Author's Preface: First, this is a piece of fiction and I own nothing.
Gusen was part of a larger complex of concentration camps in Austria known as Mauthausen. As with all camps; POW, labour, concentration or death camps, run by the Nazi regime, Gusen was a place of nightmares, torture and death. In keeping with the lighthearted nature of the HH fandom I have chosen to exclude many of the facts concerning this camp, and taken a great deal of liberty. I do not, however, wish to trivialize the hardships undergone by the prisoners that were held there and suggest that those who feel they can tolerate the subject matter, look into the history behind this camp.
Thank you.
The sun rose over Gusen, a prison camp west of Linz, Austria, a few minutes before seven am. Most of the POWs imprisoned in the camp were already awake, and had been for several hours. As ordered, the ranking man or chosen leader in each barrack woke at five and organized those responsible for breakfast detail. An hour later the rest of the men were awakened to take mess and look after policing of the barracks.
That morning, just as a shaft of sunlight hit the inner courtyard, a carefully orchestrated fist fight began in Barracks 1A, spilling out of the building and drawing together a modest collection of prisoners. This drew the surprised guards into the wire an hour and a half before scheduled morning roll call.
Their attention focused on the fight, the guards missed the desperate sprint of one prisoner from the back of the giant U-shaped barracks affectionately referred to as The Zoo, to the small tool shed that had been erected by the prisoners. The shed door was padlocked when not in use, but the prisoner was quick about opening the sliding trick door on the back. In seconds he had disappeared from view at about the same time that the frantic guards managed to separate the combatants.
One of the SS men responsible for maintaining discipline sent continuous concerned looks toward the officer's barracks until a familiar figure started down the slight incline toward the crowd of enlisted men. As the brown haired colonel in an American bomber jacket stepped into view, voices were hushed and men in various states of dress pulled themselves to attention. Even the German SS men straightened a little more at his approach, waiting for the officer to take care of the situation as he always did.
"Alright, Private Caine, you want to tell me what's going on here?" The American demanded, referring to a short, but very military Prussian soldier.
The man snapped off a salute appropriate for a man of his rank in the Russian army and reported in broken English, "Situation under control, Colonel Hogan. Men were fighting over…missing toothbrush."
"A toothbrush?" The colonel repeated, sending disbelieving looks toward the SS men gathered around the prisoners before shaking his head. "What have I told you fellas about the petty theft going on in the barracks?"
The men standing erect before him didn't respond verbally, but a few dropped their gazes, or slumped just a little in what might have been interpreted as shame.
"Cigarettes or food I can understand, but a toothbrush!? Any man needing personal hygiene equipment can come to the officer's barracks and make a requisition. We're all in the same boat here, this stealing is ridiculous. The two men responsible for starting this fight will report to me following roll call. You men are dismissed."
Few of the prisoners gathered actually understood the reprimand, but it didn't matter. The dismissal had taken no more than a minute's time, too fast for the SS guards to get in their own licks. They were beginning to grow accustomed to this however.
The new ranking prisoner in the POW camp had a firm hold over the men, inspired military confidence on both sides of the electric wire and while he was in every way American, both German and Russian nationals had thought more than a few times about what it would do for the war effort to have Hogan in their army.
"Roll call in forty minutes!" One of the guards shouted, the only one fluent in English and Russian, and the SS retreated to the guard house near the main gates.
The minute the guards were out of ear shot Hogan nodded approval to the prisoners that had started the fight then motioned for Caine to come closer.
"Assuming all went well, my man should be outside the walls as we speak. We'll need another dust up right when they start roll call. Doesn't have to be too big, and the purpose can be the same."
"Dah. Is no problem, Colonel."
Hogan nodded and asked, "How are you boys fixed for rations this morning?"
The men that surrounded Caine started to smile brightly at the question but left it to their unofficial leader to respond. Meals had improved tenfold in the three months that Hogan had been in the prison camp. Few of the men knew where the fresh eggs, cheese, potatoes and vegetables were coming from but all of them understood that as long as they kept their mouths shut about it, they would get their share.
Caine gave him a tight lipped smile, and nodded his head firmly, a move that made him look remarkably like his father. Hogan felt himself yet again tempted to say something, but the timing wasn't right so he kept quiet.
"We will survive." The young man responded, then glanced at the guards settling into their morning cups of coffee and asked, "Will anymore of us 'die' today?"
Hogan smirked but shook his head. "Not today. We wanna make sure my man blends in nice and smooth before we run any other risks. Just remember, don't let the goons count you without the scuff up."
"What if your man does not make it?" Caine asked, his heart fluttering near his throat, the way it did every time the Colonel introduced one of his new fantastic schemes.
Hogan pursed his lips, not wanting to think about what might have happened if the plan had gone wayward on the other end. It could happen, easily, but he needed to believe otherwise and so did his new men.
"He'll be there." Hogan said, with absolute confidence, then traded salutes and headed back for the officer's barracks.
Inside the single story building the cook stove they had built flush with the floor, under the base boards of one of the bunks, was churning out an incredible smell. Robert Hogan had lucked out again, finding a man who had been a baker before the war. Fresh bread every morning, sometimes scones when there was fruit available. It wasn't LeBeau's cooking but it would do.
"Did he make it out?" A voice asked anxiously the second Hogan was through the door. A half dozen men jumped in to ask the same question and the colonel put his hands up to get them quieted.
"He made it out." Hogan said, and waited to make sure each of the men around him understood, then he looked to his second in command. "We'll do the same thing at the beginning of roll call and keep all other activities at an absolute minimum for today."
Lieutenant Igor Piotkin, a Russian pilot that had known Hogan longer than any other man in the camp, nodded and quickly translated the rest of what Hogan had to say into the native language of the men in the barrack. The response was a general releasing of held breaths. The promised holiday from risky behavior was a welcome prospect for the body of junior officers still not accustomed to Hogan's scheming.
"And since it's Sunday, we can knock off the gardening too." Hogan added, with a smirk. Half the men understood him without need for translation and gave him shouts of approval. The rest waited for Igor to translate, but the response was the same.
Hogan moved to the small private room that had been built less than a month ago on the side of the officer's barracks and shut himself inside his new quarters, taking off his cap as he did. The room was still desperately bare compared to his room back at Stalag 13, but Gusen's security was tighter, the guards a lot less friendly. He had to do without the amenities of home here, and that was just fine. He didn't plan to make it a lengthy stay.
He twisted the taps of the bucket sink they'd installed two weeks ago and set about washing up and shaving, ears attuned to the continuous murmur of activity in the other room and coming through the small window. His third sweep of the razor drew blood and he finally admitted to himself that he was excited. He hadn't seen any of his old crew in three months, and had barely exchanged a handful of communications with them in that time. If all went well he'd have two of them joining him in camp by week's end.
It meant something of a brief family reunion. It also meant a lot of work that needed to be done in a short period of time.
Hogan pressed a cloth to the bleeding nick and considered his reflection in the scrap of mirror one of his men had salvaged. His broken rib had healed allowing him better sleep, but he still looked underweight and baggy eyed in the mirror. At the same time the improved rations had begun to transform the other men, filling in the hollow spots in their frames. They were stronger, happier, ready to do more.
Win a war? Who knew?
Roll call came fast. The fifteen men in the officer's barracks marched down to The Zoo in formation and began organizing the enlisted men into their usual tiers, getting the group gathered and at attention well in advance of the SS Guards. Hogan stood facing the men, both so that he could see the trouble makers to cue them, and so that he could see the tool shed.
His heart was racing, his body twitching a little at the rush of anxiety induced adrenaline, increasing for every minute that he had to wait. Just as the SS guards started through the gate he saw the lock on the tool shed rattle. He fought the grin, resettled his hat on his head, then did a swift right-about-face and dug his thumbs into his pockets.
Twelve seconds later a fight broke out. Ten minutes later the fight had been resolved and the men counted with no prisoners missing. The guards seemed pleased that no one had died overnight either and returned to their shack.
The men were temporarily dismissed and Hogan headed back to the officer's barracks, stopping when he was interrupted by a rumpled, unshaven corporal dressed in a ratty Russian uniform. The man put a knuckle to his brow and Hogan responded with a sharp salute.
"Permission to join this 'ere prison camp, gov'na?" The Corporal piped in his rich cockney, grinning brightly through the beard growth he'd been ordered to come into camp with.
Hogan fought the grin and dropped his voice as he said, "Newkirk…could you at least try to sound Russian?"
"It's a hard accent, sir, and all those consonants. Atrocious." Corporal Peter Newkirk complained light heartedly, before the two continued walking together to the officer's barracks.
"Ivan make it out alright?" Hogan asked, under his breath.
"Dressed as a civilian, yes sir. Should hit the farm by tonight. It's a right ingenious plan you've got there by the way, Colonel." Newkirk added, looking over the compound just before they stepped into the barracks.
"Took some doing to arrange, but it's working for both us and the farmer." Hogan said, "How much did Ivan tell you?"
"Nothin' really about the camp 'ere, just about the farm, and your orders. Seemed not to trust me for some reason."
Hogan smirked, "Can't imagine why."
Newkirk gave him a facetious shrug and both men chuckled.
"I'll give you a tour here in a bit. You remember Igor?"
"Course, 'ow are ya mate?" Newkirk exchanged handshakes with the Russian Lieutenant once again surprised at the ferocity of the man's strength and glad this time that the man knew they were on the same side.
"Some other fellas you should meet. This is Sgt. Leo Evanovich. Former baker and handy with forged papers. So far he's done two requisitions and a death certificate that made it past the camp commandant." The man Hogan pointed to was a hair over six feet and skinny as a rail, kneeling in a curved slender line over the stove hidden under the bunk.
Newkirk eyed the contraption closely. Set into a thick hearth of stone was an iron box with a closed lid, not unlike a normal wood stove. Wood was fed into the box from above, and presumably the smoke escaped through a pipe under the floorboards. He turned in a circle and looked at Hogan. "No stove allowed in the barracks? What are the men to do in the winter?"
"They did have a stove to begin with, but the goons started taking things away a year ago. This spring the stove was the last to go. The guards have promised to give it back before winter sets in but…I got a little impatient."
Newkirk grinned and shook his head, not at all surprised. "Fantastic! Where does the smoke go?"
"There's an abandoned shack about a hundred feet outside the wire, that way. It's just behind the tree line and mostly invisible unless you know it's there. About three times a day there's smoke coming from the shack, but none of the guards ever see anyone go in or out. We laid pipe for it up to the fence during a minor improvement project, and some of our farm escapees laid the rest the next day." Hogan was fighting the grin again, and those that could understand English were smirking too. "The SS think the shack is haunted."
There was a low rumble of chuckles among the men before Hogan lightly slapped the side of a bunk and a bald head popped into view. The man who belonged to the head was a big fellow, probably capable of ranking as a body builder were he able to get enough protein into his system. He was imposing either way and Newkirk did a double take between the big man on the bunk and Lieutenant Piotkin, wondering vaguely if they were brothers.
"Newkirk, meet Nestor."
"Nestor…" Newkirk nodded in greeting, stepping back a foot or two as the giant dropped down to his feet, then smiled in a way that some might have considered welcoming. Others might just think he was hungry.
"Corporal Nestor is, among other things, my radio man."
"R-radio man?" Newkirk asked with mild disbelief, then gave a friendly smile to the man. "Does he hold the antennae?"
"No…no, he's a communications engineer…he's also…not small." Hogan said carefully.
Newkirk nodded at the vague description that sort of qualified. They moved on, Hogan tossing out a few more names that Newkirk barely registered before they were moving out of the barracks along with the rest of the officers. Not a word had been spoken, nor an order given, but every man in the barracks fell into a loose formation with Hogan, Igor and Newkirk at the head.
"What's this then?"
"Morning constitutional." Hogan said, secretly delighting in the look of alarm that Newkirk gave him. Hogan merely smiled and stepped off with his left foot leading the way to The Zoo where they picked up the rest of the men. Their numbers were now at 254, including Newkirk, and expected to rise in the next few weeks if rumors of nearby fighting were to be believed.
"You've got everybody doin' this, Colonel?" Newkirk asked with surprise, noting that the rest of the junior officers had fallen back to march with the enlisted men.
"Most mornings. In the evenings too depending on what we have going on."
"For heaven's sake why?"
Hogan nodded his head toward one of the guard towers as they passed it, "Well for one thing, it gives the goons somethin' to look at. Something to look forward to. And something to wonder about if I decide I want them wondering."
Newkirk nodded absently, knowing that side of Colonel Hogan's thinking all too well.
"He is mastermind of psychology, nyet?" Igor added, smirking proudly over Newkirk's head at Hogan.
"Mastermind…eh…and for another thing?" Newkirk prompted.
Hogan gave a sidelong glance to Igor then jerked his head over his shoulder. "One of the first things I realized when Hochstetter dumped me here was that this wasn't Stalag 13."
Newkirk turned a carefully controlled look toward Hogan, checking that his eyes weren't dilated as he said, "I suppose that I should be relieved that that wasn't the last thing you realized."
Hogan gave him a perturbed look then said, "What I mean is, these men were soldiers first, and potential double agents, spies and escapees second. At Stalag 13 it's the other way around. I figured I had to build on what I had. Reminding them that they were soldiers and encouraging them to act like it, did the trick."
"I do believe that that is why you're an officer." Newkirk said.
"You've developed quite the cheek with me gone, Newkirk." Hogan said, his tone containing a warning that Newkirk didn't quite catch in time.
Just as Newkirk was responding with yet another sharp comment, Hogan gave Igor a subtle nod. The Russian barked an order over his shoulder as they completed their first circuit of the grounds, and the men immediately picked up the pace to a light, loping run. Hogan smirked as Newkirk tripped over his ankles for a few seconds, then fell into rhythm with the rest.
"Funny, sir. Very funny." Newkirk griped.
Hogan had the men complete two laps at that pace before he gave the order to halt.
"Igor, we've been given permission for our Sunday ball game. You know where the equipment is. All those participating may commence."
"Spasibo, Colonel." Igor smiled, snapping a salute before he began to bark in Russian, sending men scattering to the barracks.
"Ball game, sir?" Newkirk asked, recovering well enough from the run. They hadn't been doing much in the way of calisthenics under the watchful eye of Klink, but behind the scenes there had been plenty of opportunities for running in the past few months.
"Yep. Soccer. Well…football to you."
Even as they watched some of the men were applying wetted mud to the skin under their eyes, and others donning special jerseys that had been created out of spare uniform shirts. The procedure seemed almost ceremonial.
"They're takin' themselves awful serious for a game amongst prisoners."
"It's…uh…less of a game, and more of a memorial, I think, Newkirk. I haven't been able to get the full story yet, but it has something to do with a game in Ukraine played between Germans and Russians last fall."
"Let me guess, the Russian players were advised not to win…"
Hogan nodded, his face sobering.
"And when they did win, the Germans…"
Hogan sighed, watching the men gather in a circle, removing various caps and headgear as their erstwhile chaplain blessed the match. "That's the rumor anyway."
The prayer ended and the men spread out over the open field of dirt, commencing the game with little else in the way of preparation.
"Did you want to watch the game?" Hogan asked with a pleased smile.
Newkirk crossed his arms over his chest and eyed the Colonel before he said, "You know we've been worryin' ourselves to death most nights, devastated over the 'orrible things that must be 'appenin to you at the hands of the Gestapo." A grin started to creep over the serious look the Englander was trying to maintain.
Hogan nodded, knowing exactly what Newkirk was saying, and feeling the same way. "Carter, healing up alright?"
Newkirk nodded. "Stubborn and impossible to keep off his feet, but he's up an' about like always."
"Kinch?"
"He was a might put out when you asked for Carter an' me to make the commute instead of 'im, but he understood why. Makes for a fine leader. Almost as bad a schemer as you are, too."
"My boy the officer-in-training." Hogan said, his eyes drifting toward the game, but his mind a hundred miles away.
"Colonel, you didn't start this exchange program just to educate the lot of us on 'ow Austrian prison camps run." Newkirk prompted after a few minutes of silence. He caught the barest of winces that crossed Hogan's face, and knew that he'd been right. Hogan had been dancing around the real reason Newkirk was there intentionally.
"The man I traded places with…he's not comin' back is 'e?"
Hogan shook his head. "He has about three weeks of indentured servitude with the farmer, then he's on his own, complete with civilian clothes, papers, and money. Every man before him that's gone under the wire has been pronounced officially dead, and buried. We use the wood that we requisition for coffins to shore up the tunnel you came through, and the dead man waits twenty-four hours before going out to the farm. The farmer gets free labor for a short while, and we get one more POW out of Austria."
Newkirk studied Hogan for a few minutes more, then nodded his head. "I wouldn't 'ave believed it if I 'adn't seen it meself."
Hogan raised an eyebrow, but didn't look at the corporal pretending interest in the game. "Seen what, Newkirk?"
"You're plannin' an escape. A mass escape. You plan to empty this whole ruddy camp, don't ya?"
Hogan took a breath in and pushed it out through pursed lips, scanning the grounds. He shrugged after a moment and said, "Why not? I think it's about time we tried something new."