked in low tone. "Hey, you don't have something goin' on, do you? I mean, the Baxter brothers didn't take you into the fold while I was away?"
"No, Buddy!" Kinchloe sounded exasperated. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not a player!" Glaring at his old friend, Kinchloe sighed and shrugged. "If you must know, I'm planning on enlisting in the army."
"The army?" Freeman looked shocked. "You? A soldier?" Freeman shook his head in disbelief. "What for, Kinch?
Kinchloe deliberately turned away from him, keeping his eyes focused on the "horse's head" mural above the bar.
"You wouldn't understand, Buddy," he muttered. He was not sure that he understood the reasons himself.
"You're damned right, I don't understand!" Freeman yelled. "Tell me, Kinch…just what has Whitey ever done for you that you feel you need to go and fight his war for him?"
"Look…I said you wouldn't understand!" Kinchloe said sharply. "But it's something I have to do." He paused, adding thoughtfully. "It's the right thing to do."
Freeman burst out laughing. "The right thing to do? Kinch, my man, ain't I taught you better? The right thing for a colored man to do is to survive—whatever it takes!" At Kinchloe's look of disgust at his selfishness, Freeman exploded in anger. "Look around you, Kinch! This here's a white man's world. He holds all the aces, man…while we've all been dealt from the bottom of the deck."
"Buddy, you don't know what you're talking about!" Kinchloe made a move to leave, but Freeman blocked him.
"Kinch, my man, with all your brains, don't you know yet? With all your hard work, haven't you learned nothing?" Freeman shook his head in disbelief. "Man, don't you see? Keeping your nose clean…talking like them--with your good grammar and big words--none of it matters. You will always be nothing but a colored man in whitey's eyes, fit only to be spit on."
Kinchloe tasted the bile in the back of his throat. He felt a caustic retort burning a hole in the lining of his stomach. Thoughts and ideas long held back were taking form, ready to spring forth fully grown and take up arms against every venal word that Freeman had uttered.
Kinchloe knew with all his soul that Freeman was wrong. He knew that this country—his home—was worth fighting for. If not for the centuries of injustice the white populace had imposed on his people, then at least for himself and his family. The United States was far from perfect, but what nation was?
And yet, in his heart Kinchloe heard the truth behind Freeman's words. His own father had fought in the Great War, serving in France with distinction. However, after the war instead of gratitude for his service, he returned home to find no jobs, no opportunities, and worse, the spread of the Ku Klux Klan. To add insult to injury, he and other returning black veterans were not allowed to eat in places that welcomed ex-German prisoners of war.
Unable to agree or disagree with Freeman's words, Kinchloe chose to simply walk away.
"You're a real piece of work, Buddy, you know that?" Pete said. "Kinch is probably the only real friend you've got—"
But Freeman was already out the door, trailing after Kinchloe in the late morning crowds. "Kinch! Hey, Kinch, don't be that way! I'm sorry…okay?" He reached for Kinchloe's arm, but the other man shook off his overtures.
"Okay, okay!" Freeman said, backing off. "I was just sayin' I'm sorry…No need to get so touchy." The two walked in silence for a few minutes, but after a couple of blocks, Freeman cleared his throat. "Um, Kinch, my man…I don't suppose you could spare your old pal a ten spot? Y'know…to tide me over till payday?"
"Payday?" Kinchloe snorted. "Since when have you ever done an honest day's work in your life?"
"Who said anything about honest work?" Freeman asked, a wide impish grin giving him a boyish look.
Kinchloe glared at him, but finally relented. Buddy could be dangerously charming at times, he admitted wryly as he handed over the money.
Excited, Freeman danced frenetically around him. "Kinch, my man, you'll never regret it!"
"I regret it already, Buddy. But, if it'll get you out of my hair, it's worth it…my man." He added the last somewhat ironically, but it was lost on Freeman.
"Look, Kinch…if there's ever anything I can do for you…Anything! You just name it, and it's done. Y'hear? You got Buddy Freeman's word on that, and that's as good as gold."
"You mean, Fool's gold," Kinchloe said under his breath, turning away.
"Oh, hey, Kinch! If you want, I could try and put in a good word for you with the Baxter brothers. I'm on my way to see them right now."
"You're on your way to--? After what Pete just told us?"
"Look, Kinch, I like Pete and all, but this is business. You understand, don't you?"
Kinchloe shook his head, disappointed. "Buddy, sometimes I don't think I know you anymore."
"Look, Kinch…it's not like Pete said. The Baxters are my friends. They helped my mama pay her heating bill one winter after the city turned off her gas. And that old couple, Flora and Nate DuBois…when the bank was gonna foreclose on their home, the Baxters paid off the mortgage company. No one else would've lifted a finger, but the Baxters did. They care about the community, Kinch."
"Yeah, Buddy…they're real pillars of society. Anyway, thanks, but no thanks. Like I said—"
"I know…I know," Freeman said with a sigh. "You're not a player. That's cool, man." But as he watched his friend melt into the crowd, he added sotto voce, "But it won't hurt to just put in a good word for you. No sir. Kinch, my man, you're as good as in with the Brotherhood!" Satisfied, Freeman crossed the street and made his way toward his morning appointment.
…
End of Part 1