Hi, my dear readers,
Thank you sooo much for the many, many comments you left on the last chapter. I'm happy that you not only liked it so much but also that it obviously gave you some comfort within these dark times. I hope, you all are still healthy and that the same goes for your families and friends.
The new chapter is a more funny one. Connor and his two friends certainly think that they've landed in a kind of parallel universe, because – let's face it – whenever Hogan and Klink are in one room and skip their love-bantering for once, they tease each other in the old-common way. And even this is a lot to laugh about. Connor and the others are going to have their first experiences with the two highest ranking officers of the camp, and they will be more than confused.
And then Burkhalter is going to have a flabbergasting experience, when he comes to Stalag 13, no-one really takes notice of him because especially Hogan, Schultz and the others try to bring some order in the still lasting chaos, and the general learns how very well the co-working really goes.
So, have fun for once,
Love
Yours Starflight
Chapter 85 – What the hell is going on here?
The night was indeed over for Hogan. And not only for him. Of course the noises from the bathroom pierced the wooden walls and woke up Klink. As he learned from Robert that Connor had used the facilities, the Oberst only grumbled something and snuggled back into the comforter. He was still tired, but unable to find sleep again. Rob did the same on the field bed, knowing that he didn't need to go back to sleep. Switching on the little lamp on the nightstand, the two men rested a little longer.
Connor reappeared a half hour later freshly showered and with wet hair while clad in Hogan's white pajamas. He wore a tiny smile on his face. He had never thought that a shower could be such a relief and could wake feelings of pure happiness. He was still tired like a puppy, and his wounded feet hurt like hell, but he felt more like a human again.
"Better now?" Robert asked and sat up.
"Yes," Ryan nodded. "Thank you very much, Colonel."
"You're welcome," Klink deadpanned, and lifted his head.
Connor instantly stopped within his steps, tensed, and looked at the older man with the dark, partly grey crown of hair. Yes, this was the male he had seen yesterday, but he couldn't remember much more. There, where usually his memories were, was a thick, black hole. Yet one thing was clear; this man spoke with a German accent and this here was the Kommandant's quarters; better to say, the bedroom of said private quarters. Right before him was the commanding officer of Stalag 13.
Protocol kicked in, and Connor lifted his right hand to his temple. "Lt. Colonel Ryan Connor, 9th Division of the US Infantry, serial nu…"
"Please, Lt. Colonel, we met yesterday, remember?" Klink interrupted him almost kindly. "And even if protocol demands a complete introduction of a newly arrived POW, I think we can put that rule away for now. We're all in pajamas in the middle of the night, so forget the book. That, and I can't memorize all those serial numbers. Names are more important for me. We're human beings, after all, and no number on a long list."
With big eyes, Connor stared at him and let his hand sink. "You Germans always have a big knack for rules, laws, and protocols," he said, baffled.
"He was no exception. I needed almost three years to break him out of that habit," Hogan joked, nodding in Klink's direction while he pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He sat on the field bed like they were all having a pajama party.
Klink gave him a glare, yet his mouth curled into a tiny smile. "At least you think you were successful," he pulled Robert's leg, who grinned back.
"Shall I remind you of the delayed roll calls within the last two months, or the…"
"Stop. Don't undermine my authority in the Lt. Colonel's presence on the first day." Despite the firm words, amusement sparkled in his eyes.
"No?" Hogan asked, with faked innocence.
"No," Klink replied, and chuckled quietly.
"As you wish," Robert sighed.
"If you would be always so obedient, it would spare me a lot of trouble," Will commented wryly.
"And where's the fun then?" Mischief lay in Hogan's eyes.
Connor blinked in disbelief. Were these two…teasing each other? What the hell was going on here?
A soft noise from the living room distracted them. While Connor turned around towards the door, Hogan quickly rose and stepped beside his colleague. Both watched how Harrison sat up and looked around with big eyes in utter confusion until his gaze rested on the two men in the doorway of the bedroom. "Where…where I am?" He asked hoarsely.
"In Stalag 13," the colonel answered softly, and closed the distance to him, Connor on his heels.
"Len," Ryan said, speeding up despite his aching feet, and bent over the younger man the moment he reached him. "Are you all right?"
The lieutenant combed his fingers through the dirty mess of his too long hair. "I…I don't know yet." His gaze wandered from his friend and CO back to Hogan. Observing the colonel, he finally murmured, "I…I remember you…you were there in the compound. You're Colonel Hogan, right?"
Robert nodded with a smile. "Yes, you're right." He lifted a hand to stop the beginning saluting. "At ease, Lieutenant. Just like I said at yours and the others' arrival: For now there's no need to insist on rank. You have to regain some strength first before we can return to military protocol."
Harrison blinked mindlessly. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly, relieved that the colonel belonged to those few officers whose priority was not every written letter of the book. He glanced around. "This…this is a living room," he murmured, even more bewildered.
Robert nodded. "Yes. You're in the Kommandant's quarters."
"WHAT? This wasn't a dream? The Kraut let us sleep in his own quarters?" He shook his head in disbelief, while his eyes were about to pop out of his head. "That…that wasn't a joke?" he addressed Connor, who shook his head.
"No, Kommandant Klink was serious when he made the offer," Ryan answered.
Robert waved a hand around. "Does this look like a fake room to you, Lieutenant?" His voice remained soft, yet it also became firm. "Given the fact that Colonel Klink is nice enough to offer you, Connor, and Elison his own four walls a place to stay for the next couple of days, it certainly should make you skip from calling him a 'Kraut'."
"It's their nickname for us Germans, you know. Just like I've begun to call you Americans 'steaks'," the well-known voice deadpanned from behind.
Groaning, Rob turned around and saw Klink leaning against the door frame of his sleeping room; arms crossed in front of him and clad only in his nightgown and slippers. Stemming his hands on his hips, Hogan frowned. "Maybe you should begin to remember that Dr. Birkhorn ordered you to stay in bed, Kommandant."
Harrison's jaw dropped. Of course he had recognized the older man with the balding head as the German officer from…yesterday? He didn't know how long he had slept, but he knew that this male in the nightgown was the camp's Kommandant. And Hogan spoke to him in such a manner?
"Dr. Birkhorn isn't here and…" Klink was interrupted as Hogan flipped a thumb over his shoulder towards the entrance.
"He'll be coming in a few hours. Shall I tell him you disobeyed him again?"
"You're a damn blackmailer, but I think I already told you this a few times." Klink cocked his head. "And just like I pointed out before, too: From time to time I have to use the restroom."
"You use every given chance to leave bed," Robert accused him, and Wilhelm rose a rebuking finger.
"Tut-tut. That's the pot calling the kettle black, my dear Hogan. You were likewise disobedient to the good doctor only a few weeks ago." His gaze found the lieutenant on the sofa, who looked at them absolutely flabbergasted. Connor's own jaw was about to hit the floor. Klink laughed softly. Of course, Rob and his own casual way of speaking with each other had to be a kind of shock for the two newcomers. He was sure that their former Kommandant in Camp 64 was not as tolerant as he was, not to speak of Hartmann. Maybe it would be best to show them that this wasn't a bad stage play by treating them like one of Hogan's gang. "And given the fact that I have to leave bed to follow a natural urge, I can greet another addition to my camp." With careful steps, he headed towards the sofa while ignoring Hogan, who had become tense and was ready to support him should he need help.
Looking at the living skeleton with the wild beard, red eyes, and sunken cheeks, Klink felt compassion waking in him. The lieutenant looked worse than he did during his arrival, and the same went for Connor. The men would need weeks to become their old selves again.
"I think I don't need to ask you two if you feel a bit better. The answer screams from the roof, so to say," he addressed them quietly.
Harrison rose on unsteady legs and accepted Connor's help, who steadied him. He now remembered the man in front of him more clearly. "You were there as…as Hartmann didn't accept the big officer's authority and…" He glanced at Klink's bare legs and slippers. "You were in your nightgown and a coat…that was really you."
Somehow it was almost funny, and Klink had to chuckle. "Yes, unfortunately I'm restricted to bed at the moment, but if someone tries to chip away my camp, you'll have to tie me down to hinder me of any intervention."
"Don't try me," Hogan grumbled beneath his breath, which elicited a gasp from the two infantrymen, glancing in alert from him to Klink; expecting a sharp rebuke. It didn't come.
"I heard that," Will replied dryly, before he glanced back at the two other Americans.
The Lt. Colonel cocked his head. "You stopped Hartmann – and you offered Lieutenant Harrison, Staff Sergeant Elison, and I a place to stay." He shook his head. "I don't know why you did it, but…thank you."
Klink turned towards him and smiled again. "I don't like it when people suffer. And to offer someone in need a place to stay is a question of honor, but I know that many of my colleagues see it differently. Yet your gratefulness is welcomed." He looked back at the man in front of the sofa. "Did I get it right that you're the Lt. Colonel's confidant, Lieutenant Harrison?"
Even if the other man was a 'Kraut' – a German officer – Harrison realized that the Kommandant was no bad man. And Colonel Hogan may let go of protocol for now, but it didn't mean that the same went for the CO of this camp. Lifting his right hand to his temple, he replied, "Yes, sir, that's correct. I'm First Lieutenant Leonard Harrison, 9th US Infantry Division, serial number…"
"Skip the last part, please. If everyone new gives me his serial number within the next few days, I'm going to dream of numbers hopping on the moon's surface." Klink chuckled, yet he returned the gesture seriously. "Oberst Wilhelm Klink, Luftwaffe. Usually commander of Stalag 13. Welcome to my camp."
Len frowned in disbelief. There was no mockery in the German's voice, no sneering, only openness mixed with an odd humor. "Sir," he replied with something close to respect. Then he exchanged another confused glance with his own CO and friend.
For a moment, an awkward silence filled the room, then Hogan looked from one man to the next. "Does someone want some tea – or an early breakfast? I'm sure the gentlemen have to be hungry and…"
Another noise sounded from the door that led to the guestroom. All four men turned around and looked at a grumpy, drowsy, and anything but awake Brady Elison. "May I ask what the hell is going on here? Is this a pajama party or what? And where the devil am I?"
*** HH *** HH ***
While Connor explained his godfather everything, Klink and Harrison used the restroom before Elison did the same. The older man was more than wary as he bypassed Klink, who had returned to bed. While Wilhelm simply looked up and closed his eyes again, the sergeant displayed open distrust before he closed the door to the bathroom behind himself. 'Never trust a kind Kraut' was his motto – yet the young SS lieutenant had helped them, saved Evan Martins, and didn't even shy back from an open confrontation with Hartmann. Now this Kommandant was a 'nice guy', too? Usually Elison didn't look a gifted horse in the mouth, but this seemed to be a little too much luck. There was something off. He simply felt it in his bones. And therefore, he didn't let his guard down.
Hogan went to the kitchen to make some tea and get the last of the bread and toppings out of the fridge. Connor, still completely flabbergasted of the hospitality offered to him and his friends, had accompanied him.
Connor didn't know what to make of Hogan's behavior towards the German Kommandant. It was obvious that the two were on friendly terms with each other – something that sounded not only odd, but also forbidden. Treacherous even. Yet there was no doubt that the two officers got along rather well, and it seemed to be so confusingly natural.
Sitting at the table in the kitchen and watching the higher ranking man curiously, Ryan tried to sort out what was really going on. But tired, hungry, and hurting still, he couldn't come up with an explanation. Finally, he decided to put the cart before the horse and asked quietly, "How long have you been here, sir?"
"In April, I've been here for three years," Hogan answered, and infused the tea as the kettle began to whistle.
"Is it true what I heard? That there has never been a successful escape from this camp?"
Robert looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Yep, because it's an order."
"An order?" Connor was at a loss now. "I…I don't understand."
Hogan put the kettle back on the stove. "You will soon. There are a few things I have to tell you still, but not now and here."
"Is this about your comradeship with the Kommandant?" Connor asked bluntly, and Hogan sighed. The younger man was just like him; never danced around something, but griped the bull's horns.
"Partly. But before I tell you, first you and your men have to come around a little bit." He took a tray, put it on the table, and got five plates out of the cupboard followed by napkins and cutleries.
Ryan frowned. "You seem to know this kitchen very well."
"What shall I say; I've technically lived here since January with a small break of two weeks." He got the tea strainer and sugar bowl and placed them on the tray. "Most times LeBeau does the work in the kitchen, but that doesn't mean I don't know what is where in here."
"LeBeau?"
"Corporal Louis LeBeau, a Frenchman." Hogan smiled. "A damn good cook. A little bit short tempered, but he has his heart in the right place – and he's a loyal friend. You're going to meet him today. He's also one of our barbers – at least for Barracks 2, where I used to stay. He'll help you and your friends out with a haircut and proper shaving." He lifted the tray, not caring that he was the highest ranking of the POWs. "We hoped to get razors for all of you," he continued. "But the Red Cross was only able to send two hundred. They're running out of supplies, too, you know, and I'm sure that we wouldn't have gotten all the blankets, spare clothes, and washing utensils if it wouldn't have been for Schmidt, who called the German Red Cross Headquarters in Munich. He's a decent and honorable man, but when needed, he can parade as the nasty SS-man he isn't."
He carried the tray to the dining area and began to set the table for five. Connor followed him still confused, but also baffled that the higher ranking man was practically serving them. "You…you don't have to do this for us, Colonel. We…"
"Connor, like I pointed out earlier, rank doesn't matter at the moment. You and your friends are hurt, tired out, and in need for meals, a lot of rest, and…" He sighed. "And a proper cleaning session. You've been through a lot, and I have no problem with helping a few comrades out." He nodded at a chair. "Have a seat."
Harrison appeared from the sleeping room with damp hair and wearing one of Klink's nightgowns. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and Connor stared wide-eyed at him. The younger man grinned sheepishly. "Please no comment, Ryan. I know, I look like my own aunt."
Elison, who had only used the toilette before leaving the bathroom to give Harrison the chance to shower, leaned against the door frame of the guest room grinning widely. His tattered and dirty uniform and the wild beard gave him the appearance of a lumberjack. Yet it didn't hinder him from teasing the young officer.
"Well, the hairs are fitting to this outfit, sir."
Leonard rolled his eyes. "Thank you very much," he grumbled.
"Only the beard disturbs the whole picture," Hogan chuckled. "But otherwise…" He winked at the younger man, who smiled while tugging at the material.
"I never thought I would wear something like this on my own free will, but Colonel Klink offered it, and I have to admit I would even wear a pouch if it meant I can be rid of those stanching rags my uniform turned into."
Robert laughed quietly. "Understandable." He glanced at Elison. "The tea needs a few minutes yet. If you want to shower and change before we start breakfast, it's not a problem."
"And what shall I wear, sir?" Elison asked carefully.
"Klink has plenty of nightgowns and…"
"NO!" The staff sergeant violently shook his head. "I certainly won't wear a nightgown and…"
"Bryan, nightgown, or no breakfast," Connor said half firmly, half amused. "We want to eat without our noses getting stressed again."
The older man gaped at him. "Is that an order, sir?" he asked stiffly, and Ryan groaned loudly.
"Uncle Bryan, come on. It can't be that bad to wear a nightgown. You did it a few times at the hospital. And in earlier times, men always wore nightgowns, so don't be so coy."
"I'm not coy, but…" He threw his hands up. "A nightgown – really?"
"Just regard it as a trip into the past of Grandpa's time," Len grumbled, and sat down at the table. Every step hurt his sore feet and even if he was hungry like a bear after winter rest, he would return to sleep afterwards. Thinking was an odd thing at the moment. Almost impossible, yet it was easy because he felt somehow almost childish – a little drunk, too. And as he glanced at Connor, he knew that his friend was in a likewise condition.
Hogan watched the three men with a lot of understanding and compassion, but also slight amusement. Yes, they would need time to heal – internally and externally – but their closeness would help them. He only hoped that the same was true for the others.
*** HH ***
"This is no job to laugh at!" Louis LeBeau threw the razor on the table and began to wash his hands in the bowl with water.
"Tell me about it," Newkirk answered, who cut a newcomer's hair. It wouldn't be a well-done styling, but the result was a few times better than it had been before.
Stroking his own hair back, Louis released his 'customer', sighed, and left Barracks 2 to get some fresh air. Shaking his head, he looked around. Stalag 13 resembled a gypsy camp. Now, in the early midday, many POWs of Camp 64 had woken up, and their first urge after eating was to get clean. Many of them had to be supported on the way from their sleeping places to the shower rooms, but everyone who was able to walk was determined to get rid of the sharp stench that seemed to be everywhere. The showers technically didn't stop to run, the delivered soap was quickly nearing an end along with the shampoo, and there was no dry towel left. A few times blocked drains had to be cleaned, and water was gathering outside of the building. But that was not all.
You could wash as long as you wanted, but if you slipped back into dirty, reeking clothes, the whole attempt of getting clean was undone again. And given the fact that the newcomers were too exhausted to take care of their clothes, Stalag 13's regular POWs had begun to help. Everywhere outside of the Barracks stood washtubs with washboards. Lines were stretched back and forth between the Barracks where ragged uniform parts were drying in the cold wind with underwear, socks, scarfs, and so on. More and more laundry was done, and some men had developed the practical side of the Barrack's roof and placed the washed clothes on it in the fresh snow. It would last longer until the laundry was dry, but at least it was clean up there.
Then there were more matters than just the ragged uniforms. Boots were lined up along the Barracks' walls, ready to be cleaned and patched up. Garbage cans were placed beside the hut's entrances and already full with cut off hair and shaved beards. But when the only clothes you owned were cleaned, you were left in Adam's costume – something unthinkable within a military camp and, above all, in the late winter. Yes, spring was approaching and would start earlier here in North Bavaria than in the south, where the winter held the Alpes still in its icy grip. Yet it was still incredible cold, and to run naked around was out of question.
Because the delivered nightwear from the Red Cross wasn't enough for all new POWs, many of them wore only blankets and curled up on the beds of others, waiting for their uniforms to dry. Others, who just left the shower rooms, wore only their shoes and blankets, too. To prevent them from catching a cold between the shower room, Barracks, and converted buildings, fire barrels had been placed everywhere. The cut off branches from the cut-down trees in the southside of camp were the base for the fires; thickening the air with smoke because they were too damp to be a proper fire wood.
And when you had a closer look at the clothes on the lines, you realized that only washing would be enough to give the men a little normal appearance back. There wasn't a single trouser, shirt, or jacket that didn't need to be sewed, and LeBeau already volunteered dozens of POWs who would help him with the task. Yet it would last days until the ragged clothes would be back in a semi-acceptable condition.
Beside the Kommandantur was a parked ambulance. Dr. Birkhorn had arrived alone today, knowing that it would lead to unpleasant questions if his colleagues realized they were syringing a lot of medicine that was more than rare in Germany by now. Dr. Ashton and two other surgeons, who belonged to the newcomers, helped him to treat their sick comrades; perplex about the presence of penicillin, but they didn't ask questions. Instinctively they knew that this was something that better remained unmentioned.
Hogan was already busy after breakfast and morning roll call. Connor and Elison were asleep again in Klink's guestroom, while Robert had accompanied Harrison – who was wrapped into a comforter over the nightgown – to Barracks 2, and the lieutenant got the Colonel's usual bunk. The man was asleep within minutes despite the coming and going of his comrades headed towards the shower rooms.
Worried, Hogan had visited the Martins brothers afterwards and was more than relieved that Evan was still alive. It hadn't looked good for the boy, but as it seemed, help had come at the very last second.
"The truth, Colonel?" Lt. Cmdr. Dr. Ashton said softly to him. "I think the boy wouldn't have survived had that SS-lieutenant not given him his lunch and tea. Evan was at the brink of death, and an hour more or less without nourishment can be crucial then. I had no possibility to check his vitals, but given the condition he was in, his blood pressure, blood sugar, and circulation had to be dangerously low. I'm certain the boy would have been the next victim if that German hadn't helped him the way he did."
Robert smiled. As it seemed, Schmidt was turning more and more into a hero, and it pleased him.
Schultz searched for Hogan out in the compound later to tell him he had spoken with Schmidt concerning Hartmann's driver and the missing files.
"He had an accident yesterday evening near Schweinfurt," the large Bavarian explained. "Nothing serious, but the car slipped from the icy street and was damaged. The driver had to walk to town. Fortunately, the guy was clever enough to contact the Gestapo this morning and called me an hour ago. I told them where Hartmann was, and Schmidt let me know that he sent a car to Schweinfurt to pick up the driver and get the newcomers' files." He sighed. "Why can't nothing be easy for once?"
"Because challenges are the spice of life – or so," Hogan deadpanned. "At least we get the documents and…"
He stopped as he heard some whistles and turned around. Hilda was coming out of the Kommandantur and stopped for a moment confused. She looked at the partly dirty and torn figures in the compound, who were on their way to the shower rooms; others were returning from there, covered in blankets and shoes on their bare feet. Almost every male stared with big eyes at her.
'Okay, just breathe, and stay calm. They will not harm you,' the young woman told herself, smiled, and headed towards Hogan and Schultz. She knew that both men wouldn't be too delighted of what she had to tell them.
"Schultzie, I have the Hammelburg waterworks on the line. They want to know what 'the hell is going on here' that we're needing four times the water than usual, and they said that they can't supply us much longer, or the citizens will find themselves without any. We already consumed the whole ration for the next four days."
Schultz stared at her and glared at the Kommandantur as if the building was to blame for the new problem. "They can't…I will tell them what they can or not. Unbelievable! The rivers are overflowing because of the snowmelt, and Hammelburg is running out of water? Are they nuts? Is everything going down the hill now? Where are we here? In Absurdistan?" With quick steps, he stomped towards the office swearing under his breath in English and Bavarian.
Hogan followed him, knowing that his organization talent would be needed again.
*** HH ***
"What the devil…" General Albert Burkhalter stared flabbergasted out of the window of his car. He had departed from Berlin very early that morning – around four o'clock – to reach Stalag 13 around midday. The telephone talk with Hogan and later with Schultz had unsettled him. This, and the nasty facts he had learned of. A tenth of the sent POWs were dead – collapsed or murdered. The rest of them were in a wretched and miserable condition. The camp wasn't prepared to take so many men in – and then approximately 200 hundred were seriously ill. And with Klink out of commission, Stalag 13 was still without a real officer, and a power hungry SS-officer lurked in the shadows to take over. This was all too much.
No, even if his presence was required in Berlin, he was still responsible for the Luft-Stalags, and he wouldn't turn his back on his duty concerning those camps. He wouldn't let down his biggest problem child, that – against all odds – had become his favorite camp. So he informed his driver, had left a message in the Führerbunker that he had to travel to Hammelburg for an emergency, and left Berlin at 04:05 a.m.
He had expected a lot, but certainly not what was presented to him. Everywhere clothing lines were stretched, clothes waved in the wind or lay on roofs, the compound was overfilled with working POWs doing laundry, and fire barrels spread a little bit of warmth throughout the camp. Out of nowhere the motor pool had a roof, and in the south many trees had vanished. Weak figures mostly clad in blankets walked over the compound being supported by other POWs, and an ambulance sat beside the Kommandantur. This was a living nightmare of chaos, and not a tight-led POW camp. But it was nothing compared to what he found after he left his car. One of the guards at the gates had told him that all telephone lines were busy, and the general's arrival couldn't be announced.
Stepping into the Kommandantur, he thought he had gotten off at the wrong station. Fräulein Hilda was at the phone snapping at someone to get 'the captain on the line'. Her desk looked like a storm had raged through it, and along the wall were files piling up. Dirty files which were partly wet.
Hilda tapped her foot impatiently. "Ja, ich warte, (Yes, I'll wait)" she said with forced politeness, rubbing her forehead and closing her eyes. She didn't even see the massive figure at the entrance, who all but slipped into the building, went on surprising soft feet to the office, and stopped dead at the threshold.
He hadn't gotten off at the wrong station. He had stepped into a parallel world. There was no other explanation possible for what he found. Chaos was not the right term for what Burkhalter saw. There would have to be a new word developed for what was happening here.
Construction plans, layouts, and several other kinds of maps were nailed against the wall and lying on the desk. The visitor chairs were covered with files, lists, and other documents. Rolled up plans and further files were placed on the dresser beside the cognac flask and glasses, while other items were stacked up in a corner. And if that wouldn't be enough to shock every orderly German – not to speak of a persnickety staff officer – another thing was utterly out of place and against all rules.
Two American POWs were discussing some plans by the wall next to the door to the backroom. Sergeant Kinchloe stood beside them and added comments while pointing at a few spots on the plan. A fourth POW was drawing something on it and used the overfilled top of the dresser for it.
Burkhalter felt the strong urge to gasp for air. Prisoners of war were discussing construction matters in the middle of the Kommandantur as if they were at home in some building company. And the insanity didn't end with that. Far from it.
A smaller table was placed not far away from Schultz's, better to say from Klink's desk; covered with files, sheets of paper, and writing tools, obviously being used as a desk. And it was occupied by no one else than a certain Colonel Robert E. Hogan. And above all, the American officer was talking to someone on the second phone that usually stood on Klink's desk but had now been put in the makeshift workplace. The senior POW officer was making calls from the office of the camp he was imprisoned in. The world was upside down. No doubt there.
Burkhalter took a deep breath to calm his rising nerves, while he glanced at the American colonel, who had turned half aside and watched his comrades while talking to someone on the phone.
Hogan had stripped off his bomber jacket that hung on the coat hanger, his crush cap lay atop of it, and he had rolled up his sleeves. His hair was tousled as if he had combed his fingers through it a few times.
The general's gaze wandered to Schultz, who stood in front of his own desk and was speaking with someone on his own phone, too, his back towards the door.
No one noticed the general standing at the entrance. Staring from the current Kommandant back to the highest ranking POW, who woke the imagination of belonging there, Burkhalter's jaw dropped as he heard Hogan barking into the phone.
"Es kümmert uns nicht, dass die Wasserrohre von jemand anderem bestellt wurden. Dies hier ist ein Notfall, und ich muss drauf bestehen, dass wir die Lieferung bekommen. Wir können das im Guten regeln, oder ich kontaktiere meinen Freund bei der Gestapo. Ich schätze, dann ist die Lieferung kein Problem mehr, oder? (We don't care that the water pipes are ordered by someone else. This is an emergency, and I have to insist that the delivery is brought to us. We can make this deal on good terms, or I'll have to contact my friend within the Gestapo. I think the delivery won't be a problem afterwards, isn't it?)"
Burkhalter stared at the younger man flabbergasted. This was German in a very high standard, and nothing else. How in the world had Hogan learned German like this in a few weeks?
"Dan' zopft von mia aus die Flüsse oan. Es ko' net sei', dass wiar bei beginnender Schneeschmelze un' döm viela Regen östlich von hiear unter Woassermoangel leiden! (By all my means, then extract water from the rivers. It can't be that we suffer water shortages even at the beginning of the thawing period and during so much rain that poured down in the east from here!)" Schultz's Bavarian dialect was stronger than ever before, while his fist came down on the desktop.
"In zwei Stunden, nicht eine Minute später! Auf Wiederhören! (In two hours, not one minute later! Goodbye)" Hogan all but threw the receiver down on the phone and cursed beneath his breath in English.
"Without those water pipes, we can forget the whole thing," Kinchloe said, and walked towards Hogan, whose attention was instantly driven to his substitute.
"Then let's hope my call was enough to make that clear to those idiots at the pipe factory. Me mentioning a 'friend at the Gestapo' maybe did the miracle."
Burkhalter thought this was the best moment to raise his voice and wake everyone's attention to him, but he wasn't even able to open his mouth before a quick movement behind him distracted him.
Langenscheidt stopped for a moment as he recognized the man at the door frame, saluted hastily with a "Herr General," and stepped into the office where Schultz was still arguing with someone on the phone.
"Colonel, the men have begun to dig beside the shower rooms for a cistern," Karl reported.
Hogan glanced up – and because Langenscheidt stopped exactly in front of him, the corporal's body hid the person at the threshold.
"That's good, Charlie. We need…"
"Schultz, I finally have the fire chief of Hammelburg on the line!" Hilda's shout sounded from the anteroom.
"Denka Sie besser über oane Lösung nach un' rufa mi' zuruck – oder i' verständige dön SS-Kommandanten der Stadt. Un' dann hob'n S' wirklich an Ärger! (Just think about a solution, and phone me again – or I'll call the SS-Kommandant of the town, and then you're in real trouble!)" Schultz threatened the manager of the water supply works in Hammelburg and ended the call. "Put him through, Hilda!" he yelled, while rounding Klink's desk; eyes fixed on the chaos on the table's top.
"What about the pumps?" Hogan asked Kinchloe, glancing down at the old construction plans, which had been brought from the archive.
"We need more of them. Two certainly."
"Then we have to enlarge the hole for the foundation," Langenscheidt threw in for consideration. "And there is another problem, Colonel. The sewer is clogged. Your men tried to clean it, but we're definitely in need of an effluent pump to succeed."
"Dammit," Robert groaned. "Schultz!" he addressed the current Kommandant, who was in a heated discussion with the fire chief and stood beside the desk now.
"Jo? Oan'a Moment, bitt'schön. (Yes? One moment, please)," he interrupted his talk and glanced towards Hogan. "What's the matter?"
Looking straight at the Bavarian, Hogan ordered, "When the fire service brings the tank car, they shall deliver an effluent pump, too."
"I'll try my best," Hans sighed, and continued his discussion with the fire chief in broad Bavarian slang. Even Burkhalter, who lived here for years, didn't understand much.
"If we double the shower rooms, we'll need a lot more material than just wood," one of the POWs in front of the plans said, turning towards Hogan.
"Make a list," the colonel instructed over his shoulder, before he turned his attention back to Langenscheidt, but was interrupted again.
"Robbie, I have Horst on the line. He says it's about the generator," Hilda yelled. "Schultz is still busy on the phone, so…"
"Put him through to me then," Hogan shouted back.
"Okay," the young woman replied louder than usual.
"A little less noise, please!" Schultz snapped. "I can hardly understand the fire chief."
"Maybe that's the reason for the continuing misunderstanding between you and him," Hogan deadpanned. "Hilda? Stop flirting with your honey for once. I'm waiting," he exclaimed.
"Here he comes," a blushing Hilda answered, pushed the button on her phone, and looked over her shoulder to ask Hogan if he got the call – and turned into a pillar of salt. Her eyes widened as she saw the bulky figure standing there, clad in general grey and red.
"Herr Ge…"
She was interrupted as Burkhalter lifted a hand and said quietly, "It's all right, my dear. Continue whatever you're doing. This scene here is certainly interesting – and tells me far more than anything else."
The young woman gulped – oh shiiiit! The way the men acted to each other at the moment, the sloppy tone they used, Robert accepting calls from outside…that Burkhalter hadn't fainted until now was certainly owed to his shock and curiosity.
Hesitantly, she rose and stepped beside him.
"Schmidt? Thanks for calling," Hogan's voice woke the general's and Hilda's attention, and grimacing, Burkhalter turned back towards the office. This here was more than interesting.
"What? Yes, the files arrived an hour ago and are drying in the anteroom and in Klink's office. Thank you for the quick decision to bring them to us." Hogan took an audible deep breath. "We can expect the generator this evening? That's good news – but we have another request. We need two water pumps that can provide the new shower rooms with water we're gathering in a cistern that is already under construction. What? Yes, the Hammelburg Wasserwerke are complaining about the amount of water we need and threatened to shut off the water supply."
"Woas? (What)" Schultz's voice boomed. „Wenn's irgendwo in de' Zwischenzeit brenna' duad, könnt's ihr net zum Löschen kummea? Woas glaubt's denn, wie hoch dö Chance is', doass in de' zwoa Stunda, die ihr hier seid, irgendwao a Feuer ausbricht? Woann hoat's hier überhaut' dös letzte Mal gebrannt, he? (If somewhere a fire starts in the meantime, you can't take action against it? How high do you think is the chance that a fire starts within the next two hours you'll be here? When was the last time a fire started at all?)" Schultz sounded more than angry now. "Letztes Joahr? Däs woar noach onem Bombenangriff, Sie Hirsch, Sie damischer, un' net weil jemand de' Herd vergessen hoat abzudrehen! (Last year? This was after an air raid attack, your cervine, and not because someone forgot to switch off the herd)!" (Autor's note: A Bavarian calls someone else a 'cervine' as an equivalent for idiot/fool)
Hogan stared with big eyes at the broad back of Schultz. He had understood as good as nothing, yet he got a good idea of why the sergeant and the fire chief were fighting. He turned his attention back to his own talking partner. "Did you hear that, Schmidt? We…" He listened shortly and snorted, "Believe me, you're not the only one who doesn't understand Schultz just right now. I'm used to several slangs, even Bavarian, but this here is too much." He listened again and laughed quietly before he turned more serious again.
"We called the fire service to provide us with a tank load full of water," he explained, "but of what I understand they're denying us the request – fearing they could be needed elsewhere." He listened again. "What? No, the water works in Hammelburg already threatened us to cut off the supply because we need more at the moment. Not even half of the newcomers were able to get clean, and Hammelburg's water supply is already driven to its knees." Hogan had risen and stemmed a hand onto his hip, face grim. He glanced at Langenscheidt, who threw his hands up in frustration, then Robert continued to listen to Schmidt's answer, and nodded finally. "I see it likewise. Yes, I know that we need more from now on – the reason why we're going to construct a cistern to fill it with water. An own kind of water supply for the POWs' shower rooms. But until we're done building it, we need water from outside and… Thank you for your offer, Schmidt. We owe you. What? Yes, I'll tell Schultz. 'til later, and thanks again. Bye."
He ended the call, turned towards the larger desk, and raised his voice. "Schultz, stop your attempt to get some sense into the fire captain. Tell him that he can expect a call from the local SS-Kommandant in a minute."
Hans lifted a triumphal thumb and snapped parallel. "Sie bekumma oanen Befehle in oner Minute von höherer Stelle, un' dann müssen S' gehorchen. Bereiten Sie Ähner scho moal darauf vor! (You'll get new orders in a minute from higher authority, and then you have to obey, so be prepared!) He placed the receiver back on the phone. "Any more bad news?"
"It depends," Hilda said quietly, from beside Burkhalter. "We have a visitor."
All men turned around – and stopped dead in their tracks.
Burkhalter stood there, hands crossed behind his back in the typical gesture, bobbed back and forth on his heels, and sourly glared first at Hogan, then at Schultz.
Robert felt his mouth going dry – how much had the fat Sacher cake witnessed? Had he heard him speaking German and referring to German slangs he understood? If so, then…well, there was no flimsy excuse possible to explain why he spoke this language so well, and why he was practically in charge with Schultz.
His and Burkhalter's gazes met, and the colonel did the first thing that came to his mind.
"ACHTUNG!" he shouted in best parade manner, and everyone snapped to attention. And Robert thought it wiser to give the German staff officer a proper salute for once, too.
Burkhalter stared at the gathering of camp personnel and POWs, took a deep breath, and finally snarled, "What the hell is going on here?"
TBC…
Well, this is an interesting question not only Burkhalter wants an answer for, but Connor and his friends, too. Like you certainly imagine, 'Burki' will be not amused about the whole scene. Not only that Schultz got help from a few POWs, but also because it's more than clear that Hogan technically leads the camp now. I'm sure you can picture what comes next (*grin*).
In the next chapter Burkhalter not only tries to prevent a heart attack and demands a lot of answers, he also learns first hand what has been done to the newcomers during their walk. And it will wake his human side again. And you will read more about Max Schultz but this time from the point of view from an US-lieutenant who scouts Coblenz to prepare the strike against the town. Again I'm going to mix history with fiction…
I hope, you liked the new chapter and that it gave you something to laugh. The Lord knows how much we all need something like this right now.
Like always, I'm looking forward to get reviews and other ways of feedback.
Have a nice Sunday as much as possible,
Love
Yours Starflight
