Hochstetter woke with a groan before taking in his surroundings. He was in his own bed in his flat in Hammelberg. It had just been that damn dream again. The real-life incident had taken place almost three years ago now but the memory plagued him whenever his now scarred over wound acted up.
His current state of pain was a combination of two things. First, the bad weather rolling in this evening had caused a mild ache throughout the day. The second and more painful reason was that he had been a little too arrogant. While he had been interrogating a stubborn Allied prisoner the man broke. In hindsight, standing directly in front of a prisoner while informing him that his teammates were all dead had not been the best idea. The prisoner had unknowingly driven two solid handcuffed fists directly into his old wound. Already sore, the impact doubled him over wheezing while his armed guards subdued the struggling man. Now his entire abdomen had been spasming all afternoon and well into the night.
Hochstetter sank back into his pillows with a sigh and rested his hands on his aching stomach. Fortunately, the knife had missed his liver. Unfortunately, it had not only pierced his stomach but also caused severe muscular damage. The surgeons had to remove some of the irreparable muscle and then simply stitched him up. It was a miracle he even survived such a catastrophic wound.
The result was painful, to say the least, but he was alive. He could hear the wind gusting against the window of his room. Tomorrow would be a very cold and windy day. Hopefully, he could just rest in his office and catch up on paperwork.
Hochstetter shifted onto his left side to try and get more comfortable. His stomach spasmed again threatening to expell the meager dinner of soup he had earlier. Hochstetter had learned to not eat too heavily during the cold season the hard way. He rested his right hand on his scar in some hope that it would calm down soon.
Eventually, he heard his clock strike one in the other room, the day ahead was already torturing him. After a few minutes of laying there feeling his muscles contract on their own accord under his hand, the internal assault began to fade. Hochstetter sighed as the invisible monster squeezing his middle slowly loosened its grip.
Just as he was nearly asleep again the telephone began ringing loudly. The clanging jolted him back awake and upright which proved to be a mistake. The muscles protested as he leaned to grab the phone and stop the infernal noise.
"Who is this!?" he growled into the phone in German. If it was some minor annoyance his men would feel his true wrath.
"Major Hochstetter there is a riot at Stalag 13! It has been reported that some prisoners have escaped!" a panicked voice crackled through.
Prisoners escaped from the infamous Stalag 13? Normally that was a Luftwaffe problem. However, he currently had spies of his own in that camp so this certainly required his attention, especially since that idiot Klink probably had no idea what to do.
"I'm on my way." he slammed the phone back onto its receiver. After making a quick phone request to the Gestapo building to have guards ready to move and his car started, Hochstetter levered himself out of bed. The floor was ice cold as he began to carefully but quickly get dressed. He took a moment to look at the large and recently inflamed scar in the mirror. The knife itself had been maybe two inches across but the surgeons had to open him more to repair the internal damage caused by the blade length. The result was a nearly ten-inch incision that curved toward the center of his abdomen. After donning the many layers of his Gestapo uniform he put on his thickest tunic and winter boots. Finally, he threw his heaviest greatcoat over his shoulders.
Minutes later he was seated in the back of his staff car as it made its way to Stalag 13. Not only was he mad, he was seething mad and in pain. Klink had better be ready.