A/N Final part. Thanks again to Abracadebra for the challenge!

Part 3: Klink

Klink hummed his favorite melody. Since he first had heard that Colonel Crittendon had been captured near his camp and would overtake the duties of the senior officer, the anticipation of Hogan's face had brightened his day. The administrative work was easier, the sky seemed clearer and Klink could not get enough of Hogan's reaction to the news. He almost felt bad for enjoying it so much.

A knock interrupted his musings. Klink grabbed a pen, leaned forward and started to scribble. "What is it?" he called out.

The door opened and Sergeant Schultz entered the room. "Herr Kommandant," he began closing the door behind him.

"Not now, Schultz," Klink interrupted, hoping to prevent anybody from ruining his successful day. "I told you I don't want to be disturbed." But one glance at Schultz' face confirmed his misgivings about the nature of the interruption.

Schultz stood in front of his desk. "Colonel Crittendon has something important to tell you," he reported.

"Crittendon?" Klink scoffed. "He is only a few hours here. He can't know anything important yet."

"It has something to do with the last war." Schultz leaned forward and whispered his words. "He had also served then."

"I know." Klink put down his pen and leaned back. Annoyance radiated off him. "I've read his file." Throwing up his hands, first doubts crept in whether it was a good idea to lock Crittendon up here. "But the Great War is something of the past – it's history." He glared to his sergeant of the guards. "It has nothing to do with our work here. We're not fighting the last war anymore, we fight a new war."

Schultz pressed his lips together, frowning. "I'm not so sure about that." He was pale and seemed troubled. His face reminded him of Hogan and his men as they had heard the name of their new senior officer. "We all have learned a lot in the last war and I think you need to listen what he has to say," Schultz said.

"Fine, send him in."

Schultz went to the door and opened it. "Colonel Crittendon, Colonel Klink wants to see you."

Crittendon marched into the room and saluted. "Senior officer of -"

"Yes, yes. I know who you are," Klink grumbled. "What do want?"

The British officer in front of him seemed irritated, but found his voice before Klink lost his patience. "It has come to my attention that my arrival was a means to replace Colonel Hogan as ranking officer."

"You were captured around here. And yes, I knew it would anger Colonel Hogan." He stood up. "But I don't see how this has anything to do with the last war."

"Colonel Hogan has been a POW for a long time and as I overtook his quarters, he made some worrisome comments. It reminded me of the chaps who suffered from shell shock. Mind you, Hogan is not so bad off, but he is in danger."

Suddenly Hogan's shocked expression had another possible explanation. Klink put his right elbow on his left hand, supporting his chin with his right hand. Maybe it wasn't so much the news about Crittendon but something else, something deeper that had made Hogan look so sick.

"You know what happened back then, when one of our chaps was in danger to fall sick. As a personal favor, I'll ask you to do the same now for Hogan," Crittendon said. His smug smile didn't match his words but Klink had seen the facts firsthand. Hogan really had been shocked.

Turning to the window, Klink stared outside and remembered the past.

August 1917

Wilhelm Klink carefully scanned the vast expanse of the sky. He flew the old Fokker of his squadron. The ace of his squadron had asked for a training flight and Wilhelm was chosen to play the opponent.

Despite the cold in the air, he was sweating and tried to spot Manfred's attacking plane. Manfred von Richter had gotten hold of one of the new Albatros and needed more training in combat flying with the plane.

Suddenly, he spotted a glint of silver, moving in from the north. Adrenalin flooded his body and sharpened his senses. He took a deep breath and hunched down. This was it. This was the fight he had waited for. He flew head-on, then both banked and Wilhelm tried to get on his Manfred's tail. He bit his lip and twisted his plane around. Flying against Manfred took all of his skills, but he wanted to give him the best possible training. So he tried a half loop and a slip-sideslip but Manfred was an ace and parried all his attempts.

They passed each other faster and faster until Klink lost sight of Manfred for a moment. Looking around, he couldn't spot him.

Suddenly, Manfred's Albatros came on again from the left, almost upside down now. It was a terrifying sight as Klink looked into the grim machine gun. He jerked his machine to the right to prevent the almost inevitable collision. The airplane responded and he had nearly completed his maneuver as the tip of his wing caught Manfred's plane sending it spiraling down.

Klink's Fokker stuttered and tilted. Trying to retake control Wilhelm used all of his skills to stabilize the airplane again. But he regained control too late. He was too near to the ground to pull it back up again. With a loud bang, he hit the ground, skidding across a field and finally flipping over.

As the dust had cleared, Wilhelm stood shaking next to the remains of his plane. Somehow he had the feeling that the image of the destroyed plane mirrored his life. He had crashed and survived but his career was irredeemably damaged.

Slipping out of the hospital, Wilhelm tried to leave the area before somebody saw him. Manfred hadn't been as lucky and hurt his leg in the crash landing. So it had been his duty to visit him. But Manfred hadn't thanked him for saving his life by preventing the collision. Instead, he had ranted for hours that all of it was his fault and if he hadn't turned nothing would have happened. Wilhelm wasn't looking forward to returning to base. By now everybody would know and if the Blue Baron said something, it was viewed as a fact.

"Wilhelm?" A familiar voice called out.

He jerked and clenched his teeth. Slowly he turned around to face whoever had recognized him. But as he found the source of the voice, he relaxed again. "Jacob Gold," Wilhelm said in greeting and raised a hand. Another classmate from flight school was resting on one of the benches in the garden around the hospital.

Wilhelm strolled over. "How are you?" Then he saw the bandages and frowned. "What happened?"

Jacob leaned back. He seemed tired, with a fine sheet of sweat on his forehead and shivering in the heat. "I'm enjoying the hot sun in August," he claimed smirking. "As for the rest, let's say I had a meeting with the French ace Georges Guynemer. He is as good as everybody postulates. But I managed to get down on our side and therefore survived."

The wind breezed through the garden carrying the soft smell of summer with it.

"So I heard you collided with von Richter?"

"I'm sure everybody has heard by now." Wilhelm sat down beside his classmate. "Nobody is going to take me serious ever again."

"You worry too much about yourself," Jacob admonished. "In a few hours new reports come in and you'll be yesterdays news."

"If you say so." He glanced to his friend. "Will you be able to fly again?"

"Nothing can keep us down." Jacob nudged him into the shoulder. "We are pilots – born to fly. You can't keep us down, right?"

Wilhelm nodded. Jacob was a renowned dog fighter and a true hero – everything Wilhelm had set out to achieve as he had asked his father to fund him the pilot license. But he had remained a simple pilot.

"What happened out there yesterday?" Jacob asked and seemed really interested.

"I saved Manfred's life and yet he still blames me for his damaged knee. He came out of nowhere and almost hit me. If I hadn't -" He broke off. In his mind he could still see their moving, feel the cold inside and outside and hear the moment the planes had touched.

"Manfred is arrogant but he is a great pilot. I've flown with him. If he says that you almost took him down, he knows what he is saying." He leaned nearer. "So, did you panic?"

"No," Wilhelm denied angrily.

"Then what happened?"

"I didn't see him. He came from the left and suddenly he was there. I didn't see him until it was almost too late." He shook his head. In his heart, he already knew what this meant.

"Wilhelm, you need to have your eyes checked out – or maybe just your left. If you can't see, you can't fly."

"I know." He looked down. Without perfect sight, he would be grounded and would be riding a desk for the rest of the war. He didn't want to think about it. "How's your girl? Rosa, right?"

A bright smile flashed across Jacob's face but then it dampened. "Rosa works now in a munition factory, can you imagine? Women across Europe are suddenly flooding the factories."

"Soon the war is over. You'll see. We are going to win," Wilhelm assured his friend. Knowing the situation, he didn't know how the Supreme Command wanted to achieve this, but he was just a pilot and trusted them. "We can't lose," he continued, breaking the telling silence of his friend. "We have already invested too much to lose now."

Jacob shrugged. "In a few days I'm back out there to do my part in winning – everything else …" He left the sentence unfinished.

He watched him. "Are you sure you are going to be healed enough in just a few days?"

"Wilhelm, I know what I can or cannot do and I don't think you want to move up."

He shuddered. "But I am a good pilot. It's just all the shooting and killing," Wilhelm trailed off.

"If you had had the chance you would have forgone a military career and played your violin all day long, wouldn't you?"

A small smile tugged at Wilhelm's face. Then it disappeared. "We all have to do our duty and for mindless playing an instrument, there is no place if your people are in a time of need."

"You sound like your father," Jacob accused him.

Before Wilhelm could defend himself, a loud commotion interrupted the peaceful atmosphere.

"No!"

The loud denial came from one of the open windows on the third floor.

"I'm not going back," the same voice repeated even more hotly. A blond head appeared at the window. "I can't."

Jacob glanced upward. Resigned, he sighed. "That's Heinrich. He has even shot himself in the foot to get out of the trenches. The poor soul was hit by gas and was sent back on the front lines after he had recovered. He barely made the days but then he was supposed to fill in for fallen comrades, so he shot himself to get out of there."

Wilhelm nodded. He had heard about the soldiers who hurt themselves to get out of the front rotation.

"We should assume a faster rotation like the Allies. We keep our guys far too long in the first line. And then they snap like this," Jacob said and snapped his fingers to show how fast it could happen.

Wilhelm looked up to the sad scene again.

"Heinrich, seriously. Don't be such a coward. You're a real soldier – that means you'll do your duty," another man appeared at the window. "Do you see anybody else making such a fuss about it? In and out."

"I can't. Not anymore!" He sounded desperate. Suddenly the blond soldier turned, jumped up the window ledge and stepped out into the emptiness.

"Heinrich!" His comrade lunged at him but missed him by a few inches. "Heinrich!"

Wilhelm watched the scene, opening his mouth but before he could shout a warning, the body hit the ground with a sickening bang.

Taking a shuddering breath, Wilhelm couldn't believe his eyes. The prospect of returning to the front had driven a soldier to commit suicide. He glanced to Jacob to verify that he had seen the same thing. Jacob had his lips pressed together and looked even paler than before.

Medical staff swarmed the man but the busy movement soon died down. Blood was splattered on the ground and the body was bent and distorted unnaturally. He was dead.

Wilhelm glanced back to the window on the third floor. The friend was looking down. Shock and pain etched deeply on his face.

"Everybody has a breaking point," Jacob murmured. "And then -" he broke off. But Wilhelm could see the result of a man pushed too far splattered on the ground in front of him.

Klink's eyes snapped open and whirled around. "Schultz! Get Colonel Hogan and take him to the cooler, right away." He made a fist. "Nobody is going to commit suicide on my watch!"

Schultz snapped to attention. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant." Then he hesitated as he realized what the order entitled. "The cooler, sir?"

"Yes, and make sure that he doesn't take anything with him." Klink circled around his desk. He could only hope that he hadn't pushed Hogan too far.

"Jawohl," Schultz repeated and then leaned forward a little. "But what do I tell him? He's going to ask why."

"You don't have to tell him anything, just know that he will be thankful for it one day." Klink balled his fists.

"Colonel Klink," Crittendon now also raised his hand and objected, "I didn't imply that -"

"Thank you, Colonel Crittendon, for acting fast and bringing this to my attention. Dismissed." Klink saluted and Crittendon snapped to attention like the good airman he was.

Klink sunk down in his chair. Shaking his head, he couldn't believe it. He had just wanted some revenge for all the trouble Hogan always brought to him and now he had almost driven him into committing suicide. He didn't even want to imagine what could have happened if Crittendon hadn't said anything.

His good mood had vaporized, leaving him feeling old. Klink picked up his pen again. Glancing to his window, he was glad that this time he had the means to prevent an act of desperation.

"You'll thank me Hogan," he whispered in the silence of his office. "One day you'll thank me."

As Crittendon left the office, he scratched his face. He couldn't remember that he had asked for the cooler. He had only wanted a transfer. From the front porch he could see, Sergeant Schultz marching Colonel Hogan to the cooler while Hogan's men - now his men - watched from the sidelines, protesting loudly.

Hogan said something and the Frenchman nodded. With five men staring at him with matching furious expressions, Crittendon realized that he needed to work real hard to earn the trust of these men. He should start with a clean overtake of command and help Hogan with whatever he wanted.

As he looked westward, he saw the sun going down and he remembered the white crosses. Again the life of men were entrusted in his hands, he would not fail. Taking a deep breath, he raised his chin and marched toward them, intending to make amends for his past mistakes.

He couldn't change his past, but maybe use its lesson to do better now.

Walking to his men, Crittendon faltered slightly – this was a good idea, but it would be easier to be done if just Hogan's plans and the world would be easier to understand.

END

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