A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.
The soldier made a slow circuit of the camp, trudging on through the snow in the lengthening shadows of the short winter day, his breath visible in the frosty air. The winter seemed endless here, he reflected, and sometimes it seemed the wind went right through you. He shivered a bit, despite his heavy woolen coat, and moved on a little more quickly.
As he neared the perimeter of the camp, Langenscheidt thought the woods surrounding the camp loomed even darker than usual in the twilight. Unheimlich, he thought. Spooky, the Americans called it. He repeated the word to himself and chuckled at the odd sound of it. He paused a moment to look out beyond the barbed wire, toward the trees. Then he turned and made his way back toward the buildings. As he passed the watchtower, the guard in the tower raised a hand in greeting and, being a friendly fellow, Langenscheidt waved back.
As darkness encroached, it was time to return to the comparative warmth and light of the barracks. Schaefer and Kurtz beckoned him to join in the card game, but Langenscheidt demurred and went to his bunk to read over a letter from home for perhaps the tenth time. His thoughts wandered eventually to life at the camp.
Langenscheidt was fortunate in that he spoke some English and was able to communicate fairly well. A few of his countrymen in camp could speak it also, and even those who didn't have English were able, for the most part, to get their point across. Not many of the Americans could speak German, although he was surprised at the number of them who had German surnames. He was on quite friendly terms with most of them, despite the rules against fraternization.
The prisoners and guards here didn't seem to have the kind of problems one might expect. The work details that left camp were lightly guarded, but they almost always returned intact...and the ones that lost a few prisoners on the way saw the recapture of those same prisoners fairly quickly. Once a missing group turned themselves in voluntarily...they had accidentally been separated from the rest of the work detail, or so they said.
Despite the clash of cultures and ideologies and the imperfect communication, there was a remarkably peaceful coexistence of guard and prisoner when all was said and done. Langenscheidt, a peace-loving fellow at heart despite the war, was glad of this. He personally felt that they were more alike than different, the main difference being who held the guns. And they were all here together, just waiting for the war to end.
In fact, the most difficult part of life at camp was the monotony. Fortunately the Red Cross provided parcels for the prisoners, and many activities were available to them. Langenscheidt was pretty sure that the officers running the camp felt that keeping the prisoners busy was a safety measure, and this was no doubt correct. They had enough food, but again monotony was a problem...pork, cabbage, potatoes, pickled herring...he felt sure none of the prisoners would ever want to eat any of these items again.
Langenscheidt sighed. He decided to write to his girl, and wondered how to explain being stationed at a POW camp instead of with his Panzer division in North Africa. Would she feel that he was sitting out the war, and not defending the Fatherland as was his duty?
Of course, by now there were no Panzer divisions in North Africa, but still...
Langenscheidt finished the letter to his girl with the old familiar twinge of pain of parting, even if only on paper. Then he took out another sheet of paper, and started to write a long-delayed letter to his cousin, whose situation was eerily similar to, yet very different from, his own.
Dear Karl,
They tell me we are in some remote area called the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. They are treating us all right, and the food is sufficient, if plain. We eagerly await the Red Cross packages and letters from home...