Chapter 11:

(Stuttgart Red Cross Hospital - Two nights later)

Hogan slowly fluttered his eyes open, coming out of a black fog and into a blurry environment. He blinked a few times until he realized he was in a hospital room with cream colored walls and a window looking outside to his right. He looked down curiously at all the medical equipment he was hooked up to and closed his eyes again for a moment, desperately trying to remember what had happened to him and how he got there. Unfortunately, everything for him was nothing but a blank.

He tried to breathe, but his throat and lungs felt like sandpaper, and he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his abdomen. He gave a low moan in agony as he gently rubbed his swollen belly, gasping for a breath of air. But with his lungs on fire and his stomach tight and shooting with pain, the task was almost merely impossible to accomplish.

Bossler, who was busy taking down notes, looked up at his patient and stood there dumbfounded for the longest while, staring blankly at the man he was certain of having an untimely death. Once coming out of his shock, a wide grin came to his face, his green eyes twinkling from the lonely lamp light on Hogan's nightstand. "Well all be damned," the old medic said. "Rise and shine, Colonel. About time you returned to us."

Hogan gave labored breaths as he tried to grasp a hold on reality. His mind was so foggy, and he felt so light for some reason. Almost detached from himself, but he could not figure out why that was. "Kinch," he croaked, slipping back into unconsciousness.

Bossler's eyes bugged out a bit as he stared at Hogan for an explanation. "Kinch, I don't understand, Colonel," he said. "Who is Kinch?"

Hogan's eyes rolled back as he gave a soft gasp, then fell silent, making the hairs on Bossler's neck stand up straight.

"Colonel?" He asked anxiously. He was greeted by the sound of a long, loud beep and rushed to his patient's EKG machine. Flat line. "Damn it, he's flat lining!" He shot his gaze to the open door. "I NEED HELP IN HERE! HE'S CRASHING!"

Dallwitz and four more doctors came barreling in pushing a tray with several syringes on it.

Bossler looked to Dallwitz. "Prepare an intracardiac epinephrine injection, stat." He then turned to one of the other four. "Start chest compressions, and don't stop until I tell you to!"

Dallwitz flicked the needle of the first syringe, then handed it to Bossler, who quickly administered the life-saving medicine. Unfortunately, he was met with no response. He looked back at his assistant. "Again."

The assistant prepared another injection and watched Bossler try a second attempt at saving Hogan. He continued to flat line.

"Again," Bossler ordered, and tried a third attempt. Nothing. He looked at Dallwitz again. "Try 3 milligrams."

Dallwitz hesitated for a moment, but did as told and handed his mentor a fourth vial of epinephrine.

Bossler took the syringe and tried to control his rapid breathing. "Damn it, Colonel, stay with us." He gave the fourth intracardiac injection and waited for a long moment. As he was about to throw in the towel, Hogan's heart rate stabilized, and his pulse returned to a steady 63.

The head medic sighed with relief and tossed the syringe onto the metal tray, running his hand down his tired face. "Thank the Lord," he grumbled to himself.

Hogan again slowly opened his eyes, only this time his vision had settled in more, and he could make out the old doctor and his colleagues surrounding his bedside. Though it was difficult for him to breathe and move much, he was determined to find out where he was and who he was with. He let out a wheezy breath of air and asked raspy, "Who are you?...Where am I?"

"I'm Dr. Markus Bossler, and you're at the Red Cross Hospital in Stuttgart. You've been in a coma for twelve days now," the stranger answered calmly.

Hogan swallowed to try and aid his sore throat, then started hyperventilating a bit from how bad the pain in his abdomen was. "How did I...why can I hardly breathe?" He asked.

"You've got a bad case of bronchitis resulting from smoke inhalation. You were caught in a bad fire when my assistant and I found you. You're lucky to even still be alive, Colonel." Bossler clarified. He watched Hogan struggle to breathe and placed a calming hand on the American's shoulder. "Easy there, Colonel, easy. Just breathe through it, it'll be alright."

Hogan moaned loudly, tenderly rubbing his belly as fierce abdominal cramps racked his body. "My stomach...Why does it hurt so much?" He whimpered.

"You suffered some severe gunshot injuries to your abdomen. Major internal bleeding, part of your small intestines and liver had to be surgically removed, and you're fighting a minor case of peritonitis. You're on a mix of antibiotics and a blood transfusion currently and are going to have several more of these stomach cramps within the next five to seven days. It's your body's way of recovering from the trauma it's suffered."

At that point, Hogan was sweating and grimacing by how much pain he was in. He cried out in agony again, trying to breathe through the pain as Bossler had told him to.

The head medic made his sympathetic gaze to Dallwitz. "Get Colonel Hogan on a morphine drip. Highest dose safe for him."

"Jawohl, mein Doktor," Dallwitz answered with a nod, and disappeared into the hall, leaving Bossler and the four other doctors alone with Hogan.

Bossler sat down beside Hogan's legs and took a firm hold of his right hand, squeezing it tight for comfort. "Hang in there for a little while more, Colonel. Just keep breathing through it," he told him comfortingly.

Hogan let out another cry of agony, resulting in Dallwitz to come racing back in with another IV. He placed it on Hogan's left forearm, slightly above the one in his hand, and hung the IV bag up with the others. He looked at the miserable colonel and nodded firmly. "You'll feel better in a few minutes, Colonel Hogan," he promised. "Just hang in there for a little longer until the medicine starts to kick in."

Hogan, with both of his hands on his belly, tried to breathe through the pain as much as possible, when it began to slowly fade and eventually was gone and became a dull ache. It still burned his lungs to inhale and exhale, but his muscles relaxed and again felt somewhat at peace.

"Feeling better now?" Bossler asked, hopeful.

Hogan gave a tired smile and nodded, his eyelids growing heavy again.

Bossler smiled back and patted his patient's shoulder. "Get some sleep, Colonel. I'll be here in the morning to check on you."

He, Dallwitz, and the others silently made their way out of Hogan's room, Bossler closing the door behind him after making one last check that the American was fine for the night. When he closed the door, Hogan fought to stay awake, but he was just too tired and weak to do so. He thought of his boys and little girl as he began to drift off and prayed that they were safe and okay. He then let out a faint sigh, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

The next day started bright and early for Hogan's men. As soon as morning roll call had come to an end, a truck pulled into camp with almost 70 Allied officers recruited by Burkhalter in the back. From there, Schultz led them to the recreational hall, where Klink had a few guards set up a long table with four chairs behind it. Each spot had its own clipboard with everybody's name and camp number listed, a sharpened pencil, and a glass of water. The whole thing felt more like auditions than a recruitment assignment, but Hogan's men made no complaints. Despite how much they were still grieving over Hogan, they were somewhat grateful that Klink was letting them choose the new Senior POW of Stalag 13 instead of him and Burkhalter.

Even with over 70 officers to choose from, however, interviews and candidate selections had been a living nightmare from the get-go. Their first candidate, a United States Army Air Corps major from Oflag 49, seemed like a competent and well-groomed man that could possibly be a good fit for them...that was until he opened his mouth.

Kinch lifted up the clipboard to see the man's name, then set it back down on the table and made his attention to the major, who sat on a wooden stool in front of him, Newkirk, Carter, and LeBeau. "Alright, Major Addams," the radioman began. "Tell us a little bit about yourself and why you think we should select you as the new Senior POW Officer of Stalag 13."

"When I heard about this recruitment assignment, I also heard an accompanying rumor that this is the sorriest, mediocre camp in Germany, and I STARTED that rumor! Slacking off work details, failed escape attempts back to London, not a single one of you is fit to be a soldier in my army. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!" Addams barked, making all four of Hogan's men jump back a bit in their chairs, their eyes wide with fear. Addams made his hard stone gaze to Carter and narrowed his eyes at him. "ARE YOU EYEBALLING ME, PRINCESS?!"

Carter frantically shook his head, his memories of boot camp coming back to haunt him. "Sir, no, Sir!" He called back firmly.

"PITIFUL!" Addams hollered back. He made his piercing green eyes back to all of them. "Now I want you maggots to drop and do push-ups until you start throwing up blood. IS THAT CLEAR?!"

"Now wait just a bleedin' minute here," Newkirk said, rising to his feet. "You can't just go orderin' physical punishment; it's a violation of the Genev…"

"PUSH-UPS!"

"SIR, YES, SIR!" All four flyers cried fearfully, then dropped to the floor and began counting push-ups, Addams gawking at them like a hawk the entire time.

The next officer up was another United States Army Air Corps major, but from Oflag 26. He appeared a bit anxious, wringing his hands and constantly looking around the room as if someone was listening in on his interview. He was much younger than Major Addams and was nothing but skin and bones. He was about a couple inches taller than Newkirk, had dark blonde hair, and his dark blue eyes were empty and haunted by something that was only visible to him.

Kinch picked up his clipboard, read the man's name, then set the clipboard back down on the table and cleared his throat. "Major Sullivan," he began. He opened his mouth to continue, but Sullivan immediately hushed him urgently, his body posture quickly tensing with anxiety.

"Don't say my name too loud," Sullivan whispered, just barely audible for the four of Hogan's men. He then pointed to his left. "They're listening to us."

The four flyers sat there for about a minute doing nothing but stare at the man blankly. While LeBeau and Carter exchanged disturbed looks with one another, Newkirk finally broke the silence, internally dreading the answer to the question he just had to ask.

"Alright," he said, setting his pencil down on the table. "I'm gonna regret asking this, but who's listening to us?"

Sullivan looked over both of his shoulders cautiously, then craned his neck out to them as far as he possibly could and answered in the same whispered tone. "The Mafia."

Kinch raised a questioning eyebrow, gazing at the officer as if he had just grown a third head. "Sir," he said, trying to be as respectful as he could. "Do you realize we're stuck in the middle of Nazi Germany right now? The chances of a Mafia member lingering around here is about as likely as a grizzly bear attack happening."

"No," Sullivan uttered, shaking his head. "They told me, Sergeant. They're watching our every move. Even some of the guards here might be them in disguise."

All four of Hogan's men exchanged an irritated glance with one another, looked back at Sullivan, then yelled, "NEXT!"

When the third officer, a United States Army Air Corps colonel from Oflag 52, came along, Hogan's team of four thought they had finally struck luck in someone. Colonel Kelsey was in his mid-thirties, looked like a 20-year-old version of Hogan, and he had an impressive background underneath his name. Unfortunately, Kelsey was not there for interviewing purposes.

As soon as Kinch had asked for the man to tell them a bit about himself, Kelsey started up a record player and began performing a song he had written himself. He danced and sang like he were in a Broadway musical, and when he got to the grand finale, Kinch held up his hand for the colonel to stop.

"Hold it! Hold it, hold it," he called over the music, bringing Kelsey out of his trance. "How on earth does this show why you're qualified to be the new Senior POW Officer of Stalag 13?"

"Senior POW officer," Kelsey remarked, surprised. He furrowed his eyebrows together in confusion. "I thought I was trying out for a musical."

At that point, the radioman threw his clipboard into the middle of the table and placed his fingers to the side of his head, a screaming migraine beginning to form inside his brain. He shook his head in frustration, knowing that at the rate they were currently going at, they were never going to find candidates to move on to the next step: meeting and interacting with Kalina in order to see which one she approved of most.

Newkirk leaned his head over a bit to Kinch's left side and muttered under his breath, "Is it too late to bring back the paranoid major?"

"I would rather have Monsieur Crittendon," LeBeau said miserably, propping his head up with his hand.

Carter looked down at the list of names on his clipboard, then made his timid gaze to LeBeau. "It's a shame he's not on here."

"I can't understand it," Klink said, tossing a sheet of paper covered in red 'Xs' onto his desk in frustration. "Over 70 Allied officers were interviewed, and not a single one of them won over Hogan's men." He looked up to Burkhalter, who had looked over all the rejections before handing the sheet to the kommandant. "One of them had to be remotely like Hogan."

"That is where the problem comes in," Burkhalter answered, his arms clasped behind his back. "We are not looking for another Hogan; we are looking for another Senior POW Officer. And if the prisoners continue to compare everyone to Hogan, there will not be a new Senior POW Officer."

"And they haven't even gone through my daughter yet for approval." Klink shook his head. "It's Kalina that I'm afraid of. If it's anybody but Hogan, she won't give him a second thought...My poor baby. I can't get a single word out of her these days. She just lays against me at night and occasionally wakes up crying hysterically." He turned his gaze back to Burkhalter, looking at him with genuine despair for the first time since he could remember. "General Burkhalter, what do I do?"

Burkhalter let out a breath of air through his nose and gave his subordinate a sympathetic gaze. Something Klink had not gotten from him in almost a decade. "Klink," Burkhalter began. "War brings many ups and downs, as you already know. It would not be considered a war if people didn't die every now and then...practically every day now." He made his eyes back to Klink. "You can't protect your daughter from every dark shadow war brings with it, Klink. I know you don't wish to hear that as a parent, but she isn't five years old anymore. Buying her ice cream or giving her hugs and kisses will not bring Hogan back to her. Instead of taking her pain away, you must help her get through it and move on...You probably understand that better than anyone here."

The kommandant shook his head again. "I just can't stand seeing her hurt so much...Do you have any idea how much it kills me watching her grieve and know I can't do anything to help her?...If I could, I would take all of her grief away and suffer it…" A sudden knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and Klink looked up curiously at the closed entrance. "Come in," he called out.

Both he and Burkhalter were surprised when no one came in. In fact, not a single noise was to be heard.

Assuming it was one of the prisoners trying to play a joke on them, Klink narrowed his eyes and grew impatient. "I said 'Come in'!" He remarked, a bit louder.

No one answered, but a single slip of paper was slid underneath the door followed by the outer office door closing.

Klink and Burkhalter exchanged a suspicious gaze with one another, then both headed for the door. While Burkhalter peeked his head out to see if anyone was still there, Klink bent over and picked up the sheet of paper folded into fourths. The general found no one there and became frustrated.

"Damn prisoners," the general hissed. "Just another one of their silly pra…" Burkhalter paused when he saw the discoloration of Klink's face, and his frustration was quickly replaced with slight concern. "Klink, are you feeling alright? You look like you just saw your life flash before your eyes."

Klink felt the air sucked out of his lungs as he read the note over and over and over again, not believing what his eyes saw before him. The handwriting. He recognized that handwriting. Someone's handwriting he had not seen in ages. Someone he thought he would never see again. But what haunted him even more was what the message said.

HOGAN'S IN STUTTGART. ALIVE. YOU HAVE 72 HOURS TO FIND AND KILL HIM, OR I'LL FINISH WHAT I CAME BACK HERE FOR MYSELF!

"Williams," Klink gasped, just barely above a whisper.

"Who?" Burkhalter questioned.

"Sergeant Jack Williams. He's here in this area."

"Sergeant Williams, that prisoner of yours that was kicked out of every barracks and killed himself when he blew up that gun in your camp?"

"He must have escaped in time, but forget his jacket next to the gun."

Burkhalter turned his eyes away and looked off to his right. "Survived through that explosion, I don't believe it," he replied.

"You're not going to believe what this note says then, either. I can hardly believe what this note says," Klink said, slowly coming out of his shock. Was it true, he wondered. Could Hogan actually be alive somewhere and recovering from his gunshot injuries? Would he actually see his only friend again and be able to bring back joy to his daughter's aching heart? It was just too good to be true. A prayer answered from Heaven above.

"Why? What does it say?" Burkhalter asked suspiciously.

Klink quickly handed his superior the piece of paper and watched Burkhalter read line for line, slowly losing as much color as Klink had when first reading the message. The general's eyes widened to the size of saucers and felt himself freeze in place for the longest time. He was not sure whether to scream or be slightly relieved. Once his senses came back to him, he lifted his gaze and hurried to Klink's office phone.

"General Burkhalter, what are you doing?" Klink questioned, with urgency.

"Calling the Gestapo. I want Major Hochstetter over here at once. The sooner he's here, the sooner we can find Hogan and Williams." Burkhalter picked up the receiver and waited for the operator to answer. "Get me Major Hochstetter at Gestapo Headquarters immediately. Tell him it's a red alert."

While Burkhalter waited for Hochstetter to pick up, Klink turned around to face the wall and let the joy he felt inside him creep its way onto his face. His blue eyes began to twinkle like sunshine, and he chuckled with delight softly. "Hogan, I knew you were more stubborn than that. Oh, he's alive, Hogan's alive!"