Hi, my dear readers,

Thank you for the big feedback. I'm happy that you like this part of the story, even if it is rather dark, yet I think the humanity that is also shown, makes a little bit up for it.

And this continues within this chapter. Schmidt reacts all too human, not caring what others think of it, who wear a likewise kind of uniform like he does. And while he tries to help the newcomers as much as he can, the last preparations in Stalag 13 are about to be done. And then the real chaos starts, because what the wind (the trucks) are bringing to the camp's gates is almost too much even for Hogan. And the first new POWs are beginning to wonder, what kind of camp Stalag 13 is for real.

Enjoy,

Love

Yours Starflight

Chapter 81 – Utter chaos

Hands stemmed into his hips, Robert Hogan watched how the roof paper was nailed on the wooden beams of the framework. Slowly the former motor pool changed into a large, round mess hall that offered room for more than fifty tables and needed chairs. The first group of tables were already brought over, while in the Barracks, the stock beds were budged up and the first new ones were risen. Others carried the mattresses, pillows, and blankets to the huts, while others brought the bed cloths.

In the kitchen, LeBeau and a few POW cooks together with the camp's cooks were preparing food, while in the south the noises of axes and saws continued, interruptions of cheers at every successful clearing out.

Schultz stepped beside Hogan. "I never thought that we would make progress this quickly. Your men are doing miracles here," he said quietly.

"We do this for our comrades. It's not labor work, but…"

"SERGEEEEAAAANT SCHUUUUULTZ!"

Both men gaped at each other as they heard the female scream that seemed to pierce everything in a circle of a hundred meters.

"What's the matter with Fraulein Hilda?" Schultz gasped.

"Maybe this 'matter' has the size of a hand palm, is black, and has eight legs?" Hogan suggested anything but serious.

"At this time of year?" Hans shook his head. "No. Fraulein Hilda isn't afraid of spiders. Believe me, last summer she even…"

"SCHUUUUUUUULTTTTZZZZIIIIIEEEEE!"

"Sweet Lord, I have to tell her that she can't call me that while I'm the Kommandant," the large Bavarian groaned, then he and Hogan realized that something indeed must have happened that provoked such behavior from the young woman. Whirling around, both began to jog towards the Kommandantur. Never before they had heard Hilda shout, but now she seemed to use her voice at the top of her lungs. Something was wrong; no doubt about it.

POWs and guards made room for the two men as they all but raced to the office building, where the young woman stood on the porch looking for them. As she saw the two males, she hurried down the wooden steps onto the compound and ran towards them.

"Sergeant Schultz, I have Hor…Oberleutnant Schmidt on the radio in Klink's office," she panted as she reached them.

"And then you scream for rescue? I thought you love him," Robert joked, but shut up as she shot him one of those special glares that makes any man close his mouth.

"The new POWs are already on the main street between Hammelburg and here," Hilda addressed Schultz. "And he says they're in serious need for help."

Every kind of fun left Hogan. He flinched, pressed his lips into a thin line, and hurried up. He reached the Kommandantur a lot earlier than Schultz with his large weight or Hilda with her fine boots. Not caring for any protocol or the thunderstruck expression of one of the guards within the anteroom, he entered Klink's office and picked up the microphone of the radio behind Klink's desk.

"Schmidt? It's me, Colonel Hogan. What about our comrades?" he all but demanded.

He heard a sigh, followed by the familiar voice. "Colonel, as much as I understand you, I have to speak with Sergeant Schultz, so…"

"Colonel Hogan, really!" Schultz wheezed, as he reached the desk and pulled the microphone away from the American's hand; giving him a stern glance while taking off his steal helmet to use the headset. "Herr Oberleutnant, Sergeant Schultz here. What's the matter?" He listened and frowned. "What? Only four kilometers away…" He glanced first at Hogan, who seemed ready to burst with tension, and then at Hilda, who had crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Yes, yes, I understand. Of course I'll send our truck. It'll be there in ten minutes. Send the men over and…What? Yes, we're ready to accommodate the first two or three hundred of them. If the rest can wait until…" He listened again and his already irritated face flushed even more. "Dammit. To hell with those bastards! They should ro…" He listened anew and sighed. "Okay, we'll do our best. Just keep the men safe. Goodbye." He switched off the connection and put the headset down together with the microphone.

"What's going on?" Hogan asked sharply, his sometimes so boyish manners had vanished completely. Now he only was the stern high ranking officer who carried more responsibility than any man should.

"Almost half of the men are too exhausted to walk properly, and a few even collapsed," Schultz grumbled and walked quickly to the entrance of the Kommandantur. "LAAAAAANGEEEENSCHEEEEIIIIDT!" he shouted square over the compound, before he turned to one of the two guards at the door. "Make our truck ready. You and four of your comrades will accompany Langenscheidt to pick up…"

"Herr Kommandant?" Karl asked out of breath, as he stopped near the stairs and saluted. Unsettled, he saw how stirred up Schultz was – and how furious Hogan's expression was.

"Take our truck and drive the main road along to Hammelburg. Approximately four kilometers from here you'll find the new POWs. Oberleutnant Schmidt just called and told me that many of them are barely able to walk – five of them have broken down. Get them and the other weaker ones on the loading bed. The senior POW officer of the column is a Lt. Colonel Connor. He, Schmidt, and a few others will show you who is in greatest need for transport. Schmidt also ordered his HQ to send over the SS-trucks and also ordered some more vehicles from Hainzer in Hammelburg. Take Kleiber with you, too, so that one of you two can stay with the newcomers, while our truck shuttles back and forth. If we organize a transit ride of all trucks, we can transport the weakest men to the camp within a short range of time."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Langenscheidt nodded, before he asked quietly, "Shall I take some blankets with me?"

"Yes. If I understood our young friend Schmidt correctly, who was in a great hurry, many of the men are suffering from the coldness. Their blankets are rather rags than anything else."

"God dammit!" Hogan snarled, hands balled into fists.

Schultz lay a hand on his shoulder. "Stay calm, Colonel. The men have almost made it. And we'll make certain that they reach our camp without too much effort now." He looked back at Langenscheidt. "Hurry up, Karl, and…"

"I'm on my way," Langenscheidt interrupted his friend and current CO. Saluting, he turned around. The camp's truck jolted towards the gates and stopped with squealing breaks. Shouldering his rifle, Langenscheidt jogged over the compound and shouted for Kleiber before giving orders to get blankets. Five minutes later, everything was packed, and Karl climbed into the passenger seat, while Kleiber and five guards sat down on the cargo bed. The truck left the camp with as much tempo as was possible given the snowy street.

Hogan had wrapped both arms around him, face dark. "Hurry up, Charly," he whispered. "For God's sake, hurry up. I'm certain a few boys need you for survival!"

*** HH ***

Schmidt hooked the microphone of the radio up and left the car. Instantly it became colder, even if the car inside wasn't warm at all. But only in shirt and jacket it was really freezing, yet Horst didn't regret to cover the American boy with his coat. The young man was a few hair widths away from death, and Schmidt was determined to get the boy through the crisis.

He saw Hartmann, one of his non-coms, and two guards standing together ten meters away or so, talking quietly with each other, faces grim. Schmidt felt some satisfaction. It was obvious that the major wasn't used to meeting with resistance or that someone didn't shrink back because of his uniform and behavior. But law was clear in such cases: Within town area the Stapo (state police) and the Gestapo had the say when it came to the people's safety. And approximately a thousand POWs could effect the people's safety a lot, therefore Schmidt could fully play his authority even if said POWs never sat a foot into town.

Law gave men in his position an authority he tried to use carefully. In Germany, material war was in place; should also an emergency situation be declared, the appropriate Gestapo or SS officer could undertake the complete authority of the effected town, replacing even the burgomaster and the aldermen. Horst hoped that it would never come to this case in Hammelburg.

Outside of the town area the Wehrmacht and/or SS was responsible for the civilians' safety. And this was the sticking point. Technically, the road belonged to Hammelburg's area and was therefore within the range of his responsibility. Yet the street was outside of the city limit. If Hartmann learned of the latter, Schmidt would be in trouble because to tell the truth, he had no authority over the major here, half the way between the town and Stalag 13.

Wrapping his arms around himself, Schmidt was glad as one of his own men appeared at his side and spread a blanket around his shoulders. "Here, before you catch a cold, Herr Oberleutnant," the man murmured, and Horst smiled at him.

"Thanks," he said quietly, shivering as the material blocked at least the coldness a little bit. His gaze found Connor, who slowly returned to the column's head. His steps were uneven, and Horst assumed that the American officer was really about to reach his limits. The lieutenant was with him once again and helped him to sit down.

'They're friends,' he realized, as he also remembered the short intermezzo of 'mother-hens'. Their behavior towards each other was like Hogan and his men. He watched how Connor began to speak with the other POW officers near him and closed the distance to them.

Any talk stopped instantly as he reached them. "I spoke with the current Kommandant of Stalag 13," he said to the Lt. Colonel. "He is sending the camp's truck to pick up the first of your men. Five further trucks from a carrying company can be expected within an hour. Our three trucks will come, too. When they arrive, we need your help to pick those who are most exhausted." He looked over the long line of sitting men. "But when I see your comrades, I think they all should be transported."

Connor bit his lips before he asked hoarsely, "Why do you care? Why are you helping us?"

Schmidt's blue eyes bore into the green ones of Ryan. "Because it's the right thing to do – because despite the war, one thing should never be forgotten: We're all humans." He heard mockingly laughter from Hartmann and shot a glance into the major's direction, who listened amusedly to one of his men. Obviously they made fun of someone else, maybe him. "Well, at least most of us are still humans. Some definitely have lost the right to be called that," he murmured.

Connor snorted and shook his head in disbelief. "You're a decent man. After what my comrades and I went through, I never thought to say this to a German ever again, but in your case, I can make an exception."

"Thanks," Schmidt said simply. Then he nodded towards his car. "Do you want to take a seat in there? It's a little warmer and…"

"Thank you, Lieutenant, but no. I don't want to offend you, and I'm grateful for your offer, but my place is among my comrades."

A smile rushed over Horst's face. "I understand you," he answered. "But you really should use the time to rest. As you returned from Mr. Martins' side a minute ago, you look ready to drop."

Ryan pursed his lips. "I am tired, yes, but I will not rest until the last of my comrades are safe in the camp. It's not that I distrust you in this matter, but I know Hartmann – regrettably. He's a killer, and I've lost too many comrades because of him and his butchers to turn my back towards him. I cannot drop. Not when it comes to the safety of my men."

Schmidt nodded slowly. "You sound like Colonel Hogan. I think you two will get along well."

Tightening the holey material of the blanket around his thin frame, Connor couldn't suppress his curiosity. "Stalag 13 belongs to the Luftwaffe, as far as I learned. So Colonel Hogan is a member of the Air Corps?"

"Yes, he's a colonel of the US Army Air Corps – an honorable man. He is well-respected among the other POWs and even among the German non-coms and a few guards." He watched how Connor and a few others skeptically tilted their heads and added, "And before you ask: No, he doesn't sympathize with Germany. He's an utter patriot of the USA who even picks quarrels with General Burkhalter. But he differs between Nazis and other Germans, and he doesn't judge the heritage, but the character. He doesn't care if someone is a general, a non-com, or a simple private, or if someone is white or black. Inner values count more for him, and that's something I admire."

Harrison frowned for a moment. "You seem to know him very well."

"I had a few tasks within the last two months which involved Stalag 13. And when you visit the camp you have no chance to avoid him," Schmidt chuckled. "You could say that he is everywhere." He turned serious again. "How is Mr. Martins doing?"

Connor sighed. "Not good. One of our doctors, Lt. Commander Dr. Ashton, is with him and his brother, and trying to keep him awake. Ashton fears that he won't wake up again if he falls asleep."

Schmidt sighed and rubbed his face. He really wished the first trucks would arrive soon. And five minutes later, his wish came true. Motor noises sounded through the air from afar, and straightening his shape, Schmidt looked down the road. A grin spread over his face as he recognized the grey truck from the camp. "Has one of the gentlemen called a cab?" he asked the little group that had gathered around Connor, and his little attempt of a joke earned him one or other chuckling. Ignoring Hartmann's piercing gaze, he stepped in the middle of the road and waved both arms. He saw a slightly familiar face beside the driver and realized that Schultz had sent his own substitute: Langenscheidt.

The truck stopped beside Schmidt, and Karl winded down the window. "Herr Oberleutnant," he greeted with a respectful salute. "Kommandant Schultz sent me to pick up the first of the POWs who are too exhausted to continue the way on their own. Which ones shall we take with us first?"

"I'll show you," Schmidt replied, and saw how Langenscheidt's attention was suddenly driven towards the road behind him. Turning around, he saw the US staff sergeant returning together with Fuhrmann.

As they reached the truck, Fuhrmann reported, "Sergeant Elison showed me those who are in need for a transport, sir. Carefully calculated, it's half of the men. Besides the boy, there are seven more POWs in critical condition."

"Seven? Lt. Colonel Connor spoke of four more and…"

Elison shook his head. "Two more broke down. The third is about to collapse, too."

Schmidt cursed quietly and looked up at Langenscheidt, whose face betrayed worry. "Corporal, follow me. Fuhrmann, you come with me, too. We have to get those men as soon as possible. Sergeant Elison, sit down and rest. We'll take over from here." He began to jog up the road, Fuhrmann – who had given the empty vacuum flask to a comrade – remained at his side, while the truck drove after them.

Elison stared after the men and the truck, and closed the distance with staggering steps to his godson, who steadied him as soon as Brady reached him.

"Sit down," Ryan said softly. "You're about to become the next one who breaks down."

"The damn Krauts can wait 'til the cows come home before I break down," Elison grumbled, and rubbed his full, tousled beard. "But this sergeant I went with – Fuhrmann – he…he is okay. Tried to help and even feed Ericson some of the bread the SS-lieutenant gave him."

Connor nodded slowly. "Maybe we really met people who still have a human heart."

Schmidt and the others had reached the Martins brothers in the meantime, and Horst bent over the boy. A man in the middle of his forties and the older of the two brothers tried to keep Evan awake.

A door clapped as Langenscheidt left the truck, and the four guards jumped down from the cargo bed, led by a shocked Kleiber. The corporal lifted both brows as he saw Schmidt's black coat spread over a frame, knowing now why the Oberleutnant was covered with a blanket: He had given his coat to one of the POWs.

Langenscheidt stopped beside Schmidt, realizing the same like Kleiber. 'I imagine Hochstetter seeing this. He would have had a raging fit followed by a stroke,' he thought wryly, then he sobered up as he took a closer look. "Sweet Lord," he murmured, as he saw the far too young face – scarily pale and nothing more than a skull with skin and a big beard.

"Mr. Martins has to be brought to the camp's infirmary as quickly as possible," Schmidt said softly. "The same goes for the other seven. Then those who are utterly exhausted, too. Our trucks and those of Company Hainzer will pick up the next ones."

Langenscheidt nodded, simply gave Fuhrmann his rifle, and bent over the two brothers. "Men, give me hand," he ordered, while he pealed the coat away from the boy. Instantly, the young man began to tremble violently and a whimper escaped him.

"Here," Schmidt said, pulling the blanket away from his shoulders and wrapped Evan with Langenscheidt and Ashton's help into the thick material. "It's okay, m'boy," he said quietly. "You'll be in in a safe room and warm bed soon. Promise."

Steven gave him and the corporal another grateful gaze. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you so very, very much."

Schmidt rose, took his coat, and slipped into it, while Langenscheidt and two camp guards carefully picked the thin body up. Steven regained his feet with Dr. Ashton's help and staggered behind the Germans towards the backside of the truck. Kleiber jumped onto it and helped his comrades steer the boy onto the cargo bed. Steven was about to fallow, but Langenscheidt held him back.

"First those who are in greatest need," he said, and met the desperate glance of the other man.

"Please," Steven said hoarsely. "He's my brother. I'm responsible for him. I promised our parents to…"

Karl groaned, closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded in defeat towards the cargo bed. "There you go," he grumbled, knowing that his compassion would get him into trouble if Schmidt – and Klink – were different men.

Steven, who had reached the end of his own strengths – especially the mental ones – felt tears of relief rising in his eyes. "Thank you," he croaked, and climbed onto the truck, surprised as the German guard helped him.

Schmidt closed his coat and shivered. Dr. Ashton stepped towards him. "Sir, are the rumors true? You have no surgeon in your camp?"

'I' Horst repeated in mind and asked himself since when Stalag 13 had become 'his' camp, but let the little slip go. "Yes. The camp has a medic and young man who had begun to study medicine as he was…'recruited'."

Ashton nodded. "So those two are going to need some help. I'm Dr. Hank Ashton. If you allow, I'll accompany the first transport to give the medic a hand."

Schmidt pursed his lips. "Okay," he agreed. "But take care of yourself, too, Doctor. You look like you will fall asleep on your feet any minute." He gave the man a polite nod and helped him to climb onto the cargo bed, then he gestured Fuhrmann to continue the way up the road. There was room for twenty men on the load bed, and the sooner they had the critical patients on it, the better.

Langenscheidt stepped beside him, his gaze hung for a moment at the tired out men along the side of the road. "What a mess," he murmured.

Schmidt grimaced and made an agreeing gesture with his head. "You're right. What here happened is a scandal." He glanced down into the dirty snow and took a deep breath. "I can already hear Colonel Hogan raging." He snorted. "I can really hear him."

Karl made a face. "Me too."

*** HH ***

Schultz had given Klink an update, while Hogan had remained outside, hurrying up the other men and lending a hand wherever needed. As the truck had left camp, he knew that they had half an hour at best and were running out of time. The beds in the infirmary, the casino, the officers' mess, and the former rec hall were ready to be used. Jugs with water and bread with cheese were brought to the buildings to feed the first newcomers. Wilson had given orders to mix some sugar and salt into the water to rise the men's blood sugar and cover at least a little bit of the symptoms of deficiency the men certainly sported, too.

The roof of the former motor pool wasn't completely closed, yet there was no time left to wait for the eager hands to finish the job. POWs brought the tables and chairs from their Barracks to the new 'mess hall' to make room for the needed stock beds in the huts. Most of the men were even running while carrying the furniture. The beating, sawing, and pounding filled the whole camp, added by shouted orders and reports of done task to Hogan, Kinch, and Schultz.

"It's coming!" Carter's scream from the compound's front alerted Hogan instantly.

"Kinch, Newkirk, tell Wilson and Hausner to come with the stretchers!" the colonel yelled, while he jogged towards the main gate, dozens of POWs following him. It was clear that at least the five newcomers Schmidt had spoken of wouldn't be able to reach the infirmary on their own.

Impatiently, Hogan waited until the main gates were opened, and the truck entered Stalag 13. He became even more nervous as he saw that the driver moved the vehicle in a circle and parked it with the back towards the infirmary, shortening the distance between the truck and building.

"If you ask me, this looks really bad," Schultz murmured, as he stepped beside the colonel.

Two guards jumped down from the cargo bed, while Kleiber left the passenger seat. "Get the stret…" He began to yell, but stopped as he saw a few POWs already coming with three stretchers out of the infirmary, Wilson and Hausner on their heels, Newkirk and Kinch following.

Hogan didn't wait any second later and ran towards the truck.

"Colonel Hogan!" Schultz protested and began to hurry after him.

The back part of the cargo bed was opened, and Hogan gasped as he saw the thin, partly cowering, partly lying figures wrapped in the camp's blankets and barely moving.

"Hurry," Kleiber ordered his men, as he stopped at Hogan's right side and helped the first POW down, who couldn't keep his feet. Robert didn't waste a second to catch him, while Kleiber did the same.

"Easy, fella," Hogan said softly and met the man's reddened, almost unfocused eyes. He felt the younger officer trembling and heard his hollow breath. Tensing his muscles, he all but carried the man to the first stretcher and helped him lie down on it. Behind him the next POWs of Camp 64 were eased down onto the ground.

"Was für eine Schweinerei." (What a mess.) Schultz had reached them and looked shocked at the new prisoners, who were indeed handed down from the cargo bed, too weak to do anything on their own.

Suddenly a young man – an American of the Infantry – appeared on the end of the cargo bed and helped the German guards move another man. No, this was a mere boy. Somewhere at the end of his teens.

"Be careful with him," Kleiber said, and reached for the GI, as the thin frame was placed at the edge of the cargo bed. The other young man watched everything fearfully and held the boy's head with trembling hands.

"Jesus, Maria, und Josef!" Schultz gasped. Without hesitation, he pressed his rifle into Newkirk's hands and clasped his big arms around the boy's body, lifting him from the truck as if he weighted nothing. He felt the youth shivering and whimpering, realized the uneven breath and met confused, teary eyes. "Hold on, son, you're safe now," he said gently. Despite the fact that the boy had the wrong eye color and sported a beard worthy of Rasputin, he somehow saw one of his own children in him. A kid on the threshold to becoming a man and hurting while at the end of his limits. Hans pulled the boy into a hug, trying to warm him. "It's all right, Bua (Bavarian for boy). You made it. We will nurse you back to health."

Steven, who ignored the iciness in his bones, his stomach burning of hunger, and the dizziness of exhaustion, stared with large eyes at the German officer – no, non-com. The man held Evan in his arms, worry in round, blue eyes and shock on the aging face. He heard him whisper words of comfort, and for a few seconds, he was convinced that he had fallen unconscious and was only dreaming now. Then he saw a man in the US Air Corps uniform rushing to Evan's and the German's side, crush cap shoved into the neck.

"Sweet Lord." The officer put a hand on Evan's forehead, exchanged an alerted gaze with the large German, and whirled around. "WILSON!"

A man with the badges of an American sergeant came running and spared only one look at Evan. "Into the infirmary with him – now! Hauser, prepare an IV. Carter, get a full bottle of mixed water."

Clear medical instructions. And then Steven's attention was driven for a moment away from his brother towards his surrounding: A lot of huts, men mostly in American uniforms coming to help, a few other men in German uniforms, but doing nothing that was threatening.

'The camp! We're really here,' Steven thought, and a sob rose in his throat. They made it. They had arrived at their new 'home'. Then he remembered Evan. His little brother who was about to fall prey to the murderous walk of the last several weeks.

With tired but determined movements, Steven climbed down from the truck and stumbled. Strong hands caught him as he glanced up he recognized the American officer who had to be at the end of his thirties. His gaze found the silver eagles on the man's collar edges and the rank written on the officer's name badge that was sewed on his bomber jacket, and training kicked in.

"Colonel…" he whispered, and tried to straighten his frame while he slowly lifted his right hand towards his temple, but Hogan had none of it. He caught the young man's hand and said softly,

"At ease, m'friend. No protocol for once." He steadied him by wrapping an arm around his waist and keeping him upright by holding him. "You're safe now."

"Evan…" Steven croaked, and watched with a blurry sight at how the large German carried his younger sibling away. "I have to go with him. He's my brother."

Hogan nodded. "Kinch," he called as he saw the strong frame of his friend coming nearer. "Help him to the infirmary."

More was not necessary. James was with a few steps beside him and supported Steven. "Come with me, buddy. A warm bed and something to eat and drink are waiting for you."

One by one the first newcomers were eased to the ground or climbed out of the truck with the guards' help. Most of them were at least able to stand, eight – including Evan – had to be carried, too weak to move at all.

The last to leave the truck was a man in his middle forties wearing the ragged uniform of the Infantry beneath the plaid he had wrapped around his shoulders. He accepted Kleiber's offered hand, but got down all by himself. His eyes wandered over to Hogan's uniform and saluted with uneasy movements.

"Lt. Commander Dr. Hank Ashton, 9th Infantry Division," he introduced himself with a hoarse voice.

"Colonel Robert Hogan, US Army Air Corps, 504th bomber squadron. Senior POW officer of this camp," Rob returned the politeness and gave the older man a floppy salute. At the sidelines, he realized that the surgeon belonged to the same division that was now fighting at the Rhine River. Where Schultz's youngest son was. Then he concentrated back on the man in front of him. "At ease, Doctor. For now, protocol is suspended. Welcome to Stalag 13."

The surgeon nodded and let his hand sink, tiredness enveloped him like the blanket he had been given by Kleiber before they drove to camp.

"Doctor, how many members of the column are in such a condition?" Hogan asked worried, nodding towards the ten limping figures guided to the infirmary.

"Careful guess? A third," Ashton murmured, and shivered as a gust of wind hit him.

"Langenscheidt thinks it may be half of them," Kleiber cut in. "He sent me with the truck and remained with the column to support Schmidt should it become necessary. The leading officer of the Waffen-SS is an ice cold dog. The Oberleutnant fears that the guy could overdo it again," he reported, as if the colonel was his CO.

Hogan cursed. It seemed to be worse than assumed. Getting a grip of himself, he answered. "Langenscheidt should remain with Schmidt. You took over charge of the transport, right?"

Kleiber nodded.

"Okay. Continue with the shuttling. Make certain that those who are in greatest need are brought here first. We'll take care of the rest."

The corporal nodded, and his hand was half away to his temple as he remembered that Hogan had technically no authority over him. Stopping the gesture, he still replied, "Aye, Colonel."

"Thanks, my friend. Dismissed."

"Aye, sir!" Kleiber replied, stopped, looked almost sheepishly at Hogan, and returned to the front of the truck.

Ashton stared with big eyes at the young German, then at the Army Air Corps officer. 'Aye'? 'Sir'? 'Dismissed'? Did he hear this right, or was his ears and mind tricking him?

Robert saw the flabbergasted expression on the surgeon's face, cleared his throat, and addressed him casually. "Come on, Doctor. You have to lie down." He supported the older man while they headed towards sickbay.

"Did you just gave a German non-con an order, and he obeyed?" Hank asked, still thunderstruck.

Hogan grimaced. "Well…Here own rules apply."

"This I'm believing instantly," the surgeon murmured.

They neared the infirmary, and Hogan held the older man tightly around the waist. "We're almost there. Then you can rest."

"No time for that, Colonel," Ashton murmured. "I heard that this camp has only a medic and a medical student, and therefore I was allowed to go with the first group so that I can assist your medic."

Hogan suppressed a sigh, but also had to smile. Another workaholic. "I'm sure Sergeant Wilson appreciates your effort, Doctor, but allow me to point out that you're looking worse than after a Marathon run. You should find some rest first."

They stopped, and Ashton glanced at the higher ranking officer. "Thank you for your concern, sir, but many of my comrades need my help."

Newkirk, who helped another newcomer, closed up on them, Schultz's rifle in his left hand. He had heard the last part of the conversation and sighed. "You can't help them when you collapse, Doctor." He came to a halt behind the two men who blocked the entrance to the infirmary.

"True, but…" Ashton interrupted himself as his gaze found the Englishman's left hand. "What the heck…" he whispered, shocked.

Hogan and Newkirk followed the surgeon's gaze and smirked. "Schultz forgot his rifle again?" Robert asked, and Peter shrugged.

"He gave it to me as he helped the boy. You know him, Colonel. If he forgets one thing, it's his weapon."

"Yeah, but never the next meal," Rob deadpanned.

Ashton stared at the gun in astonishment. "He gave you…his weapon?"

"Nothing new when he wants to have both hands free," Newkirk answered wryly before his attention was driven back to the man he supported. "Come on, mate. Here we go. Colonel, Doctor, please make some room."

"Sorry, Peter," Robert replied, and stepped aside. Both watched the English flyer and the American solider slowly enter the building. Orders were given, then they heard a full voice calling,

"Newkirk! You have my rifle?!"

"You gave it to me, Schultzie, so don't fret."

Ashton had been long enough within a German camp to recognize some habits of the German's way to change names. His jaw almost hit the ground. "Did the Englander just call the German non-com by a nickname?"

Hogan couldn't help himself anymore. For a second his worry and anger vanished as he chuckled, "This non-com is our current Kommandant, Sergeant Schultz."

"What? A sergeant is the Kommandant? And…and the Englander addresses him like that?"

Robert smirked now. "Just like I said: Stalag 13 differs a lot from the other camps." He nodded towards the entrance. "We better go inside." He looked over his shoulder and saw how Kleiber already manned the truck again to pick up the next group of POWs. "The next fare is coming soon."

"Yes," Ashton nodded, still flabbergasted. "As we started towards the camp, three SS-trucks arrived to pick up the next group."

"Already?" Hogan asked. "This shortens our time a lot – but on the other hand, I'm glad for everyone who is brought here where it's safe."

They reached the door, and Ashton replied quietly, "This black clad SS-lieutenant, who is in charge of this town's Gestapo…He ordered this help for us."

Hogan instantly knew of whom the surgeon spoke, and said softly, "Typical Schmidt. Wrong uniform, heart in the right place." They stepped into the infirmary and were met with the view of controlled chaos. Every newcomer had one of the camp's occupants as a kind of personal support, Wilson was beginning to examine the bleeding feet, and Hauser prepared bandages.

"Thank you for bringing me here, Colonel," Ashton said, while straightening his frame. "I can manage now."

"Rrrright," Hogan grumbled, and lifted a warning finger. "But don't overdo it. Otherwise you're becoming your own patient."

Hank was remembered of Connor, who would say something likewise if he were already here. He nodded at the colonel and moved deeper into the infirmary towards Wilson, still baffled of the way things ran here. Hogan watched how the two men introduced themselves to each other, then the same was done with Hauser. Only seconds later did the surgeon begin to take over command.

First Ashton took care of Evan Martins, and Hogan – curious – drew nearer. His and Steven's gaze locked, and the younger man whispered, "Evan collapsed yesterday. We hid it by carrying him between us. But…today, after the short break, one of the guards realized what was wrong." He lowered his face, but Robert had seen the brimming tears in his eyes. "He wanted to shoot Evan – simply like that. Like a wild animal. And then…then this lieutenant from the black SS suddenly came…He saved Evan by tearing the guard's weapon hand away and…and stepping between him and us." He shook his head. "Evan…would be dead now if not…" His voice skipped.

Hogan felt hot fury churning in his stomach at the mere thought that this boy had been almost killed in cold blood. No compassion, no mercy, nothing that hinted that this SS-guard had even a hint of humanity left. Robert swallowed down the rage that grew in him. Then he closed the distance to the young man and lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"It's over now," he said soothingly, shocked that the boy at the threshold to be come a man at the bed beside them had almost been murdered only a short time ago had it not been for Schmidt. New gratefulness rose in Robert. So, Hilda's sweetheart had saved one of the POWs by standing up against someone of the Waffen-SS. If there had been some tiny doubts left about the Oberleutnant's good character, it was chased away now.

"He…he covered Evan with his own coat and…and gave him and I some of his lunch…bread and toppings. And tea." Steven continued with a croaking voice. "I…I didn't know that there are also…good men in the SS."

Hogan, impressed how far Schmidt's willingness went to help the boy, replied slowly, "You forgot the 'black' SS is not only the Gestapo, but also a kind of police. And Schmidt regards himself rather as a police officer than a peeper who sees treason at every corner." He clapped the young man's shoulder. "What's your name?"

"I'm Steven Martins, and this is my brother Evan, sir." Steven replied, nodding at the neighboring bed where Kinch was giving the boy some water, steading his head.

"All right, Steven. You and your brother are in good care now," Hogan said gently to calm down the young man's fluttering nerves. "No harm will befall you here."

Steven looked up. "And the guards here – and the Kommandant?"

Hogan made a gesture towards Schultz, who just helped another man lie down. "This is our current Kommandant, Sergeant Schultz. He is a nice man with a far too big heart for the job. And our usual Kommandant, Oberst Klink, calls himself our 'papa' here and there. And tell you what, he means it." He winked at the perplex Martins, straightened his shape, and looked around.

Seventeen men lay on the beds; every one of them looked like Death was already flowing over them. Everyone was given the water-sugar-salt mixture, while LeBeau appeared and carried a large pot from where a fantastic smell came. Two other POWs brought bowls and spoons, and it became obvious that the newcomers had to be fed. None of them would be able to hold a spoon on his own.

New anger flared up in Hogan. How dare this SS-commander to treat POWs – even officers – like this! How dare he to chase those men 'til the brink of death, ignoring all rules and laws! He would find out this man's identity, and after the war he would make certain that this bastard would face a court martial. He and his henchmen.

*** HH ***

The three trucks from the Gestapo HQ in Hammelburg came one by one only a quarter hour later. Many hands helped the men down from the cargo beds, several newcomers were able to walk with some support, others had to be carried. Those who could move on their own were brought to the makeshift shelter in the former rec- and mess hall, the others accommodated in the infirmary. The last truck wasn't even vacated as the camp's truck came again.

The works at the former motor pool and the clearing out of the woods were interrupted, and the men helped the new comrades. Only those who were still busy with rising the stock beds and readying the beddings in the Barracks continued their task. All others were needed to take care of the arriving officers and the few men of lower or no rank.

Schultz had tried to keep track of how many arrived – or of their ranks – but gave up the task quickly. Yes, usually newcomers had to be enlisted, but Hans skipped protocol just like Hogan did. There would be time for bureaucracy later. Only support and medical treats counted now.

Every available man helped the arriving ones, even some of the guards. Those who came with the third or fourth group were in bad condition, too, but would survive the inhumane walk. Robert wasn't sure about the eight men in the infirmary; especially Evan. Yet the legs of many other new POWs were about to give in. After having a chance to rest a bit more than only a few hours during the night, the over-tired muscles and nerves quit working, and exhaustion overwhelmed them even stronger. The men's subconscious realized that the destination was reached – that they were safe – and this was enough to let the body give in.

Hogan and his friends more or less carried dozens of the newcomers to the other buildings. A few of them recognized that he was a high ranking officer, but he prevented any military duty of greeting him. "Forget it for now, I'm only here to help," he said over and over again.

Slowly the rec hall and mess hall filled. Everywhere the usual occupants of Stalag 13 stripped their new comrades off their boots and ragged blankets and jackets, wrapped them in new plaids, and eased them on beds. Others were given the water-mixture and fresh bread with toppings. LeBeau and a few others brought pots with the soup they made the day prior.

And almost everywhere it was the same: Gaunt, ashen faces, reddened inflamed eyes, trembling hands with broken skin because of the coldness, and hoarse voices. Pleas for more to drink and something to eat were mixed with moans and sometimes even sobs.

Hogan balled his hands into fists. How far had those men been driven to react like this? How much had they been pushed to their limits to weep or even sob openly after they found some shelter, food, and comfort? Robert couldn't even imagine how grave the souls of these men were injured to elicit such strong responses to a little bit of kindness and help. But what he saw were the bodily wounds, and it made him sick. Bleeding and inflamed blisters on feet, frost bitten and dead toes weren't the only thing he was confronted with as he helped here and there to relieve the newcomers of boots and wet clothes. Colds, which certainly were bronchitis and more, fever, infected cuts, and other tracks of severe exertions and little food seemed to be everywhere.

After more than two hundreds former POWs of Camp 64 had arrived, the colonel had to admit that this here went beyond the things they could manage within Stalag 13.

"The men need professional help – something Wilson, Hauser, and Ashton can't give. There are simply too many of them," he said to Schultz, who stood beside him.

Hans was ashen pale and almost green around his nose. What he had seen within the last hour showed him how fortunate his two oldest sons had been to be captured within a short range of time and brought to the relative safety of an American POW camp. He doubted that each of them would have survived what these poor men had been through. "What do you suggest, Colonel?" he asked quietly, too stirred up to think clearly anymore.

"We have to call the hospital in Hammelburg. Dr. Birkhorn and a few of his colleagues have to come. Schmidt organized bandages, but we need more." Hogan's gaze wandered over the new arrivals, who limped with the help of the others away from the trucks. "A LOT more."

TBC…

Yeah, the whole mess within the wires has only started by now, and will need a lot of helping hands, clear minds and uncommon measurements to get some order into the chaos.

In the next chapter, Klink shows who is still the Kommandant here, injured or not (sorry, I know I promised this for the current chapter, but there was more I had add to it, so this scene was shifted to the next update). Connor and his two friends will arrive, too, and even exhaust to the utmost they're almost too stunned the way they're treated here – warm, welcomed and kindly. Of course this will irk Hartmann, who tries to play out his higher rank towards Schultz – something he really shouldn't do.

I hope, you liked the new chapter. Schmidt's reaction and what he does for Connor and the others is a further step into the direction, his regards and his heart and therefore his decisions will be in the near future. I also tried to let you feel the distress and chaos the men in Stalag 13 go through, because they know that their new comrades need them in more ways than only to give them a place to sleep and something to eat. And Schultz, Langenscheidt and Kleiber prove one time more that they're decent men with a far too big heart.

Like always, I would be very happy to get some comments.

Have a nice rest of the weekend,

Love

Yours Starflight