Chapter 4

Newkirk checked his watch for what must have been the umpteenth time. He wasn't even sure how much time had passed anymore. He found himself looking at Wilson who checked his own watch.

"It's only been an hour, Newkirk," he replied tiredly.

"Only one bleedin' hour?" Newkirk asked incredulously, eyebrows raised. "Feels more like five hours." He got up again and began to pace back and forth and rub the back of his neck as he had seen the Colonel do so many times. Newkirk stuck his other hand in his pants pocket. After awhile, Wilson leaned forward, arms on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. He watched the Englander pace.

"Newkirk, sit down. You're reminding me of the Colonel with your pacing."

Newkirk paused and looked at the medic. "Let's just hope that memories of what the Gov'nor did is not all we have left. Besides, if I sit down I'm gonna go crackers. I wish I had a cigarette right 'bout now."

"I can escort you outside the hospital if you need to smoke," Langenscheidt offered.

Newkirk smiled at the Corporal. "Thanks anyway, mate. I'm afraid if I leave for even a few minutes Colonel Hogan might need me. I have to be here for him."

"I understand, Corporal," Langenscheidt replied. "I would feel the same if someone important to me was in the situation Colonel Hogan is in right now."

Newkirk wandered over to the window again and looked out at the sparse number of people below. He marveled at how these people acted as if they didn't have a care or concern in the world. He imagined some of them probably had loved ones in the hospital and hopefully they received happier news that he and Wilson had been given. He let out a deep breath and looked at his watch again. Why did operations have to take so bloody long before the doctor knew something? Turning away from the window, Newkirk leaned his back against the bars and stuffed both hands in his pockets and hung his head. He studied the blandness of the floor as he fought to keep his mind from thinking the worse. It was a losing battle.

After nearly six hours, Prust came to the waiting room with a grim expression on his face; his surgical garb stained with blood. He looked at everyone in front of him before his eyes settled on Newkirk and Wilson. "I'm sorry," he said grimly. "I did everything I could. But the damage was just too severe. I couldn't save him."

"No!" Newkirk muttered as Wilson gripped him by both arms, fighting his own emotions. "The Gov'nor can't be dead! He can't be! No!" Newkirk squeezed his eyes shut and allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks as he fell to his knees. "He can't be dead! He just can't be! Oh God!" Newkirk covered his face with his hands and cried. Wilson kept a tight grip on the Englander's arms in an attempt to comfort him.

Newkirk suddenly shook his head and blinked to clear his head realizing it was his imagination playing tricks on him. He breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't real. Standing straight again, he resumed his pacing.

Wilson leaned back again with the back of his head resting against the wall with his eyes closed. That was when the nightmare came.

He was the first to spot Doctor Prust approaching the waiting area. There was a lot of blood staining his surgical garb. But it was the look on his face that made him catch his breath in his throat. The doctor's face was grave and his eyes held a sadness in them.

"How is Colonel Hogan?" Wilson asked nervously. He saw Prust hesitate a moment before answering.

"I'm sorry. Colonel Hogan passed away on the operating table during surgery. His injury was just too severe as was his blood loss. I did everything I could, but I couldn't save him. Again, I'm sorry."

The words 'I'm sorry,' echoed in Wilson's head repeatedly. The medic suddenly sat upright and shook his head with those two words still ringing in his ears. Looking around, he didn't see anybody approaching, and assumed it to be a bad dream. At least he hoped that's all it would be. He leaned forward again with arms on thighs, and hand clasped between his knees, afraid to doze off again.

Back at Stalag 13, the mood was solemn. News of Hogan's shooting by Sergeant Schultz had not only quickly spread throughout the camp, but had everybody of edge; especially when the seriousness of Hogan's injury was known. But the mood of the men in barracks two was more grim. They all knew Hogan's injury was extremely serious based upon what Wilson had told them before the Colonel had been removed by truck and taken to the hospital. Klink pretty much left the men of barracks two alone. He had no news to give them and was delaying contacting General Burkhalter until he had something to tell him about Hogan's condition.

Kinch, Carter and LeBeau were all seated around the table in the common room. LeBeau and Carter were picking at the food on their plates, while Kinch was staring in the dark liquid in his coffee cup. Nobody had spoken a word in over and hour. Kinch's pea green jacket was soaking in the sink. Finally, the silence became deafening.

"I wish we knew what was happening at the hospital," said Carter softly to nobody in particular. He dejectedly moved some food around on his plate.

"Oui," LeBeau agreed, pushing his plate aside. "What is it you Americans say? No news is good news. Perhaps in this case this is true."

"Perhaps you're right, LeBeau," Kinch murmured softly. "But I don't think I'll ever forget all the blood. I mean, I've seen the Colonel injured before, but, I've never seen that much blood."

"Try not to think about that, mon ami," LeBeau gently laid a hand on Kinch's arm. "The Colonel is a strong man. He will make it. You will see. He will get better and come back to us."

With a small smile, the radioman glanced at the feisty little Frenchman, knowing what he was trying to do. "Thanks, LeBeau."

"You are welcome," LeBeau replied with a small smile of his own.

Carter looked up at the Frenchman, eyes bright. "You really think the Colonel can make it this time, Louie? I mean, when Wilson said the bullet was dangerously close to his heart and that the slightest movement could cause it to…." Carter couldn't finish as he choked on the rest of the words.

"We can't think like that," Kinch said, looking at the younger Sergeant. "Everything was being done very carefully to make sure that bullet didn't shift in any way. And I'm sure they'll be even more careful at the hospital."

Carter's lower lip trembled. "I don't know what I'll do if Colonel Hogan doesn't make it," he said, his voice breaking. "I can't see taking orders from somebody else."

"That won't happen," LeBeau assured him. "I just know it."

LeBeau put a hand on Carter's shoulder and looked him directly in the eyes. "Lady luck has always been on the side of us and the Colonel in all our missions. Think of this as another mission but one that he must do alone. I am sure lady luck will not desert Colonel Hogan in his hour of need."

"You really think so?" asked Carter, swallowing hard.

"Oui. I must believe that," he replied glancing between Kinch and Carter. "Because to believe otherwise would be too horrible to imagine."

There was another few minutes of silence before Carter spoke again.

"Y'know, I feel bad for Schultz," he said. He noticed the looks he got from Kinch and LeBeau. "What?"

"Have you forgotten it was his clumsiness that injured the Colonel to begin with?" asked LeBeau a bit more harshly than he intended. "I for one, will never forgive him no matter what."

"Andrew, Schultz is more of a klutz than you. Only difference is that he has a rifle."

"That's just my point," Carter continued undeterred. "Ever since we've know Schultz his rifle has always been unloaded. Why would he suddenly have it loaded today? And another thing. Schultz is always leaving his rifle behind or misplacing it with our help of course, but he's never dropped it."

Kinch mulled over what Carter had said. He looked at LeBeau. "He's right, LeBeau. Schultz has always kept his rifle unloaded. Why would he put cartridges in it today of all days? He's also right about Schultz always leaving his rifle behind. And going on the theory of Carter being right, then something's fishy about this."

Schultz was alone in his quarters laying on his bed staring at the ceiling. He was going over in his mind what he had done hoping that by doing so he would find something to prove to him that he hadn't wounded Colonel Hogan. But every time he went over it in his head, he came up with the same results; it was his clumsiness in dropping the rifle that fired the shot that struck the American.

The obese guard really couldn't blame the four men closest to Hogan for being furious with him. After all, it was his weapon that had injured, possibly fatally, the American officer. He couldn't understand how such a thing could have happened. He was positive he had no bullets in his rifle; or was it possible he forgot they were in there? Yet, he didn't remember even loading the rifle.

Schultz's thoughts turned to Colonel Hogan. He recalled all the blood when he had accompanied the Kommandant into the barracks. And he'd never forget seeing Hogan on the floor with Newkirk cradling his head in his lap and Kinch holding his jacket against the wound trying desperately to stem the flow of blood. Hogan had looked so pale when Schultz saw him lying there; and nearly the entire front of his khaki shirt was soaked with blood. No matter how hard he tried, Schultz couldn't get the image of a profusely bleeding Hogan out of his mind. He turned on his side with one arm tucked under his pillow.

He prayed that the American would live and recover. And if he did, Schultz would spend the rest of the war making it up to Hogan somehow. But what if the Colonel didn't make it? There was that possibility. What would he do then? He suspected he would be ostracized by Hogan's men. As it was, Schultz knew he was already in deep trouble. Once the Kommandant reported the incident to General Burkhalter, he knew he would be on the next train to the Russian front. Schultz hoped that once he got there the end would come quickly. Closing his eyes, a single tear rolled down from the corner of his eye.

Newkirk was about to go crazy from waiting. Looking at his watch again, he noticed only three hours had passed with still no news. His legs were tired from pacing back and forth, but he didn't know what else to do; nor did he want to leave the hospital even for a minute to smoke the cigarette he so desperately wanted. Letting out a deep, deep breath, Newkirk went back to where the others were sitting and collapsed in one of the seats beside Wilson. Leaning back in the chair, Newkirk crossed his legs, folded his arms, and with his head against the wall, closed his eyes. After a few short minutes he had drifted off to sleep. Then the dream came.

Newkirk opened his eyes and looked around. It took a few minutes to realize he was back in Stalag 13 and inside barracks two. He noticed Kinch, Carter, and LeBeau standing in the doorway of Hogan's quarters with their backs to him. He slowly approached them wondering what they were looking at inside the Colonel's quarters. As he drew closer the trio turned towards him, tears running down their faces.

"What's wrong?" he asked nervously. "What's happened? Where's the Gov'nor?"

Kinch, Carter and LeBeau stood aside to allow Newkirk to move closer until he now stood in the doorway and gasped at the sight which met his eyes. Inside the Colonel's quarters sitting on top of two small benches was a large wooden box a bit bigger than a steamer trunk minus it's lid. Newkirk moved closer until he stood beside it and stared at the contents. He felt his heart cease beating and his blood run cold.

Inside was the body of Colonel Robert Hogan, laid out in his brown leather bomber jacket, his crush cap pushed back on his head. But it was the front of his shirt, soaked with blood, that made him swallow the lump in his throat.

"No!" he muttered. "No! It can't be true! It's not true! He's not dead!"

Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

"Newkirk! Stop it!" said a familiar voice. "Newkirk!"

"No! Colonel Hogan's not dead! He isn't!"

"Newkirk! Wake up! You're dreaming, Newkirk!" Wilson continued shaking him.

The Englander's eyes flew open and he bolted upright in his chair. Wide-eyed, he looked around at the medic. "Blimey, what a ruddy nightmare." He saw the guards looking at him as well, worry on their faces.

"Care to talk about it?" asked Wilson gently. He could see Newkirk was still trembling.

"Not really," Newkirk replied taking a deep breath. "Maybe later, Joe." He suddenly looked at the medic. "How long was I asleep?"

"Maybe about an hour."

"Another bleedin' hour?" Newkirk pinched the bridge of his nose. "Blimey, Joe. When are they gonna tell us something? The longer it takes the more worried I'm gettin'. I'm becoming a ruddy basket case."

Sergeant Heidleman looked at his watch. "I'd better phone Colonel Klink and let him know what's happening and that we're waiting for news on the Colonel." He got to his feet and walked to the nurses' station around the corner.

Newkirk sighed wearily. Leaning forward again with arms on thighs, he twisted his cover between his knees. He stared at his hands. "Joe, I'm scared. I don't think I've ever been so scared in me entire life."

"Scared of what, Newkirk?" Wilson asked quietly, suspecting what the Corporal was going to say.

"I'm scared that Colonel Hogan's not gonna make it this time. I can't shake this feeling that we're gonna lose him. And if that happens, I don't think any of us will ever recover from it. I know I won't."

Wilson rested a hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "I'm afraid as well, Peter," he said. "But we must have faith. The Colonel is in good health, he's young and in good condition. He has that going for him. Also, we got to him quickly which is another plus. And he has the best in his profession working on him. Doctor Prust won't let anything happen to the Colonel."

"I know you're right, Joe," Newkirk replied, still staring at his hands as he continued twisting his cover. "It's just that what if everything the Colonel has in his favor isn't enough this time? What then?" He then looked up into the medic's face, hoping Wilson would have an answer for him.

But all Newkirk could see in Wilson's eyes and face was that he had no answer for him. No answer at all.