Chapter 13:
It was almost a five hour train ride from Hammelburg to Stuttgart, and by the time Hochstetter, Hogan's men, and Kalina arrived at their hotel, it was approaching close to midnight. The group of six walked inside the Hermann Goering Hauserhof, and Hogan's men and Kalina felt their jaws drop at the extravagant sight before them. Red velvet carpeting with oriental designs woven in it with gold thread. Agarwood furniture and desks, a gold plated name tag for the lobby desk, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, while a grand piano sat in the far corner of the lobby untouched and polished to a crystal shine.
"Whoa!" Carter gasped. "This place is fancier than the Waldorf in New York!"
"Certainly more extravagant than any hotel you'd see in Downtown Detroit, that's for sure," Kinch said, in agreement.
"I wish Papa could see this place," Kalina added, slowly coming out of shock. "He'd think we just walked into the Kaiser's palace or something."
"I will check us into our rooms," Hochstetter said, gripping his suitcase firmly in his hand. He took a few steps forward towards the lobby desk, when Kalina's voice stopped him.
"Major Hochstetter, do you want us to come with you?"
Hochstetter narrowed his dark eyes and frowned scornfully. "No, I want you five to stay there and act like you don't know me until I return with the room keys." He gnarled, then turned sharply on his boot and headed for the lobby desk without another word.
"Well ain't he gonna be a bloody charm to work with," Newkirk grumbled distastefully.
"Look, forget Hochstetter," Kinch told all of them. "We gotta figure out a way to get to Agatha's Hofbrau and meet with the agent tomorrow night. I messaged Otto shortly before we left, and he was getting in touch with our contact sometime before the end of the night."
"And if we don't meet with the agent, we won't be able to track down Colonel Hogan in time before Monsieur Bâtard does." LeBeau added softly. (1)
"But how do we convince Major Hochstetter into letting us go there?" Kalina asked curiously.
As Kinch pursed his lips and tried to think of an idea, Hochstetter made his way up to the front desk, where a young manager in his late twenties stood starting the graveyard shift. He had dark brown hair, green eyes, was thinner than an average man for his height, and wore a Luftwaffe captain's uniform as he flipped through some sort of magazine.
Sensing a new person's presence, the manager slowly looked up to find Hochstetter staring at him and felt his muscles tighten slightly, though his expression was more suspicious than frantic. "Major," he began cautiously. "How can I help you at such a late time of night?"
"I have reservations for two rooms under the name of General Burkhalter. One private, and one with a separate bedroom for a little teenage girl," Hochstetter said.
The manager stared at him blankly for several seconds before turning around in his seat and flipping through the pages of a binder behind him. He found the name listed, grabbed two sets of keys, then swiveled back to the front and placed them to the side. He held out his hand almost robotically. "974 marks," he ordered.
"974 marks!" Hochstetter bellowed, his face turning a bright shade of red as his eyes glimmered with white flames of rage. "General Burkhalter expects me to pay for those hotel rooms?!"
"Your problems with the General are none of my concern, Major." The manager stuck his hand out again and slammed his other down on the desk. "974 marks. Or you can sleep outside and be arrested for prowling."
Hochstetter felt his blood pressure spike through the roof at the threat and glared hard at the young man, grinding his teeth to keep himself from losing it completely. "I do not respond well to threats, Captain," he hissed. "I am Major Hochstetter of the Hammelburg Gestapo and can have you on a one-way train to Stalingrad by morning. I demand to have those rooms. NOW!" The last word the major pounded his fist on the desk for emphasis.
The manager, completely unfazed, reached for his phone and placed it to his ear, his eyes never leaving sight of Hochstetter. "Get me Uncle Himmler in Berlin; priority call," he said, his eyes glowing with the coldness of a hardened predator. (2)
Hearing the man refer to the Reichsfuhrer as 'Uncle', the raging fury on Hochstetter's face became sheer anxiety, and he could feel himself shaking in his boots as he stared at the hotel manager completely mortified. He finally gave in and grumbled to himself as he pulled out his wallet. As he searched for some cash, he looked up at the manager. "If I give you 980, will you put me in a room that is at least four doors down from those dummkopfs behind me?" He questioned, agitated.
The manager set the phone back down on the cradle and made his gaze briefly to Hogan's men and Kalina, who were still near the front of the lobby and gathered around each other, discussing something in a soft tone. He raised his eyebrow quizzically and looked back at Hochstetter. "They are prisoners and a little girl," he stated flatly. "What could they do so wrong in your presence?"
"You did not have to listen to them for five hours on a train singing show tunes." Hochstetter growled.
The manager thought about it for a few seconds, his expression not really seeming to care for the major's misery at all, then nodded. "Make it 1000, and I will give you a room five doors down with a view of downtown," he said.
Hochstetter took a double take and began to protest, then again gnarled his teeth and handed over the correct amount of cash, when he was joined by the four Allied flyers and Kalina.
"Major Hochstetter," Kalina asked timidly. "Could we go to Agatha's Hofbrau tomorrow night and post missing fliers with Colonel Hogan's picture on them?"
"We thought it might help us find the Colonel quicker if the word got around the city. Maybe someone's already seen him and can lead us in the right direction." Kinch added.
"Why don't you ask the manager here, Sergeant? Considering I can't even check into a hotel without getting robbed of all my money!" Hochstetter spat, snatched his room key off the desk, then stormed off to the elevator, when he paused and looked back at everyone one last time for the night. "BAH!" He hollered, and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Hogan's men and Klink's daughter baffled beyond belief.
Carter scrunched his face up with befuddlement, then looked to Kinch for an explanation. "What do you suppose put him in such a bad mood?" He asked.
"When have you known Hochstetter for ever being in a good mood?" LeBeau remarked, crossing his arms.
"Come on. Let's get to our room and get some sleep. The sooner we do, the sooner we can find Colonel Hogan and bring him home where he belongs," Kinch said.
Kalina looked down at the hand that was holding Hogan's crush cap, set down her suitcase, then fumbled with it in both of her hands before hugging it tight and closing her eyes. She knew Hogan was alive somewhere in Stuttgart, but she missed him like crazy. She wished he was there with them solving this assignment like old times. To take the lead and steer them in the right direction to finding Williams. Mainly she just missed the person that had become another father to her. His smile, him singing while folding laundry or going through papers, his warm hugs that made her feel safe and loved.
An arm wrapping around her brought Kalina out of her thoughts and looked up to find Newkirk gazing at her with a small grin on his face. "Don't worry, little mate," he said encouragingly. "We'll find him faster than you can say 'Kraut'."
Kalina nodded and let out a sad sigh. "I know...I'm just worried about him with Williams still out there somewhere," she answered, meek.
"Don't worry about that creep," Kinch told her reassuringly. "Once we figure out where Colonel Hogan is, Williams will never bug us ever again." He then gestured with his hand to the elevator, grabbing the other set of keys on the lobby desk. "Come on, guys. We got a lot of work to do starting tomorrow morning."
The group of five walked down the hall and towards the elevator, unknown to them that someone sitting on one of the sofas reading a newspaper had heard their entire conversation. The man, wearing a black trench coat, boots, and fedora, pulled down the newspaper from his face and looked off to the side with an icy gaze to his dark, hollow eyes. It was Williams.
Hogan slowly opened his eyes after a deep sleep and again tried to figure out how he had ended up in the hospital to begin with. His swollen belly still ached terribly, and it was somewhat still difficult to get air into his lungs every now and again, but he felt more coherent with his surroundings than the previous night. But despite his efforts to try and remember everything that had happened to him, he could not help but constantly worry about his boys and Kalina. Where were they? How were they? Were they in danger or hurt? He wanted to see them and tell them he was okay. But where was he? And what had happened to him during that time period?
He began to recall the sound of gunfire and the flickering of angry fire. The overwhelming heat and excruciating pain in his belly. Someone had shot him and possibly had left him to burn alive somewhere. There was another voice in the mix screaming and crying out for help, yet he could not recognize the voice's owner. He could not recall any scenery. He could not recall any faces. Nothing but darkness and sounds filled his memory.
Hogan swallowed to try and aid his dry throat, when the door to his room opened, and Bossler came inside carrying a clipboard underneath his arm. He spotted the colonel awake and gave him a friendly grin.
"Colonel Hogan," he said. "How are we feeling tonight?"
Hogan took in a few breaths of air before he answered weakly, "Where are my boys?...Where's my little...Kalina?...I wanna see them..."
"I'm sure they're just fine, Colonel," Bossler told him kindly, not entirely sure who it was Hogan spoke of. All he could figure out was that they meant everything to his patient, and tried to reassure them of their safety. Wherever it was they currently were. "Back in Hammelburg at Stalag 13. They miss you and want you to come home very soon to them, I'm sure of it."
Hogan closed his eyes briefly and gently rubbed his belly with one of his IV'd hands. "How am...how am I doing?" He asked, with labored breathing.
"Well, your pulse and blood pressure are slowly going back up to normal, and your surgical wounds are healing nicely, but you still have a bit of peritonitis and some inflammation in your lungs. If you continue on your path, we might be able to get you off of oxygen assistance completely and use an emergency inhaler in another 72 hours."
"When can I go home?"
Bossler frowned and shook his head. "I don't know that answer yet, Colonel," he said. "It doesn't look like anytime soon, though. I still have a lot of red flags to clear you of, and your bronchitis and peritonitis are two of them. You nearly died, Colonel; you're lucky enough to still be breathing."
Hogan's eyes then rolled back, and he began gasping for air.
"Colonel," Bossler called, his muscles becoming tense with fear. His worst nightmare became a reality when Hogan's EKG machine began to beep hysterically. The old medic sprinted to the opened room entrance and stuck his head out the door. "I need help in here! He's in respiratory distress!" He rushed back to Hogan and started CPR as Dallwitz and a team of five other doctors rushed in with a metal mobile tray. Bossler turned to his trusted assistant. "I need a high dose of phenylephrine, stat!"
"Jawohl, Herr Doktor," Dallwitz answered, and rushed to the sink to prepare four syringes filled with high dose phenylephrine.
Bossler looked up to one of the other five doctors, a young man with black hair. "Get a tracheal intubation ready and an oxygen mask on standby. Increase oxygen percentage to 99." He got a nod in response as he continued CPR on Hogan. And while the one doctor began tracheal intubation, Dallwitz darted back to his superior's side with one syringe of phenylephrine ready to go.
Bossler took the syringe and injected it into one of Hogan's IV lines. He watched desperately as his patient did not respond to treatment. The black haired doctor made his eyes up to Bossler. "Blood pressure still dropping, Doctor," he reported.
"Get me another dose of phenylephrine," Bossler ordered Dallwitz, who handed over the second syringe automatically. He made his gaze back to the black haired medic. "Increase oxygen percentage to 100."
While the medic followed orders, Bossler injected another dose of phenylephrine into Hogan's IV stream. After a few more agonizing seconds, Hogan's labored gasps stopped, and his pulse began to go back to normal. Bossler sighed with relief and tossed the second syringe onto the metal tray. "Get the oxygen mask on him. He's stable now," he said quietly, running his hand through his thin gray hair.
Two doctors removed the nasal oxygen assistance and tracheal tube from Hogan and placed a plastic mask over his nose and mouth for stronger oxygen assistance. The American slowly opened his eyes and looked up at Bossler through small slits.
Bossler put a gentle hand on Hogan's shoulder for comfort and gave him a tired grin. "Just rest now, Colonel," he told him softly. "Get some sleep."
No need for arguing, Hogan closed his eyes again and drifted off into another deep, dreamless sleep.
Once certain his patient was stable and resting comfortably, Bossler sighed heavily and turned around to face the wall, running his hand down his face. Noticing the older medic's distress, Dallwitz approached him with concern written all over in his eyes.
"Are you alright, Sir?" He asked quietly.
"No, no, I'm not alright," Bossler answered, with fatigue. He shook his head. "I don't know what else to do to help that poor man. He's got friends and a little girl probably grieving painfully to have him back right as we speak, and I can't even call them not knowing whether he'll make it or not yet...If I call Stalag 13 to report he's alive just for them to come here with false hope and watch him di...I'd never forgive myself. They've been through so much heartache already, I can't cause them any more."
Dallwitz frowned and looked back at Hogan, shaking his head with sorrow. "Come on, Colonel," he said. "Fight for us now, fight. Fight for your friends...Fight, and come back to them...I don't know if they'll be able to live without you, otherwise."
(1) Monsieur Bâtard - Mr. Bastard
(2) I read that Himmler had a few nephews, so I created one that works as a hotel manager for the purpose of my story. I'm not sure what his actual nephews did, but I think one served in the military during World War II. Don't quote me on that, though.