Hi, my dear readers,

Even if I don't get so many comments in the moment, I know that you're still reading the story, and I'm glad about it. I also can already update and I hope, you're happy about it.

Just like I said, in this chapter is the beginning of Hochstetter's comeback, and – believe me – it will turn nasty. I don't want to reveal more, so: Have fun.

Love

Yours Starflight

Chapter 59 – A fateful day

While Hogan and Klink had lunch together at Stalag 13, Schmidt made some telephone calls. He had examined the seized radio transmitter himself, and there really hadn't been any other fingerprints than those of his own men.

With a little exception that obviously had slipped his men's attention.

On the Morse ticker that had been shot off, but Hansmann had taken with him to the Gestapo Headquarters, one single fingerprint was there that didn't belong to Schmidt's men. And the same fingerprint together with a second one (obviously from a thumb given the form and size) were on two electrical connection pins. Schmidt knew that those two fingerprints belonged to the radio operator – one of the two Underground agents which escaped unseen.

Wiping the ticker and the wires clean and hiding the paper with the fingerprints in the breast pocket of his jacket, he left the room.

Horst was convinced that the person who had those fingerprints was to find within Hogan's inner circle – or belonged to the colonel himself. Yes, the young Oberleutnant hadn't forgotten that Hogan had been restricted to his quarters on Saturday, but this had given the American the perfect alibi to go through with his mission outside of the camp.

There remained the question if the seized transmitter really had been used to inform the RAF about the rocket launchers' way, or if it was a second one to distract the men from the detection truck. Schmidt would bet his last shirt that the latter was the case – that his men hunted down a faked radio signal to steer them on a wrong track to cover for the real transmitter and the man who operated it.

And who was this man? The answer was clear if you regarded the whole thing from one special point of view – namely that the two men, who set up the faked signals, were ready to risk their lives for the one who operated the real radio.

What had the Englander said yesterday? That Hogan showed his claws the most when someone came near his friends? Even Schultz had pulled the colonel's leg because of it. But this wasn't a one-way-loyalty. Schmidt was aware of the men's deep friendship towards their superior officer. They loved him like an older brother and would risk their lives instantly for him. The little Frenchman hadn't hesitated to flee the camp to get help for his superior facing the danger of being shot. And everyone of Hogan's men would do the same.

So, what if Hogan was the one who spied on the rocket launchers' secret path and informed London while his men distracted the Gestapo? It sounded simple and logical.

The next question was where had the real transmitter and Underground agent been while the rockets rolled towards the south.

Schmidt and his men had also searched the whole area where the mobile rocket launchers had been driven through, and like this he had found the hunting cottage not far away from the crossing main roads. It was the perfect spot to watch them. The rockets couldn't have been missed like this, and the cottage was near the location the Gestapo had seized the radio transmitter.

Of course, no tracks had been found. The little hut was incredibly neat, everything was wiped clean, there wasn't even any dust to find, not to speak of shoe prints or a hair – anything but normal for an abandoned cottage that once belonged to a family who had left Germany before the war started.

There was no doubt that whoever had used the little hut for their own purposes had erased all tracks afterwards. This was the handwriting of a professional spy; someone who was trained in this kind of business.

Reading Hogan's file made by German intelligence, Schmidt learned that the colonel had been in special trainings in New York before he was sent over the Atlantic to lead the 504th bomber squadron. This 'special' training could be anything. From learning new strategies or how to handle new bombs to becoming a spy behind the enemy lines.

Schmidt knew that this Major Pruhst of the Gestapo he had heard about during Hochstetter's trial had followed the same train of thought. Hochstetter had pointed it out over and over again at the People's Court, but his statements had been picked to pieces by Burkhalter and of course Klink, sticking to the story of a doppelganger. Horst was no fool. He knew that doppelgangers existed. You don't have to be related by blood to bear the same appearance.

Yet, how high was the chance that a hunted Underground agent had the same face like an American colonel who was a POW for almost three years now and lived without ostentation in an 'escape proofed' POW camp? Klink was a capable officer, this much Schmidt was convinced of. But he was no superhuman. It was simply impossible that no one even tried to escape from Stalag 13, yet the Frenchman had been able to slip away to alert Klink in the hospital. Simple like this: he slipped away. Right under the guards' noses – guards which were from the SS. And then he returned to the camp without using the given chance to get back to France.

And Schmidt had heard by now a few times that every POW who had been outside of the wires returned on his own free will. Hilda told him amused of an event almost three years ago as her predecessor had been still Klink's secretary. Newkirk had wheeled a drunken Schultz back to the camp in a barrow. It sounded funny, yet it showed that simply no one wanted to flee.

No, something was very, very off here, and Schmidt was more than determined to find out the truth than ever before.

Trying to reach the Gestapo in Berlin was unsuccessful. Like during the last large bombing, the power supply in most parts of the town were still down. He remembered that he had met a former comrade from Bremen in the People's Court, Johann Peters, who had told him that he belonged to the security team of the court. Therefore, Johann certainly knew who the young man in the telephone exchange office had been…if he had survived.

A call to the Bremen Gestapo and some chatters with a colleague from earlier times did the magic. He got the address where Johann lived in Berlin and, yes, he had survived the air raid. What had become now of him was unclear. And there was another question: how to reach the man? Yes, Peters had his own telephone, and Schmidt even got the number, but the line was still interrupted.

Ordering the telephone exchange in Hammelburg to make attempts of reaching Peters periodically, he continued with his regular work, hoping to get the connection to his former comrade soon.

*** HH *** HH ***

Not aware of the imminent danger to be revealed, the two colonels in Stalag 13 lived up to the daily routine – Klink in his office, Hogan in his own quarters and later on the compound doing some sports with the others.

During the late afternoon, the weather changed. Like a forerunner of the looming, hazardous dark clouds began to cover the skies, and an uncomfortable cold wind began to blow.

But the real danger didn't sit in the Gestapo Headquarters in Hammelburg, still waiting for a connection with a former comrade, but was flying over Munich towards the east in the form of a few US recon aircrafts. They had been spotted by the Luftwaffe and tried to escape, trading fire against each other.

Messerschmidts against Black Widows – a bitter struggle given the fact that the jet streams of the Messerschmidts were stronger than the drives of the Black Widows. And here, only 2,500 meters over the ground, the German air fighters could use their better maneuverability to its full potential.

It was almost five o'clock in the afternoon as the aircrafts of both sides reached the area around Mühldorf, battling against each other despite the town that lay beneath them, or the nearby prisoner camp M1 that was even now, as the war was about to reach its peak, a taboo for every fighting activity nearby.

Sergeant Matthias Rooney tried to give the Messerschmidt behind him the slip. He cursed as he avoided another salve within the last second. Dammit, the damn Kraut was good. The boy was really good; Rooney had to give him that. Yet, he didn't plan to be killed or caught today. It was the German boy or him, so he pulled his Black Widow up into a loop and tried to get behind his opponent. But again, the German pilot acted different than thought. He simply dived down with his aircraft and let it roll over the left wing – a maneuver Rooney would have applauded if his life didn't depend on his opponent's actions.

Full concentrated on the hostile Messerschmidt, he recognized too late that another German flyer came to support his comrade. The salve cut into the Black Widow's right wing like a knife into butter, and Rooney felt the lost control over his plane.

Over and done with. There was no chance to continue the fight. And if he didn't want to die together with his aircraft, he had to abandon it.

Opening the cockpit canopy, he began to climb out of the tumbling aircraft, hoping that none of the Krauts would shoot at him. Usually such a behavior was bad form among fliers, but given the young generation of pilots who had grown up under Hitler's insane ways, Rooney was not sure if his opponents would act honorable enough to give him a chance of survival.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw how the aircraft he had battled with was heading towards him, and for a long moment, he could see his opponent's face. It was indeed a mere boy, but Rooney couldn't deny that he admired the young man's abilities. Then the German flew away, not trying to kill him.

Sighing in relief for a moment, Rooney left the cockpit and was able to cling to its edge at the very last moment as the aircraft began to spiral downwards. Cursing, the pilot strengthened his grip and glanced down, looking at what was under him.

He gasped as he saw in the dusk many, many huts lined up and encircled by wires and watch towers. The prisoner camp…and his Black Window raced exactly towards it.

Hopefully the poor blokes down there were able to avoid the upcoming crash. They were running around – aware of the danger – but locked up because of the fence. It was a question of luck not to get caught in the disaster that was approaching.

Taking a deep breath, Rooney pushed himself away from his aircraft's side and tried to steer with his feet a little bit more to the right. If he was lucky, he would land outside of the camp near the gravel pit that was located at the east side of the camp. The chance to disappear there was realistic. Otherwise, he would be a POW within the next few minutes; delivering himself to a prisoner camp.

Waiting to the very last second, he finally opened his parachute and soared slowly towards the ground. With a hint of horror, he watched how the tank of his dying air fighter exploded and broke the plane into several burning pieces, which crashed into the camp just before he landed not far away from the gravel pit in the dark.

*** HH *** HH ***

Wolfgang Hochstetter had never been this tired in his whole life. He was only here for two weeks now, but it felt like two years. No, twenty years. A shift lasted ten hours. There was one meal per day, mainly cabbage soup, some bread, and on Sundays, brothel made from bones. They all got the water they wanted, but nothing else. He had lost weight, his clothes hung at his frame like at a frump, and it was constantly too cold in the Barracks, coals or wood for the ovens given at one portion per day.

Additional to that, it had become known that he was a former member of the Gestapo and SS. That it became public was no miracle. After all, he wore the two SS runs as a tattoo on his left upper arm like others of the 'club' did, and to wash or shower in private was nothing the prisoners were granted. The moment the others learned of his former job, he was treated like an outcast…even from the guards.

The worst was Sergeant Kurt Vogel. A man of his size, but more shrewishly than any bulldog. He loved to pester the prisoners at every given chance and to turn the living hell into an even worse scenario. A true bully. If Hochstetter had been the same man he had been one or two years ago, he maybe would have realized that the man did, in a lower way, more or less the same thing he did for years towards suspects and underlings. But, being half mad with wrath, jealousy, and the conviction to be unfairly treated, the only thing he saw was a man in a black uniform who, in his opinion, didn't deserve to wear it at all.

Coming back from the morning shift today, Hochstetter was ready to drop on the hard bunk without any hesitation. His hands were rough, chapped and bloody; his back hurt like hell, and his stomach burned with hunger. He had barely lain down as he heard from afar the droning of aircrafts and the unmistakable noises of salves.

And they came nearer…too near.

Hochstetter had his share of experiences concerning air raids and air battles. The latter could turn out to be dangerous because of those planes which were shot down.

Leaving his bunk and hearing the other men in the Barracks swear, he quickly walked to the door as alert was given. The sirens shrilled through the air, but were almost drowned out by the fight that happened over their heads.

Looking up into the twilight of the quickly approaching evening, Hochstetter and the other prisoners, as well as the SS guards, saw a few US air fighters struggling with German Messerschmidts, then one of the opponent aircrafts was hit and went into a tailspin. While a few of the guards cheered, SS officers, POWs, and labor workers recognized the beginning disaster: the hit aircraft was falling down into the camp.

Realizing the danger finally, guards began to yell orders; prisoners ran around, panic stricken; others tried to reach the fences, but were held back at gunpoint.

For one second, Hochstetter became to calm – icily calm. Completely in control, he watched how the burning aircraft broke into several larger pieces as the tank exploded, which headed straight towards the camp. Seeing where they would come down, he raced towards an area that was relatively safe, then the rests of the Black Widow crashed into a few Barracks, setting them instantly on fire.

Fire alert was given, prisoners tried to get injured comrades to safety, guards yelled at others to hurry up the first fire fight operations. Fire hoses were enrolled to connect them with the few hydrants installed many months earlier, other prisoners got water buckets to fight the fires with them. Time was of the essence, because the wind was about to make the flames leap over to other huts.

Hochstetter joined the troops, which tried to rescue wounded prisoners or those in the burning Barracks, too exhausted to make it out on their own.

Helping a man to leave one of the huts whose roofs began to catch fire, Hochstetter saw Vogel not far away screaming at the prisoners, gesturing with his rifle, kicking one of them to hurry him up before he stood still and groused about the 'lame ducks'.

And he had his back turned towards the former major.

Hochstetter's crazy, yet still intelligent mind, saw a chance when it was given. And staking everything on one card, he acted. Only one desire burned him: getting revenge. On Hogan. On Klink, Schmidt, Burkhalter, and on a few of the guards here. And he began with Vogel.

The camp was in pure chaos. Sirens, shouts, moans, cries for help, and the roaring flames were ear deafening accompanied by the continuing air battle in the skies. Like this, no one saw or heard Vogel's gurgling yell as he was gripped from behind, his weapon arm twisted on his back, another arm wrapped around his throat hard enough to cut off oxygen. The sergeant tried to fight back, struggled, but his attacker was too strong. The fury and the wild determination to escape unlashed a strength in Hochstetter no one would think to be possible giving the man's condition by now.

Walking backwards, he dragged Vogel with him into the burning Barracks. Encircling the man's neck with his free hand, he shoved his forehead brutally against the frame of one of the stock beds, inflicting a head wound. The sergeant screamed hoarsely and tried to turn around, but Hochstetter wouldn't have anything of it. Twisting his 'enemy's' arm even more, he heard with satisfaction how a bone broke, while he gripped for the dagger many SS guards carried with them.

There was no regret, nor any kind of guilt, as he slit the man's throat with one swift motion. Letting the sergeant fall, he began to rip off his own clothes, kicking them away. One look at the ceiling above told him that he had to hurry if he didn't want to be trapped in here. The flames were already eating the roof away, fire showers came down, flames licked along the walls.

Never before in his whole life Hochstetter had stripped and re-clothed this quickly. Not a minute later, he wore SS black and took the Sergeant dog tag and papers with him. Gripping the dagger, he put it back into the sash. Taking the rifle, he made certain that the cap was deep in his face as he left the burning Barracks, never looking back.

"Is someone still in there?" One of the guards shouted, and he shook his head.

"No, all are outside except for one swine that is already dead. Let him burn, like this we save us the trouble of a burial." He flinched, as not far away new gunfire was to hear in the air, then he pointed towards the fences. "What about the wires?"

Okay, the guard didn't know this sergeant. He didn't recognize him as one of the prisoners wearing the black SS uniforms now, but the man was a noncom, and he was only a private. He hurried to answer. "They are still safe – I think. Sir!"

"Check them and…"

New alert was given. A few prisoners had used the opportunity to make an attempt for escape.

Hochstetter felt the old thrill of earlier times rising in him. To be clad in the familiar black again was like coming home, and to hunt someone was something that had been burned into his blood and heart, while his still clever mind saw instantly the next given chance.

"Guards, with me!" He yelled, and raced towards the motor pool. "On the load bed with you!" He shouted, and waved two dozens of guards to one of the trucks. He himself climbed into the driver's cab and behind the wheel. Like it was protocol, the ignition key was in the lock to save time at emergencies. And without a second thought, Hochstetter started the motor.

Someone knocked at the driver's door, and for a moment, his belly clenched, then one of the guards shouted, "The men are all on the truck, Sergeant."

"Danke," Hochstetter called back, and kicked the gas pedal. The gates of the camp came closer. One of the officers at the gate lifted a hand, and Hochstetter stopped the truck, his body pumped full with adrenaline.

"Some prisoners escaped, Herr Leutnant. The men and I are…"

"Hurry up, man – and good luck! In this damn dusk, they're grey like cats," the lieutenant answered, and waved the guards to open the gates.

Baring his teeth in triumph, Hochstetter steered the truck through the gates down the small street and turned left as he reached the paved road towards Mühldorf.

Flashes of lights above him distracted him for a moment, and looking up he saw that the Luftwaffe and the US Army Air Corps were still battling. One of the aircrafts spiraled down towards the hills, this time a Messerschmidt. But the whole fight was moving towards the south now. Hochstetter assumed that the Americans would try to get rid of their pursuers in the Alpen, which weren't far away, by using the small valleys and mountain tops. It was something Hogan would do.

Hogan…Klink…he would get them both. And Schmidt.

But first, he had to get rid of his companions. Braking sharply, he heard some loud protests from the loading bed. Opening the door, he jumped out of the truck.

"Alles raus!" He shouted. "Raus, raus! The escapees are over there!" He pointed towards the woods to their right. Within seconds, any protest was forgotten, and the guards jumped off the loading bed, rifles in hands, faces grim.

"Quick!" Hochstetter snapped, and lead the troop into the woods. Waving them to go ahead, he cursed suddenly and gripped one of the privates who ran as the last one. "Chase them to the east. A small path is there. I drive to it and cut off their way. Like this, we have them surrounded, and we can bundle them into the truck."

"Jawohl, Sergeant!" The man saluted and followed his comrades in a hurry.

Hochstetter couldn't hide the malice grin that spread over his face as he ran back to the truck and slipped again behind the wheel. Turning the truck on the broad road, he headed towards the west, bypassing camp M1 again where he saw fires raging, and the silhouettes of thousands of men who tried to douse the flames or ran around like panicking hens. He grinned.

"Auf Wiedersehen, Hölle!" (Fare well, hell)

Five minutes later, he reached the country road that led to the northwest. He knew that he had a head start and that because of the chaos in the camp, Vogel wouldn't be missed within the next few hours. Yet he would have to get rid of the truck during the night. The close net of Gestapo and SS guards all over Germany certainly would be alerted sooner or later because of a stolen truck in conjunction with a missing prisoner and SS sergeant.

He would try to get to the north of Bavaria as far as possible before he would abandon the truck near a town where a railway station was. Thanks to his former job in Hammelburg, he knew this part of Germany in and out.

Yes, he had eavesdropped from the guards in the camp that the Allies had destroyed almost 80% of Germany's traffic routs. Roads, as well as railways, during the large attack last Wednesday. But there were enough railways left to give him the possibility to man a train to the Hammelburg area.

He would reach Hammelburg somehow. Then Hogan and Klink would be done for.

He knew that he was forfeiting his freedom and certainly his life, but he had been robbed of his life the moment he was sentenced to a working camp and had been stripped of his rank and civil rights. He would stop at nothing to get his revenge. Death be dammed.

*** HH *** HH ***

Schmidt was about to leave his office as the telephone rang. The young woman from the telephone exchange in Hammelburg told him that the links to Berlin Kreuzberg, where Peters lived, were repaired. A minute later, Horst had the still familiar voice of his former comrade.

Exchanging pleasantries and relief that the other man had survived the last two air raids of Berlin, Schmidt finally asked the question he had contacted Peters for.

Yes, most people who had worked at the Court had survived except for the a few lawyers, the Chief of Judge, another judge, and four guards. It had been fortunate that the Court hadn't been fully manned on that Saturday three weeks ago. Otherwise the number of victims certainly would have been higher. Last, but not least, because the bunker for the Court was a few houses down the street.

Peters gave him the names of the men who had worked at the telephone exchange, but he didn't know where they were now. The Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin had been hit during the air raid the day prior…again. That the Gestapo was still able to re-start their work at all was either a wonder or showed how well organized, but also fanatically, the men were.

Like this, Schmidt also learned that more of Berlin-Middle and the boroughs around it were bombed, but this time also outskirts. The damages weren't even counted until now, and Schmidt asked himself if the Allies wanted to raze the town completely only because they wanted the Führer and his staff. Well, regarded strategically, they did a logical thing, yet Horst felt sick when he thought of the thousands of civil victims lost in those raids.

Learning from Peters that the Gestapo and SS Headquarters wouldn't be reachable until tomorrow or later, Schmidt called it a night and left the office, satisfied that he had made some progress.

He would reveal the secret identity of 'Papa Bear' even if he deep down already knew it.

*** HH *** HH ***

"Checkmate." Hogan leaned back on the chair in Klink's living room and grinned broadly, while he watched his secret lover.

The Oberst stared with a scowl on the playboard, recapitulated Robert's last moves, checked the possibilities he still had, and tipped over his King with a groan. "You did it again," he complained.

Hogan laughed quietly. "I told you it was a mistake to sacrifice your Queen."

"Yes, but your Rook was a threat and so…" Wilhelm threw his hands up in defeat. "You and your unorthodox ways."

"Well, if you know your opponent, do what he would never suggest you would do, and then you win." Robert looked far too smug, and if Will wouldn't love him so much, he would give him a fitting answer.

So, he only rose and walked to the dresser at the wall. "Cognac?"

"You still have one? Even after Burkhalter stayed here for three nights?"

"I could save a little rest – no thanks to you, may I add. I had to refill his glass several times until he calmed down Saturday after his argument with you," Klink said, while he poured Hogan and himself a glass of the fine French liquor.

Taking the offered glass with a "Thanks," Robert cocked his head. "There really was something wrong with him. I never saw him like that."

Klink sat down at the other side of the table and shrugged. "He certainly was ticked off after Berlin. And I think that being in charge of the OHK in Zossen for a few days went to his head. Otherwise he never would have volunteered for the project of the mobile rocket launchers and…something the matter, Rob?"

Hogan had straightened his shape and looked with big eyes at his lover. "The German OHK…is where?"

Wilhelm blinked in confusion. "In Wünsdorf-Zossen, not far away from Berlin in the south."

The American officer put his glass on the table, mouth agape. "Southern…" He trailed off before he began to laugh in surprise and shook his head. "The brass searches for ages for the new location of the German OHK and…" He snorted and rubbed his neck. "Sweet Lord, I never heard of this Hicksville ever before, and then the commanding center of your Wehrmacht is there."

Klink grimaced, took a large sip of his cognac, and sighed. "And just like that, I blew the whistle again." He also put his glass beside the playboard and bent forwards. "Listen, the whole facility is masked as a gathering of small country cottages and farm houses surrounded by fields and some smaller forests. In truth, the cottages are bunkers with two-meter-thick walls – and they're only the tip of the iceberg. The really interesting things are laying beneath it: the main communication center of the Wehrmacht, equipped with the most modern communication technics you can think of. I was only there for one or two hours, but what I saw in that short time surpassed my expectations. Hell, even Schmidt was baffled, and with him coming from the Abwehr and being in the Gestapo and SS now says something."

Robert frowned. "When have you and Schmidt been…ah." He nodded, understanding the coherence. "You told me that after you made it out of Berlin you stayed in a Wehrmacht-base for a short time to get cleaned up and to drop off Burkhalter."

"Ja," Will nodded. "In Zossen. I thought you know about it."

"No, I didn't," Hogan replied. "Our intelligence tried to find out the location of the OHK since it abandoned its old base in Potsdam, but we never found it." He grinned and lifted the glass in a salute. "Thanks a lot, Will."

Klink groaned and let himself fall backwards against the back rest of his chair. "And another betrayal."

Hogan knew that this bothered the older man a lot. Wilhelm Klink was a soldier through and through, and loyalty was in his bones. But now…

"Will," he said softly. "You don't betray your people, but help them and us to get rid of this damn madman and his fellows in Berlin. That's a big difference."

The Oberst waved a hand. "I know, yet…" He sighed again, gripped his own glass, and emptied it. "Do you want to inform London about it?"

"Better now than a minute before," Hogan nodded and rose, heading towards the furnace, but stopped after a few steps. "Will, I know that this all goes against everything you were taught and stand for, but…"

Klink closed the distance to him and lay a hand on his shoulder. "Don't get a bad conscience because you're going to tell your superiors what I told you. As I said before: I made my decision." He lowered shortly his head. "Are you coming back when you're done with London, or…"

He was silenced by a soft kiss.

"I'll be back in a few, so set up the chessboard." Hogan turned towards the oven, but hesitated again and added with a grin over his shoulder, "Or fold back the blankets and plump up the pillows. And don't forget the bottle of frying oil from the kitchen."

Klink felt his mouth going dry. They hadn't been together for four nights, and he wanted nothing more than to forget everything in his beloved's arms. "Bed it is," he said.

Robert chuckled, while he felt a wave of heat washing over him. But duty came first.

A minute later, he hurried through the tunnels towards the radio room, eager to be done with the report and return to his secret lover.

*** HH *** HH ***

Hochstetter cursed the night, the street, the woods nearby, the clouds above him…the whole world, at that.

An empty tank could do this even to a controlled and sane man. Someone, whose mind was twisted as that of the ex-major was by now, it could become a danger to everyone who crossed his path. At two different gas stations he had tried to get some gas, but with the power supply shut down during the nights and no one at the stations to unlock the pumps for a manual function, there was no thinking of getting fuel.

He had hoped to cover half of the way to Hammelburg within the night, but had begun to doubt it as he realized how much main roads were damaged and blockaded to prevent cars from having accidents in the bomb holes, which were ripped into the streets. He had to take a lot of detours and had to pass four checkpoints of the SS. He passed them without any problem; his uniform opening him all boom gates, and he even got information which route to take towards Nürnberg – his destiny and reason for his travel at night, as he officially said.

Yet, shortly past midnight, his luck left him. The truck's tank was empty and with no gas station in function, he had no other choice than to abandoned the truck and begin to walk.

The last traffic sign had shown that he was approximately 100 km away from Nürnberg's town border – something he wouldn't be able to manage without help. Maybe he would be given a ride in the morning.

Hungry, thirsty, freezing, and miserable, he began to walk towards the north. He had to be careful not to miss the street. No light posts were there, no moon shone, and he had no lamp light.

Furious, he continued his way, trying to ignore the raging hunger in his stomach, the thirst in his dry mouth, and the tiredness that slowed him down. His hate and burning desire for revenge kept him going on.

He bypassed a crossroad and stopped dead in his tracks as he saw two spotlights coming from the east. A few moments later, he heard motor noises. Risking everything again, he placed himself in the middle of the crossroad and waved both arms.

The truck that neared him was Wehrmacht's grey and…and it was manned by two men in a black SS uniforms. 'Sharing of equipment – this far the war had brought us,' he thought, with a sneer.

The truck slowed down and stopped, the co-driver leaning out of the window. "What are you doing all alone by yourself in this God forsaken region, Sergeant?"

If Hochstetter was good in one thing, it was in acting. Putting on a mixture of smile and scowl, he stepped nearer. "What a luck that you came this way, comrade. I'm on my way back to Nürnberg, but the damn old truck I drove had a breakdown. No chance to get it back to work again." He snorted. "No wonder this beast was built at the end of the Great War."

"An old timer then," the driver deadpanned, amused. "We're on the way to Nürnberg, too. We can take you with us if you want."

"That would be lots of help, Corporal, danke."

"Where shall we drop you off?"

Hochstetter didn't hesitate. "If you could take me to the Regensburger Street near the church, that would be very nice. My parents live nearby there and the Gestapo Headquarters isn't far away. I'm expected there tomorrow."

"No problem," the co-driver grinned at him. "Comradeship is a thing that is still written with a capital "C" in our unit." He flipped a thumb backwards. "Hop on the load bed. There are a few more of us. In two or three hours, you'll be home."

Hochstetter smiled at him, suppressing the urge to grimace at the comment of 'comradeship' within the SS. "Thank you very much. I'm Sergeant Vogel, by the way."

"This is Corporal Achner, and I'm Sergeant Hellmann," he introduced the driver and himself. "Hop on. We don't have all night."

Nodding, Hochstetter went to the back of the truck and looked up the load bed where two other men offered him a helping hand.

"This I'm calling luck that we came your way," one said, while the former major took a seat between the dozen men.

"You can say that," Hochstetter agreed. The same moment, his stomach growled, and a younger man began to laugh.

"Did your forgot your food ration in your truck?" He bent down and opened a backpack. "Here, you can have some bread from me," he said, and offered a little package.

"Danke." The relief wasn't faked. And as another man offered him a coffee from his vacuum flask, he felt better than he had in a long time.

*** HH *** HH ***

Hogan snuggled closer to Will, laying half on his belly and half over the older man. Both were damp with sweat, and their heartbeats calmed down slowly. Pressing a kiss on his secret lover's shoulder, he buried his face against Wilhelm's throat and closed his eyes, happy and satisfied.

He felt how those long, elegant hands moved in tender circles over his back and waist, and utter peace washed over them in the sweet glow of the last remaining aftermath.

Robert had relished in their lovemaking. What a difference between holding a woman or Will in his arms – all firm, lean and strong, yet soft and covered with human silk. Hogan knew that his general point of view and his feelings had changed forever. He felt so incredible loved and sheltered, safe and protected in Wilhelm's presence, yet he could live out his passion without the necessity to hold back.

Yes, he had opened up to the idea to be intimate with the same gender, because it was Will – the man he had fallen in love with. Yet he realized that he not only took immense pleasure in their love accouters, he couldn't imagine to do it with anybody else ever again – independent if it would be a woman or a man.

And one thing also became clear: he would move Earth and Hell to stay with Will. He had a few ideas how to make this wish come true, and he would speak with the older man about it when the time was right, but his determination to share his life with Klink seemed to grow from day to day.

Sighing in content, he tightened his arm around the older man and then lay still, enjoying every minute he could stay there before he had to return to his Barracks.

"Tired?" Klink murmured, and Robert began to chuckle.

"Yes."

"Very tired?" Will asked.

A "Hm-hm," was the answer.

"Too tired?" There was a teasing undertone in Wilhelm's voice that woke Robert's attention. Lifting his head, he glanced down at his lover, saw the suggestive smirk, and began to grin.

"You're insatiable, Willie."

"Yes – for you," Klink affirmed, and with a playful laugh, Hogan bent down to capture his lover's lips with his again.

*** HH *** HH ***

The fires in the prisoner camp near Mühldorf had been doused finally, and many men sat simply exhausted on the ground that was wet from the extinguishing water. They all were dirty with ashes and smoke, and for once uniform or prisoner clothes didn't count.

Yet the leading SS officers knew no mercy. Barking orders, they first demanded a roll call, then a damage report. It lasted almost an hour to count the prisoners, because dozens of them were in the infirmary with smoke intoxication or burn injuries. Like this, it came out that Hochstetter's false alert of fleeing prisoners had – indeed – a real background. Eleven men had escaped in the chaos that erupted in the first minutes after the broken aircraft parts had fallen down onto the camp.

The leading officers also learned that a sergeant and two dozen guards were already on the hunt for the escapees, and the camp's Kommandant Eberl ordered two more troops to comb through the area to support the others with their search. Dogs were also involved, which quickly found the track, but left it at a near small river the fleeing men obviously had used to trick the dogs. The only thing that was found by other guards was a parachute – certainly used by the pilot whose hit aircraft rose chaos in the camp. The American flyer and the escapees left no track at all.

None of the SS guards could know that Rooney had watched the escape attempt of ten prisoners and had taken them under his lead, knowing enough tricks to fool their pursuers. While the Krauts searched the area, the American and the escapees were heading towards Mühldorf, hoping to find some shelter and clothing to change into civilians. The pilot tried to cheer the men up, telling them that the Allies weren't far away anymore. Because one of the escaped prisoners was an English POW, communication was possible and the escapees trusted Rooney to bring them to safety.

In the M1, the burned down Barracks were torn apart and like this, the corpse of a man was found. One of the guards reported that a sergeant, who had checked the hut, had said that the man had already died and therefore, no one knew exactly if the missing eleven prisoners were indeed all escaped, or if one of them was the dead man. The same sergeant had also summoned the first troop to hunt down the escapees.

In the very early morning, one of the sent off troops returned with double the amount of guards than originally.

Giving report to the camp's Kommandant, who was feared even by his own men, the guards told a story the CO couldn't believe. One of the sergeants had seen the prisoners fleeing, had taken the troop with him, spied the escapees in the woods, led the troop after them, then announced to cut off the fleeing men's way with the truck…only he never reappeared.

The Kommandant became suspicious and ordered a report of all sergeants. It lasted 'til very early morning. Everyone was here except for two: the sergeant who was still outside trying to catch the escapees, and Sergeant Vogel.

No one seemed to have seen him after the aircraft crash happened. Searches were unsuccessful, and the CO got a certain assumption. Ordering the camp's doctor to examine the corpse that had been found in one of the barracks, he got the result shortly after eight o'clock. The man was burned beyond all recognition, yet the doctor was able to identify the victim. The eyetooth and the tooth beside it on the left side of the man's mouth were missing, and this for a longer time. They had been removed professionally, and some tracks on the teeth showed track of melted gold – the proof that the man had gold teeth as a replacement.

Sergeant Vogel had gotten the nickname 'Gold-grin' because of them. And the doctor found further proofs of the victim's identity: the little finger on the right hand had been broken and had mended together wrong – the burned skeleton showed the same, and the seize of the victim fitted to the missing sergeant, too.

There was no doubt left: the corpse belonged to Sergeant Vogel.

The Kommandant was raging. One of his leading guards had fallen prey to the disaster, while a mysterious sergeant no one knew had fooled a troop of SS men and abandoned them in the woods, disappearing with one of the camp's trucks. One didn't have to be a genius to know that the mysterious man had to be one of the prisoners who had taken Vogel's identity to escape M1.

Furious, he demanded the files of the eleven men who fled and checked them. Vogel had been of a rather small size, and the guards who had followed the 'sergeant' had reported that the man had been small, too. The uniform fitted. This was the only evidence, but it was enough.

All escaped prisoners were of larger size – except for one: Wolfgang Hochstetter.

And of course the former major knew how to act as a superior officer, giving precise orders and behaving like it was typical within the SS. It was crystal clear.

As the Kommandant finally made an announcement to the SS and Gestapo Headquarters to expand the search for a 'dangerous murderer', it was after ten o'clock in the morning. It would need many more hours until the information would reach all HQs.

*** HH *** HH ***

While the doctor was still examining the corpse, Wolfgang Hochstetter reached the Nürnberg station…or what was left of it. He knew that the large building, constructed in the beautiful art nouveau, had been heavily damaged already two years ago, yet it had been secured enough to be functional. Now he had learned from some men he traveled with on the load bed of the truck that the station had been even more damaged during the German-wide air-raid last week and that the train traffic was cut down to the lowest necessity possible.

Yet the rising black pillars of smoke showed that at least two locomotives were ready for travel, and Hochstetter was determined to catch a train to the northwest.

Turning up his collar to hide his growing beard stubbles and saluting a few SS guards, which watched the created emergency entrances to the station platforms, he stepped into the still standing part of the building. Grid and little debris crunched beneath his boots. Reaching one of the still passable rails, he stopped for a moment, taking in the destruction around him.

Over half of the buildings was burned down, many locomotives lay on their sides or were otherwise damaged, wagons destroyed. SS men guarded labor workers, which tried to repair the rails, but of what Hochstetter saw, he knew that only two trains at once could enter or leave the station within the next few weeks. The Allies made a good job of hindering the train traffic in Bavaria.

He looked around and asked the next SS private who came his way which of the two trains would head towards northwest, and the man pointed to a quickly risen Barracks at the other side of the railways.

"The train office is over there, Sergeant. I'm sure the station master can provide you with the new schedule."

Thanking the man, Hochstetter took the short way over the rails to reach the platform on the other side and walked with brusque steps towards the hut. Not bothering with knocking, he simply entered. A desk, a chair, a telephone, a Morse radio, and a lot of papers tacked to the wall built the whole equipment. To by a ticket wasn't necessary anymore, because all trains were only transporting Wehrmacht, SS, and Gestapo members now; the running costs were defrayed by the government.

"Sergeant Vogel," he instructed himself shortly to the man who was in his sixties, and added the formal greeting before he asked, "I have to travel to Hammelburg. Any chance that one of the trains leaves into the direction?"

The man gulped as he saw the SS Sergeant in front of him and hastily began to search in some papers. "One moment, please. I'll check."

Hochstetter frowned. "Don't you know the schedules of the trains within your own station? How…"

"I'm sorry, sir, the station master died in the air raid last week. I'm…" He gulped again. "I'm a called substitute and still not really familiar with the procedures here."

Grimacing, Hochstetter gestured to the man to continue his search. "Hammelburg, Hammelburg… it's in the northwest from here, isn't it?" He asked.

"Yes," the former major nodded. 'At least he remembers the geographic lessons from school.'

"Here I have it," the man said with relief and pride. "Train B15, over there." He pointed towards the left of the two trains. "Travels to Frankfurt, and because of the destroyed railways, the train has to detour towards Würzburg and leaves the main rail in Rottendorf to head towards Schweinfurt. From there…"

"Danke, Schweinfurt will do it," Hochstetter interrupted him, knowing he was going to need a transport possibility to get to Hammelburg. And he needed more. He needed support. And there was only one man he could trust in this matter.

"I have to make a telephone call. Please leave," he said firmly.

The interims station master hesitated. "Sergeant, I'm not allowed to leave my…"

"Out! The call is top secret and not for your ears. Out, or I have to arrest you!" Hochstetter snapped, eyes blazing.

The man flinched as if he had been slapped, rounded his desk, and hurried towards the door. "Of course, Sergeant. I apologize. The office is yours," he croaked, and closed the door behind him.

Hochstetter sneered. The old methods were always the best. Picking up the receiver, he barked, "This Brigadier General von Stetten." He didn't know if this man even existed. But this was secondary as he made his demands to the lady of the telephone exchange office. Leaning against the desk, he had to wait a minute for the connection until he heard the still familiar voice, "Leutnant von Neuhaus, Gestapo Headquarters in Hammelburg. How can I be at your service, General?"

Hochstetter grinned. "Von Neuhaus, it's me."

TBC…

Yes, Hochstetter hadn't lost his bite – and, regrettable, also not his scheming mind but also his hate. Believe me, he'll trigger a lot of chaos and a battle on its own that will shake Stalag 13 thoroughly.

In the meantime, Schmidt closes up on Hogan, but he also will be entrapped in the revenge Hochstetter plans, because the 'poison-gnome' not only wants to seek vengeance on Hogan and Klink, but also on the Oberleutnant. Just wait, if he can win von Neuhaus for his intentions…

I hope, you liked the current chapter and the new twist in the story that will stir up almost everything. Like always, I hope for some reviews (battering my eyelashes).

Have a nice rest of the week,

'til Sunday

Yours Starflight