A/N: Thanks for all the great reviews everybody! Just seeing them in my mail inspires me. Thanks especially to my beta reader Jennaya, any mistakes left in here are my fault. And I still don't own them.

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The truck jolted over another pot hole, jerking Wilson out of the shallow doze he'd managed while sitting up along the hard wood seat in the back. The bench was even more uncomfortable than the chair they'd put him in at their guard post, something he hadn't thought possible until that moment. They had moved him to the truck just before dawn broke the new day and pulled the canvas flaps down to loosely hang over the back. Occasionally, the canvas would flap opens, bringing in a wave of dust choked air and a brief flash of sunlight.

Wilson glanced at the two German guards seated opposite to him. Their presence hardly seemed necessary since he was hand cuffed to the bench, and could barely sit up straight much less make an escape attempt. Though, the thought had crossed his mind. The guards hardly paid any attention to him at all. Besides the occasional order barked in either German or broken English and one officer who had asked some basic questions, none of his captures had spoken to him. The two guards seemed more concerned with peeking out of the canvas shell to scan the surrounding area than worrying about their single American prisoner already in their custody.

The medic frowned at the behavior of the two Germans; they shouldn't be that jumpy in their own territory, right? He was sure. Thankfully, this was his first time being a prisoner of war and he didn't know the procedures. Maybe it was just policy to be on high alert while transporting a prisoner. Or maybe, Wilson thought with a sudden flash of insight, it's because the underground is more active in this area, making the countryside more unstable than the rest of the country…If that was the case then maybe he still had a chance. The agent knew he was supposed to be coming in last night, surely they would have figured out by now that it had gone wrong and he was captured.

The brief though of rescue, however improbable, lifted Wilson's spirits slightly. He gave an experimental pull at the manacles but they remained fast. If there was any escaping to be done, it wasn't going to be from his end. One of the guards turned at the sound and growled an order in German. Wilson hadn't suddenly learned any more German than when he was first picked up about five or six hours ago, so the words held little meaning to him, but the tone spoke loudly enough for him to get the message: Stay still.

The ride didn't last too much longer after that, killing any hopes Wilson had of a possible rescue attempt. Soon their speed had slowed to a stop with muffled voices coming from outside like one of the many check points they had already passed through. However, when they started moving again it was only at a slow rolling pace before they again stopped all together. The canvas flaps were pulled back with a jerk, drenching the covered area with harsh sunlight. Wilson blinked several times, squinting in the sudden light after traveling in the dimmer area. Someone unlocked the chain holding him to his seat and relocked the cuff around his wrist before pulling him from the truck.

Eyes adjusted to the light, Wilson looked around at their destination. The barbed wire fence was the first thing he noticed. His eyes clamped on it and the air left his lungs like he'd been sucker punched. A sweep across the gray compound, taking in the numerous guard towers, the barracks, and the dirt packed grounds all confirmed it, a prison camp. The bedraggled and worn figures of other POW's stood in groups or pairs and watched him curiously as a guard moved behind him. The depressed atmosphere in the camp was oppressive, opposed only by several patches of bright flower beds skirting some of the buildings. Wilson did a double take at the rare bits of color that seemed so out of place among the barbed wire and guns, maybe the kommandant was a nut…

"Raus!" The guard barked and shoved him toward a building next to the main drive with a front porch and a sign marked "Kommandantur." Wilson stumbled slightly as he started to move slowly toward the building, still trying to take his new home for the rest of the war, at least until he found a way to get out again. A large man in a German uniform lumbered over the guard who was herding Wilson to building. The medic eyed the new guard as the two soldiers carried on their conversation. The man was as large around as he was tall, and though his small mustache was very German, the overweight guard looked like he belonged in that camp as much as the struggling flower beds.

One of the soldiers from his ride in jerked his hands up and unlocked the cuffs restraining his hands before turning and to climb in the truck with the rest of Wilson's escort. The camp guard stepped up to him. "Raus, raus," he said half heartedly in accented English, motioning with his hands, "The kommandant will see you now."

The receptionist's room was small and filled with second hand furniture. A pretty blond sat behind the desk typing an official looking document. She glanced up at their entrance, a brief and small smile lighting her face before she turned back to her paperwork. "He's waiting inside."

The following office was only slightly larger than the outer room. The furniture, while nicer than that belonging to the secretary, still had used look about it and the walls were in need of a fresh coat of paint. The obligatory portrait of Hitler hung slightly crooked on the wall glaring across the room. A bald man sat behind the desk bent over paperwork, his pen scratching across the forms piled over the expanse of his desk nearly pushing a cigar humidor and WW1 German helmet over the edge.

"The new prisoner, kommandant," his guard said coming to what could be passed for attention and giving what could be interpreted as a salute. "Sgt. Joseph Wilson."

The kommandant looked up from his paperwork and set down his pen. Steepling his hands, the bald man gave what Wilson assumed was meant to be a triumphant and intimidating smile. While it did appear quite triumphant, as though the kommandant was solely responsible for his capture, Wilson found it very difficult to be intimidated. The monocle and overly inflated chest ruined the effect and Wilson wondered if it was even possible to appear intimidating while wearing a monocle. Perhaps in a Hitchcock or Orson Wells film, but certainly not on an aging paper pusher. Still, sometimes it was the seemingly harmless paper pushers that were the most dangerous.

"Well now, Sergeant, I am Colonel Klink, kommandant of Stalag 13." The colonel said, his voice brimming with delight, "It is my duty to inform you that for you the war is now over. This-"

The door opening and slamming closed cut Klink off short.

"Hogan!" Klink shot out of his chair, "What have I told you about knocking!"

The American colonel stepped up to the desk, sliding in next to Wilson without the slightest hesitation. He was tall, probably about six feet, with dark hair and a grin on his face that was somehow both cocky and innocent. "Well, I heard of the new prisoner and anticipated your summons. After all, as the senior prisoner of war officer it is required by the Geneva Convention that I be allowed to see any new prisoner and be preset for any interrogations."

Klink, the annoyance melting off his face as he dropped down to his chair again, threw Hogan an incredulous look. "Interrogation," he said with a gesture to the paper work spilling off his desk, "Does it look like I have time to interrogate anyone? This war will be ended for no other reason than to stop the paper work it causes!"

Wilson watched the interaction between the two officers with growing confusion. This wasn't right. Wilson would have thought a Senior POW officer and his jailor would be a bit more hostile. Instead, the two seemed familiar with each other in an antagonistic almost friendly way. Hogan certainly seemed to be enjoying himself, if the broad smile on his face was anything to go by.

"Actually, if you're doing paperwork anyway, I do have a few requests…" Hogan started to pull some sheets of paper out from inside his jacket pocket making the German's eyes almost pop in panic.

"No!" Klink nearly shouted in haste with frantic hand gestures, "I don't want ANYTHING that's going to increase this pile already on my desk! One more word about requests from you and you'll be in the cooler for the night!"

Colonel Hogan held up his hands in a defensive gesture, "Just thought I'd save you some time." Then he replaced the folded sheets back in his leather bomber jacket. He turned to Wilson and explained confidentially, "He gets a little cranky being inside too long."

Wilson had to choke back a laugh as the kommandant slammed his hands on the desk and slowly pushed himself out of the chair. "You are dismissed Hogan! Go find someone else to bother!"

Hogan shot back without missing a beat, "The Geneva Con-"

"Very well!" Klink threw up his arms in defeat. Then, turning to Wilson, "Sergeant, this is Colonel Robert Hogan, he is the senior prisoner of war here in camp. If you have any issues you may go through him. Do not bother trying to escape no one has ever escaped from Stalag 13 and it would only create more paper work for me. You are assigned to barracks 5 while you are here in camp. Now get out of my office so I can get some work done. Dismissed."

The introduction was so hastily delivered Wilson barely caught it. He was still standing in something like shock while Klink turned back to his paperwork, deep aggravation spread across his face as he ignored the two dismissed prisoners before him. Hogan threw a sloppy salute and grabbed Wilson's arm, dragging him out of the office before the sergeant to recover himself. Before he could blink Wilson was back outside in the compound with Colonel Hogan.

"What just happened?" he asked, bewildered.

Hogan, for his part, looked exceedingly pleased with himself. "That was our beloved Colonel Klink," the officer explained, "He's supposed to interview all incoming prisoners, but at the moment he's drowning in the paper war. Mind finishing the introduction we started in there?"

"Sergeant Joseph Wilson," Wilson snapped to attention and throwing up a salute, belatedly remembering he was with an officer. Hogan didn't seem to have the same aura around him as the other as other officers Wilson had encountered. It had thrown him at first but he made sure to at least give a good salute to the man. The last thing he wanted to do was anger the senior prisoner of war in camp within ten minutes of arriving.

Hogan snapped off a returning salute, looking Wilson over carefully, "At ease, sergeant. You're a medic?"

Wilson nodded easing out of his tense attention. "Yes sir."

"How'd they pick you up?" Hogan continued his examination, arms folded over his chest.

Hogan's intense gaze seemed to pierce right through Wilson as the medic felt other eyes on him from various points within the compound. He realized he didn't know anything about Colonel Hogan or his relationship with the Germans in camp. In any case, it was better to be safe than sorry. "Shot down in last night's raid," Wilson answered, telling himself it was at least partly true.

The colonel watched him a moment more before he turned toward a group of huts. "Barracks 5 is this way. The boys there will get you set up with a bunk and show you around all the amenities."

Wilson followed after him watching the camp life around them. A group of prisoners were starting a new flower bed around one of the buildings. A couple other men were re-hanging a door. In fact, the majority of prisoners he saw were taken up in one task or another, the others stood around watching the camp proceedings with a marked indifference. "Is it true that there has never been an escape, sir?" Wilson asked, coming even with Hogan.

"Not since Klink took command," Hogan acknowledged, an odd gleam in his eye, like he was enjoying in a private joke. "Pressing appointment to keep, sergeant?"

Wilson looked at the almost knowing expression on Hogan's face. "I'd just rather not stay a guest of Herr Hitler too long," he said uncomfortable with the look the commanding officer was giving him.

"Places to go, people to see?" Hogan said, his eye brows shooting up into his forehead.

"Something like that," Wilson said looking at the building in front of them.

It looked exactly like the other barracks spread across the compound, single storied, gray walled, a few shuttered windows around the sides and a sign labeled 5 next to the door. There were a couple barrels sitting against the building, holding the day's water supply. Wilson was surprised to notice the building rested directly on the ground, making tunnels a very real possibility for escape. But Hogan had said there had never been an escape from camp. Wilson threw a sideways glance at the colonel. Something about this place was off, Wilson decided, though he couldn't quite tell what.

"Well, sergeant, you look like you've had a rough 24 hours," Hogan was saying, bringing Wilson out of his thoughts. "The boy's will look after you. After you've had something to eat and some sleep we'll talk about your duties in camp. If you have any problems, I'm in barracks 2 over there." Hogan pointed to another building directly across from the commandant's office where a group of prisoners gathered at the corner watching them closely.

Now that Hogan mentioned it, Wilson realized how hungry and tired he was as the sleepless night quickly caught up with him. "Yes sir," he said saluting again.

"Get some sleep," Hogan said, causally returning the salute and turning back to his own barracks at a quick pace.

Wilson watched for a moment before heading into his own barracks more than a little confused, but too tired at the moment to worry about it. First he'd get some food and sleep then worry about his new situation.

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