Hi, my dear readers!

Sorry for the delayed update. I hoped to poste the new chapter before I went to Düsseldorf for Carnival, but because of the annual closure I had to make for my praxis, I was so busy last week I didn't find a minute to spare. And then we were off to Düsseldorf to celebrate Carnival. Even if the weather didn't play along (especially at Sunday as such a big storm came that they had to cancel the Parade of the Town Quarters), we had a lot of fun. If you don't have the street carnival, you always can have parties in the many beer bars within the historical part of Düsseldorf. Today we visited the Rose Monday Parade and even if it rained, the storm had quiet down and we could enjoy the whole thing.

We're back now for an hour and after I undid my luggage, my next doing was to publish this chapter.

Thanks for the feedback of the last one, and I hope you're going to like the new one likewise. You're going to meet the main characters of the new POWs, Schmidt will show once again that he is a 'man of honor', you'll meet Maximilian Schultz.

Even if this whole topic is a darker one, it will hold very emotional scenes.

Enjoy so far,

Love

Yours Starflight

Chapter 80 – Lived humanity

The afternoon was one big, chaotic mess, but it also held a certain system. POWs cleared out every training tool, chair, and table from the rec hall. The officer's mess and the casino were also free of furniture. The infirmary would be only used for those who were in real need for medical care, but it was clear that this would be a lot of men. Field beds were lined up between the already present beds, and the same went for the waiting area and the little backroom where Klink had had his emergency surgery. Seventy beds were pressed into the building, but this was nothing compared to the rec hall, officer's mess, and the casino. Tomorrow the stock beds would be risen there, and careful calculations showed that approximately four hundred men would have a place to sleep. The stock beds and beddings were placed unmounted within the empty rec hall, officer's mess, and casino.

Five of the ovens, which had been delivered together with the other equipment, were placed along the wooden walls in the motor pool to be installed later. The remaining 15 ovens were stocked beside the Kommandantur and would be needed for the new Barracks. Milford said that it was not possible to rise the new Barracks double the size of the older ones. Not with the present construction plans. A third of the size more was the maximum he could promise; otherwise he couldn't guarantee that the static would uphold. Given the fact that they needed a lot of material for the roof of the former motor pool and that the new Barracks would be smaller than thought – yet larger than the current ones – the planks, roof paper, nails, and everything else would be enough; at least when the second convoy would arrived.

Yet it wouldn't be a drama that the new planned huts would be smaller. Hogan hoped that the war wouldn't last much longer now – a few weeks maybe. Until then, they could manage. More than a third of the new POWs would stay in the rec hall, officers' mess, casino, and infirmary. The rest would live in the tight space of the old Barracks until the new ones were built. Those who stayed in the infirmary would be moved first.

After roll call and dinner, many POWs volunteered to continue working. The field beds in the infirmary were equipped with beddings, empty barrels were filled with fire wood and placed in the compound, and in the camp's kitchen dozen of hands kneaded dough for bread. In the rec hall and casino, the first stock beds were risen.

It was late in the evening, as Hogan and Schultz called it a night, satisfied with what they had managed to do until now.

Robert returned to Klink's quarters completely exhausted. The much work had had a 'nice' side effect: His burning fury had cooled down to a throbbing, yet still existing anger. Whoever had sent the men of Camp 64 on this death walk he would make certain that said person would have to pay a high price. What this man had ordered was slow murder, nothing else.

But for now, Hogan was absolutely tired as the warmth of Klink's quarters enclosed him. His dinner stood still on the table – bread slices with toppings – and he took the plate with him into the sleeping room. Will was still awake and looked expectantly at him.

"We got quite a deal done," Rob said, and placed the plate on the night stand. While kicking his shoes off and stripping out of his bomber jacket, he gave Klink an update and finished with the words, "I'm tuckered out for today." He groaned and rolled his shoulders before he took the plate, sat down in the chair at the edge, and began to eat – better to say, he wolfed down the food. He himself had lend a hand over and over again, carrying chairs or piling up tables together with Kinch and four other POWs; not caring that he, as an officer, didn't need to do it. To say the truth, he more or less leaded the whole 'project' – a project you couldn't even call it by name, because in the big haste everything ran upside down over and over again. And Hogan was one of the few men who kept track of everything. Therefore, he was rightfully ready to hit the pillow.

Wilhelm smiled at him as Robert finally had emptied his plate. "Take a warm, long shower, Rob, and then come to bed. You look ready to drop."

"I AM ready to drop," Hogan nodded, and vanished into the bathroom. He sighed in pleasure as he stepped under the hot shower a few minutes later and, in agreement with Klink's offer, took his time. He felt how the coldness of the icy evening melted out of his body and made room for warmth, but also awoke more tiredness in him.

Finally, a quarter hour later, he switched off the lights except for the one on the nightstand and crept into the inviting bed beside Will. "I feel beaten," he whispered. "Too beaten to get angry again because of what has been done to our comrades."

"At least General Burkhalter found his heart again and made certain that they can go by train almost the rest of the distance. Yes, it put us under even more time pressure, but…"

"But I'm glad that those men got support – and I'm sure that Burkhalter sending them a train will save a few lives."

Will nodded, slowly turned on his side to face the younger man, and pulled him closer.

"Be careful," Rob murmured.

A tender smile played around the Oberst's lips. "Don't worry so much, my witty fox. I'm doing better, and the two times up today didn't harm me." This time it was him who offered a shoulder to snuggle against. "Come here," he said gently.

With a sigh – and against better knowledge – Robert buried his head against the older man's throat, breathing in the familiar scent. He felt Will's long elegant fingers combing through his hair and relaxed. He didn't even realized how he drifted into Morpheus' realm.

*** HH *** HH ***

Staff Sergeant Brady Elison lay beside his godson and superior Ryan Connor. Another night they were bared to the icy weather; the winter nature taking no mercy on them and the approximate 1000 survivals of the column. They had only gotten some bread and old cheese with water as 'dinner', and even Elison's stubbornness to carry on no matter what was lessening down day by day. They all were too exhausted to even despair. In the late afternoon, four men had been too weak to continue the way on their own, and comrades had taken turns to more or less carry them. They all knew what would happen: The guards shot those who couldn't keep up the pace.

At the beginning of the walk, there had been three groups – those who were strong enough to walk properly, those who were slower, and the third group contented men who were already weak. Two times the Russians had been very close to the column, and many of the POWs had hoped they would be liberated. Those who could flee were certainly on their voyage home. Others hadn't been this lucky and were recaptured and shot – especially after the Totenkopf SS took over and replaced the original guards.

The first week hadn't been bad, but then it turned worse and worse. By now most had lost all hope and simply set one foot before the other one, dragging themselves forward. The days had blended into each other into one bleak eternity of grey and coldness. The nights restored some strength, but not enough to let them recover from the exertions to body and soul.

Elison looked at the ashen face of his godson. Ryan, who was 37, lay against him; head resting on the older man's shoulder. Snow glistened in his full beard, white puffs of breath danced before his red nose and splintered lips. His eyes lay deep in the socks and even in sleep they moved beneath the closed lids – like it was the case with most of the others. They were all traumatized.

After they landed in Normandy and fought against the Wehrmacht and Waffen SS, they had thought to be home again by Christmas. They had gained ground day by day – but then the push had stopped, and endless battles had replaced the daily victories. Then it happened: Ryan, four other officers, and a scouting party had been ambushed. Elison had seen the trap from his watching post and had tried to warn his godson and the others in time, but it was too late. More than half were killed, and Connor and Elison had been captured with Lieutenant Leonard Harrison. Them, two privates, and a radioman had been brought to Germany, been interrogated for more than three weeks, and finally were brought to Camp 64 in Poland. The privates and the radioman had been transferred to another POW camp, but Elison, Connor, and Harrison had been kept in Camp 64 with hundreds of other officers, mainly from the US, but also some French, English, and Belgian officers.

They had been hosted in an abandoned gymnasium that was in a castle together with some Barracks and stables which had been changed into rooms – a place you weren't free, but at least they had been treated politely. They were allowed to do sports, had theater performances, and even their own little newspaper they published monthly and called the ITEM. It remained a mystery why their captors even allowed it. Red Cross packages had supplied them with most things they needed. There had been a barber shop, a tailor shop, and a library. There even existed an Escape Committee, and Connor and Elison learned that the men had already dug tunnels, but gave up on the idea after a mass escape in Stalag 3 had led to a disaster, ending in the death of almost all escapees.

As the evacuation had been ordered on the 20th of January, those tunnels came in handy. As the death walk began the next morning, more than a hundred POWs escaped from the column and returned to Camp 64 to hide in the tunnels until the Russians came.

Brady remembered the two times they all had heard heavy artillery shots and how fearful the German guards turned. Only later they learned that those who had been too weak to keep up with the main trek had mostly been able to escape because the guards had taken off. This was the time at which the Totenkopf SS appeared and became responsible for the POWs. And with them, the martyrium had begun. Those guards didn't know any mercy, any kind of humanity. They had been schooled to block emotions and brutalized during their trainings.

Elison lifted his head and looked over the long lines of sleeping men. Most of them didn't care anymore where they could rest. As soon as the day was called off, they simply sat down and didn't rise again until the next morning. And every morning they had to mourn another loss of their comrades.

Pulling Ryan closer to share body heat with him, Elison closed his eyes. He had promised his best friend Sean Connor to watch over his son Ryan as they were sent over the Atlantic to Great Britain to prepare D-Day, while Sean had been transferred to the Pacific Area. And Brady was hell bent to keep his word 'til his last breath.

'Tomorrow we reach this train and a day later we're in this Luftwaffe camp – finally. And then hopefully our suffering will come to an end…'

*** HH *** HH ***

In Stalag 13, roll call happened for once at the usual point of time. Most men were still groggy, but determined to continue their work. No one complained, no one griped as they re-consumed their task even before the sun rose. The spotlights were trained on the compound to spend the necessary brightness, while the men continued to fix up the stock beds in the rec hall, officer's mess, and casino.

Breakfast was not during a fixed time for once, but was given to everyone who came to the mess hall or the Barracks. LeBeau, twenty other POWs, and the German cooks were busy with baking bread and preparing soup that would be heated up the next day.

After the sun rose, other POWs began to clear up the woods at the south end of the camp again. While near Koblenz, the Luftwaffe tried to destroy the bridge near Remagen to hinder further US troops from crossing the Rhine River, but failed again, and Maximilian Schultz survived another day of drilling, but also battling.

In the late morning, a black SS truck from Gestapo HQ drove through the camp's main gate, bringing power wires and water pipes. Around midday another transporter arrived, this time from the Red Cross, with bandages, dishes, towels, soap, toothbrushes, shaving foams, blankets, shirts, socks, and even some sleepwear. As it turned out, Schmidt had been at the end of his tether last night and called the Red Cross in Munich for help. They had already supported the refugees in Hammelburg, and the responsible chief was first skeptical as he received Schmidt's call. But as he learned for whom the things were needed and why, he had given his consent.

Schmidt also called the camp to tell them that he had managed to 'organize' a generator, but the device wouldn't reach Hammelburg within the next two days.

Two hours later, an infantry truck reached Stalag 13 and brought the tents Burkhalter had ordered. Like assumed, they were small and wouldn't be enough, especially given the icy weather. Whether wanted or not, it meant that six hundred or more of the newcomers would have to sleep in the current Barracks, living with the other occupants in cramped conditions. Yet the tents could serve another purpose: To dry the cut off trees so that the wood could be used as firewood within a short range of time. Rising the tents along the fence in the southwest, sawed trunks and branches were piled up beneath the tarps.

Hogan and Schultz were constantly busy with organizing, re-organizing, changing orders and plans, setting up new plans and giving new orders. And it turned out that the large Bavarian was far more logical and clear thinking than he usually made everyone believe. Yet it didn't slip Hogan's attention that there were moments in which the other man seemed to be far away with his thoughts, and Robert had a good idea, to whom Schultz's mind was drifting: To his youngest son Max. Until now there hadn't been any news, and the colonel hoped that the boy was okay.

*** HH *** HH ***

Icy wind blew through the burned down houses and the dirty, empty streets dusty with ashes. Pavements were covered with debris, the trees in the parks were black skeletons of their former appearance. An eerie silence hung over the town where earlier noises of cars, voices of people, and laugher of children had sounded. Absolute quietness now reigned.

Coblenz seemed to be sane of any human life, yet approximately 10,000 men and women held the position. 9000 of them were civilians. Some of them belonged to the city government, others were medical personnel who tried to help in a makeshift hospital – the original one (that lay near the main station) had burned down completely. Others tried to keep the rail station and the turntable in function despite that they were strongly damaged from many air attacks during the end of 1944 and January 1945. Coblenz had been most important for the railway traffic, but after the West Allies had destroyed almost 80% of all main roads and railways three weeks ago, the town had lost its importance. Yet the order from Berlin remained the same: keep the station working, even when as good as no trains use it anymore. And since Cologne was conquered last week, all rail traffic along the middle of the Rhine River had stopped.

Those 9000 civilians risked their lives day by day for nothing, but no one dared to leave their duty or run away. The soldiers within the town were from the Wehrmacht and the Waffen-SS, and everyone who admitted there was no reason to fight anymore was warned once, then shot. That went mostly for the members of the 'fighting troops' – among them members of the Volkssturm and 200 boys that had been summoned from school or came from the Hitlerjugend.

The boys weren't forced to fight. Not until now. After all, there was no open battle raging. But therefore the kids had other tasks like excavating trenches along the city boundaries and a second line around the former downtown. They also had to clean the staircases of larger buildings which were still usable despite being ruins so that the soldiers could use them as 'towers' to fight against the enemy as soon as the Americans tried to seize the main part of the city. The northern districts on the other side of the Moselle were already conquered, and only the small river separated the Germans from the 69th US-Division.

Maximilian Schultz leaned the shovel against the blackened wall of the building a few boys, Frank, and he were preparing to change in a kind of rampart. Rubbing his hurting neck and shoulders, he went to the window opening and looked outside towards the Rhine river. Here, on the 6th level, he was alone. The others were working at the second and third level, so he could rest for a moment without getting rebuked.

He could make out a little bit of the Deutsche Eck (German Corner), where Rhine and Moselle met. And if he used his fantasy, he thought he could even see the equestrian statue of Wilhelm I on his horse that was risen there on the paved salient. The emperor of decades long ago certainly had never thought that his beloved country would lay in ruins one lay like it did now. One of his ancestors had said once 'I'm the first servant of my country'. Men like Hitler thought 'The country only exists to serve me.'

Sighing, Max's gaze wandered to the bridges, which had linked the town with the other side of the Rhine and in the north with the other side of the Moselle. Everything had been destroyed by the Wehrmacht – the last being the Horchheimer Brücke on March 10th. The day Max, Frank, and the others had been transferred to Coblenz. The whole thing had already happened as the boys arrived, yet Max still shuddered when he looked at the sad remains of the former beautiful bridges.

'What a waste', he thought. 'As if this could stop the Americans. They have the Luddendorf bridge near Remagen. They have boats, they have planks they can build interims bridges in a few hours…a few destroyed bridges are no hindrance for them, but no one wants to admit it. These guys are crazy!'

"Max!"

The well-known voice tore him out of his thoughts. Turning around, he saw his best friend Frank Heindel climbing up the stairs towards him. He was almost a head taller than Max, with brown hair, grey eyes, and broad shoulders. He had been born only a week earlier than Schultz's youngest son, but he appeared to be a year older. His usual kind and open face was grim, covered with dirt, and his 'uniform' showed the hard work of the last few days in the middle of debris, ashes, and dirt.

"Max, they declared the military state of emergency for Coblenz. All civilians are prompted to leave the town – including the rest of the government and medical personnel except for a few. The Kampfkommandant (Fighting Commander) is in charge of the town now."

Max stared at him – and cursed quietly. "You know what this means? The Americans are coming."

Frank pressed his lips into thin line, before he said quietly, "SS-Hauptmann Glockner told the others and I that the Americans are about to cross the Moselle in the west of the twon. They're preparing for the big strike against us; no doubt here."

Max groaned and combed his dirty fingers through his tousled dark-blonde hair. His round blue eyes, which were so alike to his father's, betrayed his fear and frustration. "Why don't they just give this town up already? It would spare losses on both sides and…"

"Sshhhhhh, don't speak like that. You know what they do with people who voice their regards," Frank interrupted him hastily, listened closely to the floor below them, but heard nothing. He sighed and turned his attention back towards his friend, who threw his hands up in anger.

"Do you know how sick all of this is? We don't only have to fear the enemy, but also our own people. This is…insane!" Arms akimbo he remembered now more of his mother Gretel, from whom he had gotten his short body height.

Frank nodded. "I know," he said softly. "I know, Max, but we have to keep on. We have to howl with the wolves now and…"

"There are still real wolves in America, and I'll tell you what: I rather take my chances with them than with those human hyenas in black and grey down in the streets." He glanced down to the window opening again. Frank closed the distance to him and glanced outside, too.

"We promised our mothers to return, so…"

He was interrupted as alert was given, and a few moments later grenades hit the town on both sides of the river. "What…?" Max asked flabbergasted, and whirled around to Frank. "Can you tell me what they want to destroy now? There's nothing left to attack and…"

"I know only one thing to do when the sirens are blaring: RUN!"

A moment later, the boys stormed down the stairs and reached one of the many bunkers just in time…

*** HH *** HH ***

It was already afternoon, but the POWs wouldn't rest until they were done with their job. While eager hands still cut down trees in the south of camp, others began to rise the stock and field beds to put them into the Barracks the next day. Dozens of men were also building the roof for the new 'mess hall', but it would last a day or so more until they were done.

Milford suggested to saw cutouts into the walls for windows, which made Schultz complain about the costs, yet there was no other way. The building needed windows, because the former entrance – a gap in the wall – would be closable with a makeshift door. It would be illogical to waste firewood and coal for the ovens to warm the 'mess hall', only to let the coldness in through the gap.

Another problem was the payment for the glasser who was called. The German money had no value anymore, and paying with goods was out of the question. The camp needed every nail, plank, or sack of flour they could get. Hogan finally offered the man twenty US Dollars per window for the mess hall and new Barracks, and they stroke the deal.

Speaking with his men, Hogan and the Heroes began to collect the money from other POWs, who gave the bills without grumbling. They had no chance to spend it as long as they were in the camp, and at least it answered a purpose.

As Hogan finally called it a night for the other POWs, he was tired like a little puppy. He hadn't made any real pause since morning, and he felt beaten as he returned to Klink's quarters to have some dinner. Will left bed to sit with him at the table, ignoring Robert's protest.

"My back is giving me hell, and I feel useless and old laying there while around me the people jump through hoops to make the impossible possible," Wilhelm said, while he carefully sat down.

"Now you know how I felt after getting better but was still banned to bed," Hogan answered, watching every movement of the older man with concern.

Klink sighed as he finally sat and gave him a soft smile. "This hanging around is nothing for us – something we have in common."

"You don't 'hang around', you were seriously injured, and healing is in full progress," Hogan protested, but knew that he wouldn't be able to make Will lay down. He gave in, and both began to eat. Robert gave his lover a full update on the current state, and Klink glanced in awe at him.

"In other words, everything is prepared?"

"Almost. We have to move the tables and chairs out of the Barracks to the former motor pool, whose roof will hopefully be done by tomorrow night. Then we push all beds in the Barracks even closer together and place more stock beds into the made room. That way we can offer our boys a place to rest until the new Barracks are finished. And that'll last some time. Our men really worked non-stop in turns, but we've cleaned out maybe thirty meters or so. The wood is thick, and there are so much undergrows you need machetes to cut them out." He shook his head. "We'll be happy if we can start rising the first Barrack in two or three days."

Klink watched his beloved closely. It was more than obvious how tense Rob was. Inside he was still seething with rightful anger. Hogan was a very tolerant man, and he knew that wrongfulness walked hand in hand with war, but what had been done to the POWs of Camp 64 was too much. Will assumed that this was not the only crime Robert was furious about. Something else happened – something he had wanted to speak with him about the evening Hochstetter showed up, but until now Hogan kept silent about. Maybe to spare him. And given everything Klink had learned within the last two days about the crimes 'his' regime had ordered, he was partly glad to get some period of grace until Rob would inform him about another horrible thing.

Both men went to bed after dinner, finding solace and peace in each other's arms. Sleep caught them easily, and neither the two lovebirds, nor the others could imagine the chaos that would erupt the next day.

*** HH *** HH ***

Connor sat on the hard and cold ground of the wagon. Beside him was Elison, Harrison, and a few other officers. The train had stopped one time at the early evening as the loco needed new water, which had been the chance for the men to relieve themselves and get some bread and water for 'dinner'. Since then, the train rolled through the night. Most of the POWs had fallen asleep, the exhaustion after the inhumane walk through icy temperatures and snow demanded its toll.

But Ryan was wide awake. He had been the Senior POW Officer of Camp 64, and he felt deeply responsible for the other men. And not knowing what to expect at the end of their journey prevented him from finding sleep. There was also worry for the five men who had been carried to the train. Better to say, four men and one mere boy.

The younger of the two Martins brothers, Evan, was the youngest POW of the camp and only 18 years old. His brother Steven was 22 and stronger built, but Evan had reached his limits days ago, and that he was still alive was only because a few other men had covered for him; carrying him between them. The two brothers belonged to the few privates who had been kept in Schubin, and Ryan had advised them to stay behind, because he already assumed that Evan was too fragile to survive the march. How much they had been lied to, came only clear two weeks later. That the younger Martins brother had made it so far was incredible in Connor's eyes, but now – shortly before they reached the finish line – the boy was about to fall prey to his tender nature and lack of food. Ryan prayed that they would reach the new camp before the guards realized Evan's condition and do what they did to many of them: shoot.

The same went for the four other men who were about to break down. Like Evans, the other POWs had hidden them between them, but during the last stop they had been almost revealed. And Connor didn't dare to imagine what would happen to them should their bad state be seen by the guards.

Closing his eyes he tried to relax, hoping that they would make the last stage of their journey without any more losses.

*** HH *** HH ***

The next morning started like the last one in Stalag 13: Early roll call and more work. Hogan didn't care for his rank once again and lend a hand whenever necessary. Klink groused that he had to remain in bed, Schultz tried his best to fulfill his unwanted duties, and the putter around everywhere didn't stop.

At nine o'clock the roof timbering of the former motor pool was finished, and even if Newkirk commented that there never should be the rising of any roof construction without a topping out ceremony, he only got some birds flipped, and the work went on.

At the same time, Lt. Colonel Connor and the others already dragged themselves through the small path in the woods that led to the main road between Hammelburg and Gmünd and lead them to Stalag 13. The train was forced to stop at six o'clock in the morning, and SS-Major Hartmann granted them half an hour to relieve themselves and wash with snow, before the guards impelled them to start the last part of their way. The major's staff car and the supply trucks hadn't caught up with them since prisoners and guards boarded the train, and therefore the mood of everyone was more than bad.

Two and a half hours – and the POWs were ready to drop again. The travel by train had saved them from walking the rest, but the jolting, hard ground, and the sticky, icy air in the wagons had robbed most of a decent sleep.

As they finally reached the main road and the last of his comrades had left the woods, Connor had enough. "My men need a break," he said harshly to Hartmann, who turned around with an unholy gleam in his eyes.

"Guess, who too: My men. But the sooner we're at our destination, the sooner…"

"Your men had food, tea, comfortable wagons, and took turns with walking with us or resting in your trucks – at least until yesterday. We never had a chance of any time-out. My men have had nothing for weeks," Connor stated forcefully. "Half an hour can't hurt."

Hartmann let his gaze wander over the long column of ragged clad shapes and pressed his lips into a thin line. "A quarter hour, not more," he ordered, and turned around to ignore Connor.

"To hell with this bastard," Elison murmured beside his godson and superior, sending death glares at the German's back.

"A quarter hour is better than nothing," Ryan answered, and glanced at Harrison. "Pass word to the others, Len. We have a quarter hour to rest."

The lieutenant nodded. "Thank you, Ryan," he murmured. He and Connor had become friends even before D-Day, and their cohesion together with Elison did wonders for the others. Groaning and sighing, the men sat down in the snow along the street – a line of men that was almost 700 meters (0,4 miles) long; as they started their 'journey' the line had been more than a kilometer (0,6 miles).

Like this, Schmidt, Fuhrmann, and six other SS men found the men and their guards. As Schmidt's staff car drove down the road, he saw the first sitting shapes, and the Oberleutnant's reaction changed from surprise about their early arrival to shock because of the men's condition. Expressionless eyes were lifted in thin, bearded faces. Boney fingers clung to holey blankets. Otherwise none of the POWs showed any response. Some of them leaned against their comrades, some simply sat there as if the world had ceased to exist.

"Sweet Lord, I never saw such a sorry sight," Fuhrmann murmured.

"These men have been through hell," Schmidt whispered, knowing that German POWs in the east faced likewise torment. 'Humanity' seemed to be lost in the world.

They reached the head of the column, and Schmidt asked Fuhrmann to stop the car as he saw a man with the insignias of a major flanked by a few guards standing on the road; talking with each other but now looking towards the arriving vehicle. The SS-officer and Schmidt locked eyes, and Horst knew instantly that he faced one of those men who had been stripped of all sympathy and mercy.

He left the car and tipped his temple in a short salute. "Oberleutnant Horst Schmidt, leader of the Gestapo- and SS-Headquarters in Hammelburg," he introduced himself.

"Major Artur Hartmann, Sturmbandführer of the Totenkopf-SS east." He cocked his head. "I hope our presence here doesn't hinder you on your current employment, Herr Obersturmführer."

Schmidt kept his face expressionless as he heard how the major used the SS-title equivalents. He had never liked them. He preferred the old officer titles.

"Your presence is my current employment, Herr Major," he answered. "I'm here at the request of the acting Kommandant of Stalag 13 to keep him updated about the time of arrival of the expected POWs."

"How far away is it 'til Stalag 13?" Hartmann asked.

"Approximately 4 km (2,5 miles)," Schmidt replied, and the major grimaced.

"Usually the Kommandant could expect us in two or three hours, but seeing how sluggish this filth has become, I don't think we'll make it before the afternoon begins."

Schmidt glared at him. "Those men are exhausted, not sluggish. And concerning the 'filth': If they would have had the chance to wash properly like you and your men had, they would be cleaner." He couldn't know that Connor had said something likewise only two days ago. Ignoring Hartmann's scowl, he turned towards the POWs, which sat at the head of the column. "May I ask who is the Senior Officer of all you?" he asked politely.

Connor had watched the black clad man and was a little bit relieved to hear that the SS-officer addressed them in an absolute passable English. Carefully he rose, grateful as Elison did the same and steadied him from behind. "Lt. Colonel Ryan Connor," he introduced himself, trying to fight the dizziness that awoke in him.

Schmidt took a closer look at the American. He was from the infantry, sported – like all the others – a full, thick beard and seemed to consist only of skin and bones. He looked ill and exhausted, yet he straightened his thin frame that trembled slightly. The man was about to reach his limits.

"Oberleutnant Horst Schmidt," the German replied, and closed the distance to the other male. Even here, in the clear fresh air, he could smell the stench of unwashed clothes and bodies, and it shook him. If he compared the POWs of Stalag 13 with those poor bastards, which were mostly officers, he felt deep anger rising in him. How dare Hartmann treat men of equal or likewise ranks like this! There were laws and rules how to handle POWs, and especially officers, yet neither Hartmann, nor his underlings, seemed to have taken protocol into consideration. It was more than a shame. It was a crime!

He controlled his anger and said neutrally, but also kindly, "Lt. Colonel, like I already told Major Hartmann, I'm here on request of the current Kommandant of Stalag 13, Schultz. He wants to know when to expect you and how you are after this…harsh trip."

"He has some fantasy to answer the last part of the question, does he?" Connor murmured, but instead of a rebuke, he earned an understanding nod from the German.

"Yes, he does. And we already heard from General Burkhalter, who sent the train for you by the way, that you lost comrades during this 'transfer'. Many of you have to be in need for medical treatment, and he needs to know what to expect. The camp has only a medic and a young man, who has begun his study of medicine. But Kommandant Schultz and I assume that some of your comrades are going to need more than those two can handle. If so, we will call a doctor from Ham…"

"We have doctors among us, Lieutenant," Connor interrupted him quietly, but also firmly. "We don't need a damn NS-charlatan who could use the given chance to run experiments on us."

"Connor!" Hartmann snapped, and stepped beside Schmidt. "You should thank this man on your knees that he even offers some medical help instead of…" He stopped as a gloved hand was risen, and the Gestapo man gave him a stern glance.

"Herr Major, I can speak for myself. And concerning the Lt. Colonel's concerns, I can understand him. I know that there were and still are German doctors who forgot their sworn oath of helping and healing people instead of harming them further." Horst drove his attention back to Connor. "The camp works together with the Hammelburg hospital. The senior staff member, Dr. Birkhorn, is a decent man and even respected among the POWs of Stalag 13. You can trust him and his team. I'm sure you're going to need his assistance, because even if you have some doctors among your comrades, they're obviously patients now, too."

He returned the skeptical look of the American officer, who replied carefully, "Real support would be very welcomed, but what my men need the most is a place to rest and recover from the exertions."

"And that's the fly in the ointment, so to say," Schmidt said quietly. "Because there's a little problem at the camp." He turned half towards Hartmann. "The camp and I only learned of your arrival two days ago."

"WHAT?" Hartmann gasped, outraged.

"Yes, and you can imagine that the preparations are not fully done by now. To say the truth, the new Barracks can start being built in maybe two or three days – when more room has been made in the camp by clearing out some of the woods. The Senior POW Officer, Colonel Hogan, and the current Kommandant Schultz have…"

"A full colonel is in an ordinary Stalag?" Connor cut in, baffled enough to forget his exhaustion and caution for a moment.

"Yes," Schmidt nodded, and smiled for a moment. "You will see that Stalag 13 differs a lot from anything else." He cleared his throat. "Well, Kommandant Schultz and Colonel Hogan came up with the idea to make room in several official buildings of the camp. Approximately 300 of your men will find a place there. The rest has to be crowded in the existing Barracks together with privates and non-coms. It will be very tight, but…"

Connor lifted one shoulder. "I don't think that anyone of us will care. We only want a roof over our heads, a place to sleep, and something to eat, that's all."

"A little walk through the snow can pull anybody down on the carpet," Hartmann mocked.

"I don't think that this 'joke' is fitting, Herr Major. Many men died – men you were responsible for. Despite the fact that we are at war, some rules are still existing, among them the Geneva Conventions you obviously ignored completely," Schmidt snapped before Connor could say anything. With big eyes, the Lt. Colonel and Elison stared at the Gestapo officer, as well as a few other POW officers who still sat in the snow. Could it be that here was a man who hadn't forgotten what humanity meant? Was here for once a member of one of the cursed SS-units who was decent and honorable?

"Yes, we are at war – and I don't think a policeman can join the talk when soldiers are speaking of the harsh time at the front," Hartmann replied icily. How dare this pseudo ranker to reprimand him.

Schmidt smiled coldly at him. "I wouldn't dream of 'joining the talk of soldiers' who fought at the front. But seeing that you tramped through the lands and your only task was to watch over exhausted POWs, I don't think that you can join 'this talk of soldiers', too." He turned his attention back to Connor. "I will accompany you and your men to Stalag 13 to make certain that all of you make it to the camp."

Ryan cocked his head again. Why did he have the gut feeling that the Gestapo man didn't refer to any eventual escape attempts, but to their safety?

Hartmann snorted, shook his head, and growled, "To spare us both time we could use more reasonably, we shall move on." He rose his voice. "All up! Let's go!"

Soft groans and quiet protests were to be heard, while the men began to rise slowly.

"Hurry up!" the major shouted. "Dieker, hurry them up!" he snapped at one of his underlings, who instantly began to yell at the POWs.

Schmidt crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I don't know what you want to prove with screaming at completely tired out people, but…" He was interrupted as a sort of dispute started only a little bit away.

"He'll walk, promise. Just give us a moment." This was American English.

"If this piglet is not on his feet within the next ten seconds, he can rest here forever," one of the guards shouted back, rifle risen.

It seemed to be impossible, but Connor paled even more than he already was. "NO!" He gasped. "Good God, not the boy!" He wanted to limp towards the rising quarrel, but one of Hartmann's guards pointed his gun at him. An American lieutenant and the sergeant gripped for Connor's arm, who called, "Major, for God's sake, the boy is only 18!" There was fear in his eyes.

"Please, he's my brother!" screamed the first voice again – and Schmidt knew what was about to happen.

"Fuhrmann, with me," he growled, and began to run down the road.

Steven Martins held his younger brother in his arms and shielded him with his own body, looking pleadingly up to the guard who aimed at them. "Please, we'll carry him, but…" An outcry was torn from his lips, as brutal fingers gripped for the collar at his neck and tried to pull him up – away from Evan, who lay trembling and barely conscious beneath him.

"Out of my way, or I'll shoot you too," the guard snarled.

A corporal and a second lieutenant tried to interfere by arguing with the guard, who got support from a comrade. Steven pulled Evan closer to him, despair written all over his teary face as he looked up at the guard. "Please, leave him alone. I…"

"You know the rules," the guard hissed, and tried again to separate him from his brother.

"STOP!" a strange voice yelled. An arm clad in black appeared, while strong fingers clasped the guard's wrist and tore his weapon hand up. A shot rang out as the guard pulled the trigger by accident, but the bullet vanished into the skies. With blurred sight, Steven glanced at the man in black SS-uniform, who pushed the guard back and placed himself between the members of the Totenkopf-SS and the prisoners.

"Are you crazy?" the guard snapped, but shut up the moment Schmidt lifted his chin and barked,

"Stand to attention when you speak with an officer, Private, or you'll be court martialed!" He glanced over his shoulder down on the young American, who held another young male in his arms; begging with wet eyes for help.

"Has this man tried to escape? Or did he attack you?" Schmidt addressed the guard again, furious of what almost happened.

"No, but…"

"Then you had no right to aim at him or…"

"Schmidt, don't intervene with my men's job." Hartmann came to a halt beside him and glared daggers at him. "If this rotten trash can't keep up, then…"

"Your underling was about to murder this boy, and…" Horst was interrupted again, as the major hissed,

"You have no power of order over my men or this filth here, so mind your own business. I got the strict order…"

"And there you're wrong, Major Hartmann," Schmidt cut in, with strong authority in his voice and straightened frame. "This road belongs to the town area of Hammelburg, and is therefore my jurisdiction. Here I am in charge, and besides the fact that I'm responsible for the people's safety in this area, I also belong to the police. And for the case that you have forgotten it, policemen have the duty to prevent crimes. And what your underling did was attempted murder." He looked at the guard. "If you or one of your comrades tries again to harm one of these men here without any real reason, I'll make certain that charges will be pressed against you. Do I make myself clear?"

The man stared at him and finally at his superior, who sent him away with the wave of a hand. Grumbling, the guard obeyed.

Connor and Harrison had been allowed to close the distance to the scene, Elison at their side. Disbelievingly, the three Americans had listened to the short argument between their tormentor and the Gestapo officer and looked with large eyes at the younger one of the two black clad men before Connor glanced down on the two brothers, utterly relieved as he saw that Evan Martins was still alive.

"If you think you can undermine my authority, Schmidt, you'll have a big problem," Hartmann said dangerously quietly, turning Connor's attention back to the two Germans.

"Like I already pointed out, Herr Major, here I'm in charge," Horst replied, using English so that the POWs could understand him, too. "The Gestapo doesn't need to explain itself to anyone – not even to a SS-major who obviously has problems with protocol and law. Be careful that I don't make you responsible for what almost happened." Schmidt knew that he was playing a risky game, but this insanity would stop here and now.

Brusquely turning around, he glanced down on the mere young man, who still lay on the ground and was held by the other male. Three more POW officers cowered around them, ready to shield them.

Schmidt's gaze wandered over the small shape. The boy was trembling and looked unseeingly into the skies. The other young man tried to warm him as good as possible and stroke through his tousled hair. And Horst got the unpleasant gut-feeling that the boy was about to become another prey of this inhumane walk. Kneeling down, he bent over him and met the other young man's desperate yet grateful eyes.

"Thank you," whispered Steven sincere. "Thank you for your help. He's my brother."

Schmidt nodded slowly, stripped off his gloves, and carefully touched the boy's forehead. It was clammy and icy cold. And how far the American was gone became clear as he turned his head into Horst's warm fingers, seeking for anything that could protect him against the low temperature. His breath was unsteady and hollow, while his gaze was glassy.

The Oberleutnant knew the symptoms. "How long has it been since you've eaten?" he asked quietly.

"Yesterday in the early evening – bread and water," Harrison replied behind him, and Schmidt pressed his lips into a thin line.

"No wonder the boy is on the end of his rope." He looked up at his confidant. "Fuhrmann, go to the car and get my packet lunch. Bring also the vacuum flask with the tea. And tell Huber to contact our HQ. Our trucks shall come."

"Understood," Fuhrmann answered calmly, and gave his superior a smile. He heard how whispers rose among the POWs around them, bafflement and disbelief in their voices and on their ashen faces. With quick steps, he headed to the staff car to get the required items.

Schmidt watched the older man hurrying back to the car before he opened his coat and slipped out of it. Carefully, he spread the thick material over Evan, ignoring the sharp intakes of breaths of many POWs and even Hartmann, who grimaced in disgust.

"Good God," the major scorned, before he rose his voice. "Men, we have a Samaritan among us," he mocked, which made a few guards laugh.

"Bastard," one of the kneeling POW officers hissed beneath his breath, glaring furiously at Hartmann.

"I've been called worse," Schmidt shrugged. "I don't care for a monster's opinion." He bent over the young soldier he saved. "Hold on, m'boy," he said softly. "What's your name?"

He got no answer, but the other young man said hoarsely, "Evan Martins, and I'm Steven."

Schmidt nodded. "Evan, do you hear me?" Those glassy eyes wandered into his direction. "Evan, you have to hold on. I ordered some trucks to pick you and your comrades up, who are too exhausted. You don't have to walk anymore and will be in camp within an hour. A warm bed and nourishment await you. You made it so far, so don't give up, okay?"

"Maybe someone has a teddy bear for him, too," Hartmann taunted.

"Your comments show that there is indeed someone here who is still immature, but it's certainly not that boy," Schmidt deadpanned, without sparing the major even a glance.

"You're wearing black, but the wrong uniform. A soutane would fit you better," the major scoffed.

"The Lord's soldiers wear different outfits – just like the devil's ones," Horst answered calmly.

Harrison and Connor exchanged a glance. Sweet Lord, had Lady Fortuna for once have mercy on them and sent this man to protect them?

Fuhrmann returned and offered Schmidt the packet that held a few slices of bread with toppings, shooting the major a nasty glare. He had heard the last few sentences and felt anger on Schmidt's behalf. The Oberleutnant did what every decent man should do, and this demon in grey had the nerve to mock him.

"Thank you, Fuhrmann," Horst said. Without hesitation, he took two slices and offered them to Steven. "Here, feed your brother. But not too much at once, or he'll get sick. Take some of the bread for yourself, too." He opened the vacuum flask and filled some tea into the cap. "Be careful. It's very hot," he said softly, and placed the cup into the snow. Giving the vacuum flask back to Fuhrmann, he picked up his gloves, tugged them into the pockets of his trousers, rose and turned towards Connor. The American seemed to only be still on his feet because of a big portion of stubbornness. Somehow this was almost familiar. When he thought of another American officer he knew well by now.

"Herr Oberleutnant, I spoke with our fleet manager. He is sending three trucks, but it will be a half an hour or so," Huber reported, as he stopped beside his CO.

"Very good. It's a chance for these men to find some rest," Horst replied, and simply ignored the evil glances of the major before he addressed Connor. "Lt. Colonel, I know that Mr. Martins isn't the only one who has reached his limits. How many of your men have to be transported?"

Ryan hesitated. Yes, the lieutenant had saved Evan Martins and made it clear that he didn't allow any brutalities. On the other hand, Connor had been forced to watch over and over again how comrades had been shot only because they were too tired to go on.

Schmidt recognized the reason for Connor's hesitation and added, "I already told you that I'll take care that everyone makes it to the camp. This is the best way to keep my word and to help your comrades who are too weak."

Connor took a deep breath; making a decision. "There are four more I'm deeply worried about. They're in the same condition like Evan. But…I also know of at least a few dozen who are not far away from dropping, too."

Cursing quietly, Schmidt pondered everything for a moment. "Fuhrmann, give the rest of the bread and tea to those four men. I'm sure the sergeant over there can show you them." He nodded into Elison's direction.

"Sir?" Bryan asked formally, and his godson nodded.

"I think we can trust him. Show them the others."

"Take care of him," the sergeant said to the lieutenant, who simply nodded while Connor rolled his eyes for a moment. And Schmidt was certain to hear 'Mother hen' beneath the man's breath. When and where had he heard this 'title' before? Ah yes, in Stalag 13.

With deep distrust on his face, Elison nodded at Fuhrmann and began to walk down the line of sitting POWs. For a moment, Schmidt realized that those two older men had one thing in common: Young superiors. And obviously both were hell-bent to support their COs not only out of duty. Well, wasn't this familiar, too?

"If you want to give half of this trash a ride, you need a few trucks more than three," Hartmann sneered, determined to report this 'crazy Gestapo officer' to Berlin at the next given chance. Who did this boy think he was to give him – Artur Hartmann, major of the SS – orders?

"Thank you, I'm able to count two and two together," Schmidt answered wryly, and turned towards Huber. "There is the carrying company, Hainzer, in the northwest of Hammelburg. Contact our HQ again and tell Weber that he has to speak with Hainzer. We need every available truck and even those which are otherwise engaged. He'll get paid for it, but first he has to send the trucks. And then I need a connection to Stalag 13."

Huber saluted and jogged back to Schmidt's staff car.

Schmidt lifted his cap and combed his fingers through his thick hair. This would be a long day.

TBC…

Well, Schmidt acted like every decent man should. And the whole scene was only an example of many evil incidents which happened in the last weeks of the war. I'm even sure that men like Schmidt were endangered by the own 'comrades' because they were regarded as traitors. The history book is full of such reports, and Schmidt will have problems with Hartmann later.

One thing more. The named numbers of losses isn't historical, because it's not known. I also changed the names of the officers and I also skipped from letting them call themselves the 'Kriegis', like the POWs of Camp 64 called themselves for real (from 'Kriegs-Gefangener' = POW), yet the mentioned newspaper within the camp did exist and was even published in the US whenever the Red Cross could get an edition from it and sent it to America. Like this the families of the POWs were informed of their beloveds' fate.

The whole background of what is happening in Coblenz is real, too, including numbers, divisions, etc. And you're going to 'meet' Max again…

In the next chapter, the POWs of Camp 64 will arrive Stalag 13, and utterly chaos breaks lose. And, of course, Hartmann is the type of guy who would never accept a non-com like Schultz in an important position. It's time for Klink to ignore his pain, to fight his injury and to show everyone, who is the Kommandant of Stalag 13 – and Lt. Colonel Connor thinks he's in a parallel universe…

I hope, you enjoyed the new chapter. And like always, I'm eager to get feedback and to receive some comments.

Love

Yours Starflight