Hi, my dear readers,
Thank you so much for the feedback and I'm still glad that you like this part of the story.
I already told you at the end of the last chapter what to expect in this one, and therefore I don't waste your time with a 'long' prologue. Just beware, the mood within the camp is more than tensed – and the Iron Eagle has to show his talons…
Enjoy the new chapter,
Love
Yours Starflight
Chapter 82 – A safe harbor
Schultz called the Hammelburg hospital and asked Dr. Birkhorn to come over to the camp with a few of his colleagues. After he and Wilson told the surgeon about the men's conditions, Birkhorn agreed, but he would need an hour or so until he could arrive.
In the meantime, the trucks of the Hainzer company had come and were shuttling more and more of the new POWs to Stalag 13. It needed a half hour between arrival and return of the trucks, but given the fact that they had their steady turns, the vehicles seemed to come continuously. The camp was quickly filling with newcomers, and a real overview was impossible.
Given the fact that nine trucks were busy with the task and all together could transport approximately 180 POWs per trip, the number of exhausted men on the road dwindled more and more. As Dr. Birkhorn arrived, more than 400 newcomers were already in the camp occupying the stock beds in the crowded Barracks. The infirmary, the two halls, and the casino were chock-full.
The surgeon wasn't alone. Two colleagues and three nurses accompanied him. Carter and a few others helped unload the ambulance car. He didn't know if some of the men had to be operated on because of frostbit toes and fingers, but if so, he would make certain that they were brought to the hospital. The hygiene in the infirmary was a pure mess. The newcomers were covered with dirt, their boots had left tracks of mud on the floor, and every part of their clothes they were stripped of reeked terrible. To treat open blisters and other wounds was already a risk, but performing surgery here would be fatal.
After introducing himself and his team to Dr. Ashton, the surgeons plunged headfirst into work. Evan was one of the first Birkhorn examined. His two colleagues went to the rec and mess hall to help the newcomers there.
Every ten minutes or a quarter of an hour another truck brought more POWs. Even Hogan lost count and simply ordered the leaders of the Barracks to make certain that their hut was completely occupied, leading the arriving men to shelter.
Distracted by everything for almost three hours, for once Robert didn't think of Wilhelm. Otherwise he maybe would have looked over to the small separate building and would have seen the tall, thin, lonely figure clad in a night gown, slippers, scarf and grey coat, who stood on the small porch supporting himself with the wall and looked horrified at the ragged men fate had brought into his camp.
Wilhelm Klink was utterly shocked and horrified as he watched the chaos around him. He had heard the first set of men arrive and listened to the hasty orders given in the compound until everything calmed down again. And then it had begun. More trucks arrived, and given the noises, shouts, and orders, the status within the camp had to be chaotic.
Finally, Klink hadn't been able to bear the unknown anymore and rose from his bed. Looking out from the window he hadn't seen much, but he knew his camp in and out. After Schultz had told him more than three hours ago that Schmidt had ordered trucks from everywhere to transport the tired men to camp, Klink knew that everything was worse than feared. He felt deep in his bones that chaos was approaching – something that could turn Stalag 13 into a greater mess than it already had become within the last few days.
He was still the Kommandant of this camp. He was responsible for the men within these wires, and they needed him. This was all too much for Schultz to handle, and even if Klink knew that Hogan would help as much as he could, the fact that the colonel had no official authority here could be a problem.
Giving a damn about doctor's orders and his condition, he made a decision. He knew that he wasn't able to dress fully – to bend down and put on trousers and boots sounded bad just thinking about it. So, an alternative had to do it.
He went to the wardrobe and took out his coat. Putting on his slippers and coat and wrapping a scarf around his neck, he carefully began to walk towards the front door. He needed more than a minute, but finally reached it and stepped out onto the porch. Coldness instantly hit him, but he ignored it and stopped at the right, bracing himself with one hand against the wall.
What he saw made his belly clench. He watched the staggering and limping figures of the men who were led away to the Barracks in the middle of the camp, supported and sometimes almost carried by the camp's usual POWs. He recognized the ambulance car at the infirmary and realized professional help from the hospital had been called for extreme cases.
Then he saw LeBeau, who brought one of the large pots from the kitchen to the casino, followed by three other men carrying trays with bowls and spoons. From somewhere Hogan was giving orders, while another truck arrived. Behind them appeared a black SS-car. A SS-truck came down the road, but somehow Klink had a feeling that it didn't carry more POWs. The truck that just arrived had only ten men on its cargo bed, therefore the last fare. The SS-truck certainly carried the guards that had driven the former occupants of Camp 64 to their utmost exertion.
And then he saw the familiar shape of Hogan hastening over the compound towards the arrived vehicle where an older man climbed down and helped someone who was a lot younger down on the ground. Another man followed them, clearly supporting the one man, while the SS-car entered the camp.
Klink had a certain gut-feeling that the real trouble would begin now.
*** HH ***
Hogan had learned from a second lieutenant a quarter hour ago that the last POWs could be expected within the next trip and that their leading officer was among them. So, as the truck arrived, Robert hurried towards it to greet his colleague, who would be the second highest ranking officer from now on.
He watched how Kleiber and a few guards helped the newly arrived POWs down from the truck, while Langenscheidt left the passenger seat. A staff sergeant of the Infantry climbed down next from the cargo bed, his weathered and bearded face haggard and red from the cold. The man's gaze found Hogan's, saw his rank emblems, and saluted properly – a greeting Rob returned. Then the man turned around and reached for a younger man, who slid over the cargo bed's floor to the edge of the truck and slid down from it. Another man approximately his age helped him, and Kleiber offered a hand, but the young man shook his head, murmured something, and supported his comrade together with the sergeant.
After everything Hogan had seen within the last couple hours, he shouldn't had been shocked – but he couldn't deny that the man's appearance was horrifying, while he was only able to straighten his shape as his two comrades steadied him.
"Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Connor, sir," the man said hoarsely, and lifted a trembling hand towards his temple.
"At ease, Lt. Colonel," Hogan answered softly, and closed the distance to him, nodding also at the two other men who introduced themselves.
"First Lieutenant Leonard Harrison, sir."
"Staff Sergeant Brady Elison, sir."
The camp's Senior POW Officer saluted back. "Colonel Robert Hogan, US Army Air Corps. Welcome to Stalag 13." With rising concern, he saw how Connor began to sway on his feet.
"They are the last ones," Langenscheidt all but reported to Hogan.
"Thanks, Corporal," Robert replied, and nodded at Kleiber. "Thanks to you, too, for helping them."
"Of course, Colonel," Kleiber murmured, uncertain what to do now.
The arrival of the black SS-car drove Hogan's and the two corporal's attention to it. The vehicle stopped beside the truck, and Schmidt and Fuhrmann left it, while from the backseat a man in grey stepped out. The black collar of his coat sported the dreaded skull with crossed bones.
Hogan's eyes became small slits as he recognized the insignias of the man's rank. He knew instantly that this was the damn bastard who was responsible for many POW deaths and these men's horrible conditions. Without his own doing, his hands balled into fists. The major's and his eyes met for a moment, and the German officer simply lifted both brows, a small cynical smile curling at his lips. Of course, he saw the American's wrath and enjoyed it.
Schmidt shot a glare in Hartmann's direction before he glanced at Robert. "Colonel Hogan," he greeted first against protocol.
"Lieutenant Schmidt," the US officer replied, tipping his temple in a casual salute. He would thank the younger man later for his help concerning the newcomers and Evan Martins.
Hasty steps drew nearer, and a wheezing was to be heard before Schultz stopped beside Hogan, looking concerned for Connor. "Good Lord, the man can barely stand on his feet."
"He made it here, that should be enough," Hartmann drawled while he looked at the large, older man in a sergeant's uniform. 'Fat and stupid – well, a noncom no more or less,' he thought with mockery.
Elison furiously stared at Hartmann. "I've lost count how many of our comrades you chased to death – and Lt. Colonel Connor only 'made' it because the responsibility for his men gave him strength over and over again, but now he's reached his limits. If we wouldn't be in the camp, you would do what you did to the others!"
"If I want to have your opinion, Elison, I ask for it. So, shut up."
Hogan felt his blood pressure rising, but it was Schultz who snapped, "That is quite enough, Herr Major. In this camp the prisoners are treated with simple human respect everyone deserves."
Hartmann turned his attention back to the large Bavarian. "You're speaking with a higher-ranking officer, Sergeant, so chasten your manners. After all, a noncom has no say at all."
Langenscheidt and Kleiber opened their mouths to tell the major with whom they were speaking, but Hogan was quicker.
"This is Kommandant Schultz," he gritted out, eyes shooting daggers. "And therefore, yes, he has a lot to say here. He's in charge."
"A sergeant – Kommandant of such a large POW camp?" Hartmann gave a barking laughter. "That's a joke."
"I would stop laughing if I were you, Herr Major," Schmidt cut in, face set in stone while Fuhrmann pressed his lips into a thin line. "Sergeant Schultz is the current Kommandant according to General Burkhalter. I'm sure the general wouldn't be delighted to be laughed at regarding his decisions."
Hartmann looked Schultz up and down. "Well, if the general said so…he seems to have a curious sense of humor – or he's lost a few of his senses seeing that he sent a train for these vermin and makes a simple sergeant a commanding officer of a camp."
"Herr Major, I advise you…" Schultz began, face red, but was interrupted from Hartmann again.
"I don't take advice from a simple sergeant, even if he plays Kommandant. And seeing that this camp is without a real office, I should take over to…"
"Maybe you should not only take advice, but orders from me!"
The well-known voice with the Saxonian accent was sharp like a knife as it sounded behind Schultz and Hogan. No one had taken notice of Klink approaching them. Whirling around, Robert's eyes became wide as saucers as he saw his lover standing only two meters away – clad in a coat, scarf…and slippers.
"Wi… Kommandant!" He corrected himself in the very last second. "Sir, you should remain in bed. Doctor's orders."
"He's right, sir. You shouldn't be up at all," Langenscheidt added with concern.
"As it seems, my presence is needed here for now," Klink replied, and stepped between his confidant and his beloved. His blue eyes shone with an unholy fire as he glared at the major of the Totenkopf-SS, whose face betrayed his confusion.
"Who are you?" Hartmann asked, baffled.
The German officer straightened his tall shape to his full height, ignoring the dragging pain in his belly and back, and answered strongly, "Oberst Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of Stalag 13. And you, Herr Major, just offended my substitute and assistant, who handles our POWs obviously a lot better than you did concerning these men you were responsible for. And seeing these men's conditions, you did a lousy job!"
The major stared at him – good God, the man wore a monocle! – then he let his gaze demonstratively wander over Klink's anything but correct clad figure down to his bare feet and slippers and smiled derisively. "Did I raise you from your midday nap, or…"
"Stay at attention when a higher-ranking officer speaks with you!" Klink snapped.
Hartmann arrogantly lifted his chin. "Herr Oberst, despite your position, other rules apply for my unit. As you can clearly see, I'm a member of…"
"Don't try to put any pressure on me because you're from the Totenkopf-SS. I don't care for the unit you're serving in. You're in my camp that belongs to the Luftwaffe, and you are two full ranks beneath me. So, you will show me the respect protocol demands, or I'll report you to Berlin. And to your further information: General Burkhalter, who 'lost his senses to make a simple sergeant a Kommandant', is a close friend of Reichsführer Himmler, and I don't think you will climb up the career ladder one single rung more if the general learns how you speak of him." For a moment, both men only glared at each other, then Klink added, "I'll expect your report and the handover of those men's files and a list of all names within an hour. Sergeant Schultz will take them. I also want to know the number of losses and not only who died, but also why and how."
He turned brusquely away from Hartmann and looked at the two 'policemen'. "Oberleutnant Schmidt, it's good to see you again. Sergeant Fuhrmann, the same goes for you."
"Herr Oberst," Schmidt replied, tempted to tell him to lie down again. Sweet Lord, the man belonged in bed; not outside of his quarters in the compound. But Horst knew that Klink's presence was the only thing that would prevent the current situation from escalating. Hogan was a breath away from exploding, Hartmann didn't accept Schultz's authority, and Connor was about to collapse. No, Klink's arrival had prevented the problem from becoming a mess, so he kept silent despite being concerned for the older man.
Wilhelm looked at Langenscheidt. "Report, Corporal."
"All surviving POWs of Camp 64 have arrived. These three men are the last of them."
"Thank you, Corporal. Well done." Then he glanced at the three newcomers. His gaze found the man in the middle and saw the name and rank on the badge that looked out from under the blanket given to the US officer. With rising worry, Klink saw how the young man swayed on his feet, and he assumed that only a portion of stubbornness held the American on his legs.
"Lieutenant Colonel Connor?" he asked not unkindly, and received a nod.
Hartmann opened his mouth to rebuke him for the lack of a proper reply, but Schmidt lifted a hand and shook his head. "I don't think you want to irritate the Kommandant even more," he said quietly, inwardly rubbing his hands in rising glee that Klink had shown the arrogant bastard his place.
Elison and Harrison had wrapped Connor's arms around their shoulders and held him around the waist, yet the young officer somehow managed to lift his head and straighten his shape.
"Kommandant," he croaked back. "I report…1068 survivals, 153 losses, and…the rest were left behind in the beginning…or escaped during the first few days of our walk."
"153 are dead?" Hogan gasped, exchanging a horrified glance with Klink, who took a deep breath to calm his rising fury. The survivals were more important for now. Justice for the dead would follow later.
"Lt. Colonel, we'll speak about everything as soon as you regained some strength," Wilhelm addressed the younger US officer. "For now, you and your companions need to eat and lie down."
"Thank you…for your offer, sir, but first I have…to take care of my men," Connor rasped, and Klink sighed quietly.
"Why am I not surprised to hear that?" He smiled at Hogan. "That's exactly what you would say in his place."
Hogan lifted both brows. "The same goes for you, Kommandant, as it's clear to see in the moment." A soft rebuke was in his voice, while he looked firmly at him.
Will felt touched by Rob's barely hidden worry, but for now he had to ignore it. "Ja, I know what the doctor told me, but you and I don't know the meaning of the word 'rest' when our men need us. We both are made from the same wood. And that goes for the young gentleman here, too." He glanced back at Ryan. "Lt. Colonel, the POWs of this camp, some of my guards, and a few surgeons from the hospital are taking care of your men. I'm sure you fulfilled your duty for them – and more – to the utmost, but now you can think of yourself for once. You're no help for your men if you collapse."
"A few of my men…did collapse – during this morning. How are they?" Connor asked, trying to focus on the tall German officer in front of him. Something looked odd with the man. Yes, he saw the monocle, but this wasn't all that was funny. Something was wrong with his clothes, but he couldn't recognize what it was. His problems understanding what was going on was worsening. Whatever this camp here held for him and his men, it couldn't be worse than the weeks long walk. And if this Kommandant was indeed as fair as he seemed, then they were safe.
The mere prospect of making it to here, to have left the dangers behind, and to find some rest was like a pinch to a full-blown balloon. The stress was streaming out of him like the air of said balloon, and he felt like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Yet he couldn't give into the alluring peace of sleep that crept towards the edge of his mind. First, he had to make certain that his men were all right.
"Everyone who was brought to Stalag 13 is still alive and being cared for," Hogan told him quietly. "A few are in critical condition, but the medics are doing everything in their power to save them. The others have been offered a bed to rest in, nourishment, and water. Everything else will come later – including proper cleaning."
Connor felt something close to a smile tugging at his mouth, dizzy with relief. "Thank you," he croaked, and glanced at Schmidt, whose figure he only saw in a blur. The more the inhumane tension of too much stress left him, the more his mind was shutting off. "Thank you, too, Lieutenant," he murmured. "You saved a few of my men."
"You're welcome, Lt. Colonel," Schmidt replied, ignoring the cynical snort of Hartmann beside him.
Klink waited a moment for if Connor had further questions, then he decided that it was enough – for the Lt. Colonel, for his companions, and for himself, too. He felt frozen through, and his knees were highly disagreeing with his trip, so it was about time to do what logic dictated.
He glanced at Robert. "Colonel Hogan, is there still some room left in your quarters?"
It was strange to speak with Will this formally, but as long as the SS-major was here, there was no other way possible. They still had to act like Kommandant and senior POW officer. So, Hogan shook his head and replied. "I'm sorry, sir, but added to my own bed, four more were risen in the quarters, and they're all occupied. There is no space left to…"
Klink made a short gesture with his head. "Alright, Hogan, thank you. Then show the Lt. Colonel to the guestroom of my quarters, please."
"WHAT?" Hartmann was certain that he hadn't heard this correctly. "In your quarters?"
"As the second highest ranking POW officer of this camp he should have his own quarters, but seeing that we're running out of space, I'm willing to share my little home not only with the senior POW officer, but also with Lt. Colonel Connor," Klink answered icily. "There still exists something like protocol in Germany, Herr Major, and it held clear rules how officers and especially higher-ranking ones have to be handled. Maybe you should be sent to a military school again and learn the book properly." His glance wandered back to the Lt. Colonel. "You'll have it more comfortable in my guestroom and can find the rest you need," he added more softly.
"I…don't want to cause any difficulties," Connor whispered; thunderstruck about the offer.
"Nonsense. You can sleep there for a few days until the new Barracks are ready." He looked over his shoulder and searched for a familiar face. Knowing Robert's gang, they were nearby. And he was right. At least one of them lingered not so far away, hands in the pockets of his weathered leather jacket.
"Sergeant Carter? A moment, please."
Andrew came running, dying of curiosity, but also a little bit worried. "Kommandant, shouldn't you be in bed, sir?"
"Exactly my opinion," Hogan commented with a frown.
"Later, Carter," Wilhelm waved it off. "Search for Corporal LeBeau and tell him to bring soup, bread, and toppings for seven people to my quarters." His attention was driven to Kleiber. "Corporal, ask one of the surgeons to come over and have a closer look at Lt. Colonel Connor and his two companions…?" He glanced askingly at the two other men.
"Staff Sergeant Brady Elison," the older man said, not able to salute while supporting Connor. He didn't know what to make of everything here, but one thing was clear: the Kommandant was a human being. Not a monster like Hartmann. For this little detail, he was more than grateful – especially on Ryan's behalf. Yet he didn't know what to think of Colonel Hogan's concern for the Oberst's welfare. As it seemed, the two men got along very well, given the short, friendly banter he witnessed.
"First Lieutenant Leonard Harrison, sir," the other one murmured. "The Lt. Colonel and I served in the same unit for some years now and were captured together with Sergeant Elison."
Klink assumed that the two were Connor's confidants, maybe even close friends. He nodded at them politely and addressed Kleiber again. "I want one of the surgeons to take care of them immediately."
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Kleiber nodded, and jogged away.
"Carter, make certain that lunch is served quickly," Klink instructed, and Andrew saluted.
"Aye, aye, sir!" He ran straight towards the camp's kitchen, eager like always.
"Colonel Hogan, if you please would lead the way for your new comrades?" Will addressed his secret lover, who gave him a stern glance.
Despite the whole situation and his shock concerning the newcomers' conditions, Robert feared for the little bit of health Will had regained. "Due all respect, sir, but you could kill two birds with one stone if you took them to your quarters. You could lie down again and…"
"Thank you for your concern, Colonel Hogan, but I have a duty to attend to," Klink interrupted him more forcefully than he had spoken in a long time. "Please do as I say." He nodded at Connor and the others. "Lt. Colonel, Lieutenant, Sergeant," he greeted, and watched how Robert pressed his lips into a thin line, but tipped at his temple with a very sloppy salute and headed towards the separate little building; the three newcomers following him with slow, limping steps.
Schultz and Schmidt were likewise worried for Klink. "Herr Oberst, you should really return to bed," Horst said quietly.
"I agree with the Herr Oberleutnant," Schultz nodded. "To be outside here is anything but healthy for you."
"Caught a cold?" Hartmann mocked, a small sneer on his face. Schmidt and Fuhrmann stiffened in anger, Schultz's face flushed again, and Langenscheidt took a sharp breath, eyes flashing. But it was Klink who gave the fitting answer.
"No, I have a hole in my belly – a gunshot wound from close distance two weeks ago," he answered almost casually, as if he was speaking about the weather.
Hartmann's jaw dropped while he looked on with big eyes at the Oberst's middle section. "An…an abdominal gunshot wound?" He asked, thunderstruck. "And you survived it?"
"What shall I say? I'm able to take a lot, have a formidable team here that helped me, and our surgeons are extraordinary." He held his chin a little bit higher than necessary, showing the major an arrogance he hadn't displayed often within the last few weeks.
"What about the assassin?" Hartmann asked, still flabbergasted.
"Former SS-Major Hochstetter faced a firing squad. General Burkhalter greatly dislikes it when someone threatens and even tries to murder one of his subordinates," Klink deadpanned, watching with some satisfaction how Hartmann gritted his teeth. He drove his attention to his own confidant. "Sergeant Schultz, please show the major where he can unpack the documents he brought with him and have them handed over to you. Summarize all information and give me the report afterwards. I also want a list of which POWs died because of exhaustion or other reasonings and which ones were killed."
"There is a little problem, Herr Oberst," Hartmann said coldly. "The files you want are in my car that is still on its way to this camp. I traveled with the others by train to Hammelburg, and my driver will pick me up this evening."
Klink lifted a brow. "Then let us hope that your driver finds the way. Otherwise I have to alert the Gestapo to search for him." He looked back at Schultz. "The major and his men can rest in the re-fitted mess hall. Let them have some soup, tea, and bread – after all, we stick to protocol."
"Isn't this what the POWs are getting?" Hartmann protested, and received a hard gaze from Klink.
"Yes. This is a POW camp, not the Münchner Hof or the Steigenberger in Hamburg. Like I said, we're at war, and nourishment is rare. It doesn't hurt us to have the same meals as our prisoners – and that goes not only for our guards, but also for my officers and me. Take the soup or not, it's your decision."
The major crossed his arms in front of his chest, clearly angry now. "Why do I have a feeling that you enjoy treating me and my underlings like ordinary men?"
" 'Ordinary men'?" Klink snorted. "Certainly not. 'Ordinary men' don't abuse their given task and kill helpless men." He rose his voice as Hartmann wanted to protest. "General Burkhalter already knows that many POWs not only fell prey to this inhumane walk, but also were shot when they were too exhausted to carry on. Be sure, Herr Major, that Berlin will learn of every kill your men did. And the same goes for any brutalization. We are at war, and the POWs belong to the enemy, true, but there are rules which still have to be obeyed. And if I learn that you in person flouted the Geneva Conventions, you will face consequences for it. Dismissed!"
He gave him one last hard glare and nodded at Schultz. "Carry out my order, Sergeant." He turned towards Langenscheidt. "Check the truck and have it ready for further tasks. I'm sure we're going to need more supplies."
"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Langenscheidt answered, saluted, and went to the truck's driver seat.
Klink nodded and saw that Hartmann still stood there staring at him. "Do you need a written invitation, Herr Major, or is my verbal order enough for you?"
With flaring nostrils, Hartmann turned away and followed Schultz, who poorly hid a grin.
Snorting, Wilhelm glanced at Horst. "Maybe you can accompany me to my quarters, Herr Oberleutnant? I have a few questions."
Schmidt knew instantly that Klink needed some help to make it back to his private room but didn't want to show any weakness in front of the others. Nodding, he replied. "A pleasure, Herr Oberst."
Both waited until a fuming Hartmann and an almost smirking Schultz had put some distance between them, then Schmidt offered Klink his right arm. "Here, lean on me."
"With your permission," Fuhrmann said, and linked arms on the other side of Klink.
"Thank you," Wilhelm sighed, glad he could support himself on the two men. He froze like a young puppy, his feet felt like ice, his belly hurt, and he felt miserable through and through. He could imagine fairly well how the newcomers were feeling.
"Have you witnessed anything I have to report to Berlin?"
"Yes," Schmidt growled. "I was able to prevent a murder of taking place. A mere boy broke down and…"
"THIS IS YOUR MESS HALL?" Hartmann's outraged shout sounded over the compound, making some of the guard dogs barking.
Klink couldn't help it; he had to grin for a moment. "Serves him right. If my POWs can eat in the former motor pool, he can do it, too." He slowly limped towards his quarters. "A boy, you said. And one of the SS-guards wanted to…"
"Oberst Klink! Heaven, what are you doing here?"
Turning around, Wilhelm, Horst, and Fuhrmann came face to face with Dr. Birkhorn, who looked worried at the Kommandant before he stemmed his free hand into his waist, medical kit in hand. "Really, Herr Oberst, this is not only careless, but insane." He glanced down on the slipper covered feet. "And then with bare feet! Are you fifty or five?" he rebuked him before he pointed at the separate little building. "There you go."
Klink gaped at him. "I beg your pardon, Herr Doktor, but I don't think that you can command me around in my own ca…"
"You're off duty, and yes – I can 'order you around'. I'm your surgeon, and as such I can give orders even to a general if necessary." He pointed at the quarters, and rolling his eyes, Will obeyed.
"Mother hens – all of you." He glanced at Schmidt. "Stop grinning," he said to Horst, who had to chuckle.
"You're in deep water, Herr Oberst. Not only with Dr. Birkhorn, but also with Colonel Hogan."
Grimacing, Klink carefully continued walking. They saw how Hogan and the other men reached the building, and suddenly the Lt. Colonel stumbled. Hogan caught him and seemed to need all his strength to keep the younger man on his feet. The lieutenant swayed, too, but before Klink could ask Fuhrmann to lend the men a hand, the sergeant already excused himself and jogged forwards. Birkhorn took his place at Klink's left side, who looked at Schmidt.
"Fuhrmann is a good man. You chose your confidant wisely."
Horst shrugged, but also smiled. "He acts like I always wanted my father to do, but never did. He shows concern and is at my side – contraire to my father. I always had to function, obey, and make the 'family proud'." He shook his head. "Fuhrmann cares for me, not the rank I have."
Klink nodded. "Yes, now, as the war nears its end, the wheat is separated from the chaff, and you learn the true characters of many men you thought to have known. I'm glad to have Schultz – and noncoms like Langenscheidt and Kleiber. You can be grateful to have found someone like Fuhrmann. I think everything will get even uglier before the war is over, and those who live for this regime will try to bring down those whose eyes were open. True friendship is more important than ever before." He looked at Horst. "You're a fine and good person, young man. And bastards like Hartmann will try to get you for it, so stick close to Fuhrmann. I think he would fight the devil to keep you safe."
Schmidt sighed. "General Burkhalter said something likewise after the incident at HQ. I would be dead now if it hadn't been for him and his quick reaction. Afterwards he warned me about these human hyenas like you do now. I heed the advice, be sure of it."
"Hopefully. I don't want you to fall prey to this raging insanity." They neared the quarters, and Wilhelm sighed in relief as he reached the little building he called 'home'. God, it was cold!
"Mon Dieu, how can a man of your age be this reckless?" A French voice sounded from behind him.
"Not you, too." Will groaned without turning around. He thought he could feel LeBeau's piercing gaze in his back.
"Yes, me too." Louis nodded while bypassing the three Germans and placed the pot with soup on the dining table. Carter entered the building carrying a tray with bread and toppings. From the guest room, quiet voices were heard, and Klink was on his way towards them as Birkhorn and Schmidt held him back.
"Off to bed with you," the surgeon said firmly. "Or I will have you transferred to the hospital."
Klink stared at him and threw his hands up. "Blackmailers – I'm surrounded by them."
"It's only for your best, Kommandant," LeBeau said. "And to prevent you from getting a cold, I'll make us all some tea." He headed towards the kitchen, but stopped a moment at the threshold to the guest room. Pure compassion awoke in him as he watched the men inside, then he went to the kitchen.
*** HH ***
Hogan had led the three newcomers towards the little building, inwardly seething with fury because of Hartmann and deeply worried for Will. God, why was his lover so reckless and risked a relapse by leaving not only bed, but also his quarters? And even unproperly clothed in this damn winter. To go outside only in his coat and some slippers was crazy.
'Just wait until we're alone, love. Then you'll get an earful from me,' he thought, then he bit back a groan as he realized they wouldn't be alone in this building for quite some time. 'I wonder how Will is going to explain me sleeping in his room to Connor and the others.'
Connor…Hogan glanced over his shoulder as they reached the steps to the porch and helped the Lt. Colonel climb up, while Harrison and Elison did their best to support their superior and master the steps themselves.
'They're so exhausted, and I don't think Connor would make it very far if we weren't already…'
His thoughts were interrupted as Connor stumbled, and his two companions gripped for him with a yelp. Hogan was quicker. Without hesitation, he grabbed the younger man and held him upright around his waist. One glance at the bearded, thin face showed that Connor was about to fall asleep on his feet, another look proved that Harrison was not far from having the same fate. Only the staff sergeant stood there like a rock, yet he would eventually reach his limits too.
Running steps drew nearer and looking up, Hogan recognized Fuhrmann, who reached them and stopped beside Harrison. He wrapped the lieutenant's arm around his neck and slung his own arm around the young man's waist. Harrison gasped and glanced with big eyes at him, making the SS-sergeant smile for a moment. "Easy, son. You're dead on your feet. Come on, inside you can take a nap."
Harrison was about to put up some resistance, but Hogan instructed with a calm, yet firm voice, "Lieutenant, go inside and sit down on the sofa." He nodded gratefully at Fuhrmann before he took Harrison's place to support Connor. "Sergeant Elison, help me get your CO inside." He glanced over his shoulder and saw Birkhorn at Will's left side, and Schmidt was still on the right. Good. At least Wilhelm would be able to lie down again soon.
Hogan led Connor up the stairs and entered Klink's quarters. "Through the living room and then the first door to the right," he told them, steering Connor towards the guestroom. Elison remained beside him and Harrison followed them with a limp.
"Lieutenant, sit down like Colonel Hogan told you," Robert heard Fuhrmann say.
"I've t' look fo' Ryan," came the mumbling reply, and the SS-sergeant rolled his eyes. Those three were thick like thieves – just like another high-ranking US officer and his gang he knew. Resigning and against better knowledge, he helped the young man to follow the others.
They reached the guestroom, and a few moments later, Robert made certain that the camp's second senior POW officer sat down on the mattress. "Connor," he addressed the Lt. Colonel softly, yet with a strong voice to gain the younger man's attention, who simply sat there swaying slightly and blinking at nothing.
"Ryan, it's me," the sergeant grumbled gently, while Harrison stumbled to the chair and all but fell into the seat breathing heavily; Fuhrmann steadied him. Elison began to peel the blanket away from his godson's shoulders, speaking softly with him. Hogan watched for a moment, then kneeled down and pulled the weathered boots off Connor's feet. Beneath them footwraps appeared made from holey mull and something that maybe had been once a scarf.
"It was the only chance to protect our feet," Elison mumbled, while Hogan stripped away the bloody and reeking material. The feet looked worse than feared. There would be more needed to treat them than only a foot soak and some rest. Robert nodded in agreement to Elison's explanation. To wrap material around your feet to protect them against blisters was something his grandfather had already done in the Civil War.
"I know," he said softly, rose, and glanced at the comforter Connor sat on. "Lt. Colonel, you have to rise one last time so that I can pull the blankets away from under you," he said, but received no real reaction. Ryan only looked up at him, face blank.
Brady, who was also ready to drop, sighed, bent down, and pulled the young man up and steadied him in his arms. Hogan pulled the comforter aside as quickly as possible and had to move away as the strength left Elison, and both men tumbled down on the mattress. With a lot of effort and Hogan's help, Brady was able to roll his godson around so that he lay properly in bed, while Robert lifted the younger man's legs on the mattress. Then he saw the mess: the sergeant's right arm was captured beneath Connor's neck, whose eyes were closed while clinging to the older man.
Knowing what picture they had to give, Elison lifted his head and glanced with red, tired eyes at Hogan. "He's my godson," he said quietly.
Robert lifted both brows, nodded in understanding, and spread the comforter over them. "Then sleep here beside him. The bed is big enough. And I think he'll be glad to see a familiar face when he wakes up."
Brady could barely believe that the horrible weeks were over – that they were safe, sound, and warm in a building. In a bed and being cared for. He had kept his promise he had given Frank: Ryan had survived. And he, Brady Elison, was still at the young man's side and could sleep beside him in the Kommandant's quarters.
He had lived through the first war. He had seen so much and endured even more without blinking an eye. But now tears were rising in him. Lowering his lids, he hoped to hide the moisture, then felt a warm, strong hand on his shoulder. Looking up, his gaze found the Colonel again, who smiled down at him.
"Just sleep, Elison. You held your word you gave to the Lord at Connor's christening. You kept him safe and were there for him when his parents couldn't be. And you staid at his side even after he grew up and became your superior officer. You did more than your duty to the Service and the Connor-family demands. Now find some rest. We'll take care of you and the others."
Elison didn't know the Army Air Corps colonel for more than a few minutes, but life experience already told him that he could trust him despite the fact that the younger man had shown uncommon concern for his German jailer. And with this knowledge, his body and mind began to relax. "Thank you," he whispered, smiling a little bit beneath his thick, full grey beard. Stretching out his legs, he carefully kicked the shoes from his feet, then pulled them beneath the comforter, groaning in pleasure.
Hogan smiled at him and straightened his shape. Sharing a glance with Fuhrmann, who looked in unmasked sympathy at the two men in the bed, Robert turned his attention to Harrison. Of course, the lieutenant had already fallen asleep. Sighing, he rubbed his neck.
"Lend me hand, Sergeant?" he asked Fuhrmann.
"Of course," the older man answered before he spared a last look at the sleepers in bed. "I'm…glad that they're safe and have a real bed to rest in," he said quietly. "I feared the Lt. Colonel would collapse before we reached Stalag 13."
"Stubbornness can replace strength here and there," Hogan answered.
"Yes, but not for long," Fuhrmann nodded, then he and Hogan lifted the young lieutenant up carefully. The man was not small, but his weight was scaringly low. They had no problems to bring him to the living room. Schmidt appeared from the sleeping room, saw what they were up to, and hurried to the sofa, pushing the table in front of the sofa away and the cushions against the armrest. They lay Harrison on the sofa, and while Hogan stripped him of his shoes, Fuhrmann got the blanket Connor had used before. Not caring that this was no part of his duty and other SS-members would point with accusing finger at him, he spread the warm material over the lieutenant.
"How is Klink doing?" Hogan asked, while rising again.
"Dr. Birkhorn began to examine him as I left," Schmidt answered, saw the American's tense face, and said softly, "Calm down, Colonel. The Oberst is doing fine."
"That remains to be seen," Robert gritted out. "Damn recklessness. How could he put himself in such danger?"
Horst lifted both brows. "Says the right man," he deadpanned. "Have you even counted how often you put yourself in danger, too?"
Hogan grimaced. "No, but this is something completely different, because…"
"Is it?" Schmidt pressed. "I think not. You don't think twice when your men's health or safety is at stake, and Klink did the same a few minutes ago. Face it, without him we would have had a damn dance with Hartmann already."
"A dance?" Robert was a little bit at a loss with the idiom.
"Yeah, stepping around something and quarrel verbally, rising trouble, and…"
"You mean making a fuss over something?" Hogan translated the whole thing, and Schmidt grinned sheepishly at him.
"Hm…yes."
For a second Rob chuckled, then he took a deep breath and sighed. "Yeah, I understand. We really would have a problem with that damn bastard if Klink hadn't intervened…yet it was a hell of a risk he took." He stemmed his hands in his waist and sighed. "Dammit, I already have grey hairs at my temple. If Will continues like this, I'll be completely grey when this damn war is finally over."
"You two are completely grey if you continue like this," Schmidt deadpanned, what elicited a snicker from Fuhrmann.
Hogan bit his lips, listened to the soft noises and quiet voices from the kitchen, and Horst cocked his head. "What are you waiting for, Colonel? Just go to him."
Robert cleared his throat. Usually he wouldn't hesitate even a second, but Schmidt had left the bedchamber because Dr. Birkhorn was examining Wilhelm. And if Hogan entered the room during such a procedure, it would show that Klink and he had reached a level of private sphere that couldn't be misunderstood anymore.
"Well, the doctor is busy with him and…"
"So what?" Schmidt interrupted him wryly. "I'm sure that this isn't the first time you've seen the Oberst sans clothes."
Hogan turned into a pillar of salt, highly alarmed. "What?" No, he didn't croak, didn't he?
Okay, the colonel's reaction was another big hint that told Horst his assumption concerning those two's relationship was true. "You stayed for days in the infirmary after Klink was shot, and the surgeons had to examine him and change his bandages a few times. I'm sure you didn't turn around then, but helped," he said innocently.
Something that could be seen as relief rushed over Hogan's face before it was neutral again. "Well, yes," he said.
'Got you!' Schmidt thought. 'I'll eat my hat if you two aren't a couple.' Aloud he said, "So, there is no reason to get modest all of sudden. Go to him. I'm sure you want to give him a piece of your mind for the trip he made."
"Damn right you are," Hogan grumbled, turned, and headed to Klink's sleeping chamber.
Fuhrmann watched him go and frowned slightly. "Isn't that a little improper?"
Schmidt grinned. "I'm absolutely sure that the two are far more 'improper' when they're alone."
The older man stared wide-eyed at him, clearly shocked as he realized what his superior was implying. "You're sure?"
"No, not really. But when you watch them, you can get the idea that their feelings are more than those of simple friends." Horst saw the flabbergasted expression on Fuhrmann's face and sighed. "You know that love can even rise between two men?"
The sergeant grimaced. "Of course. I'm older than you, but not that old – or naïve." He rubbed his chin. "But it's forbidden and against nature, so…"
"Fuhrmann, I can't imagine to feel for a man what I feel for Hilda, but I know that there are more men within our Army, no matter the unit, who see in a comrade more than a friend. Hundreds, if not thousands of them, and they all fulfill their duty to the Fatherland, are brave, and face death day by day. Their love doesn't make them any less valuable than the others. Love is a part of nature, and it has many faces." He took a deep breath. "And there is one thing I've learned since I was taught the knowledge of adults: Love can't be tamed, and you can't steer it." He looked at the closed bedchamber door. "And tell you what: There is so much hate in the world by now, I'm glad for every love that blooms no matter between whom."
Fuhrmann pursed his lips. "I never saw it from this point of view," he said. "But you're right."
"Of course, I am." Schmidt replied with pretended arrogance, making Fuhrmann chuckle.
"Sir, if I believe everything, but not this comedy of arrogance you just played."
"No? Well, then I drop it," Horst joked, winked at the older man, and walked towards the kitchen. Maybe he and Fuhrmann could get some tea. After skipping lunch, he really would be grateful to get something to drink at least.
TBC…
Well, you can't fool Schmidt. He's too bright and intelligent for it, and therefore it was only a question of time until he realizes what really goes on between the two colonels. And he's going to tease Hogan about it sooner or later…
In the next chapter, Hogan and his men have all hands full with the newcomers, Schmidt helps again and a call from Burkhalter sends the general reeling – why, I don't tell you know. You've to read it but I can promise that it is funny (one hint: 'Secretary' Hogan). There are, indeed, some funny scenes within the next chapter, but also sweet ones…
I hope, you liked the new installment – Klink became a 'bad-ass' again only to be generous towards Connor, Schmidt assisted once more the 'good guys', and Hartmann learned his place.
Like always, I wait eagerly for some comments.
Have a nice Sunday
Love
Yours Starflight
