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Major Otto Boehringer sat down at his desk four days later and waited for the Oberursel's Chief of Interrogation to come in with his morning report. He carefully, almost lovingly, lit a pipe, and took in a slow, savoring breath as the fresh scent of the precious tobacco started curling through the room. He thought about the day ahead—in about thirty minutes, he would be having another session with that American Colonel, Hogan. Boehringer couldn't help but be impressed by the flyer. So far, despite repeated threats of violence, loss of rations, and other unpleasant consequences, Hogan had held his ground and refused to answer anything that did more than reacquaint the Germans with his name, rank, and serial number. Boehringer was beginning to hear the numbers in his sleep. And it bothered him that he wasn't making progress.

Boehringer heard a quiet knock, and the door opened, letting Major Junge enter. He put a pile of papers on Boehringer's desk. "This morning's reports," he said in greeting, waving a plume of smoke out of his face. "You know those things will kill you, Otto."

"Yes, yes," Boehringer answered, by now used to the familiar chiding from the officer. "And your schnapps will do the same to you."

"Ah, now there you are wrong," Junge countered; "that is some of the finest medicine available for ulcers."

"Curing them? Or causing them?" Boehringer asked. Junge shook his head in answer. Their morning routine would never change. "Tell me about Hogan. He will be here soon."

"Hogan?" Junge replied. "Hogan remains as stubborn as ever. When you finished with him yesterday, I followed up in his cell. I thought perhaps a little bit of extra pressure while he was still recovering from his session with you might help." Junge sighed. "But it didn't. All I got was the usual—a few smart remarks, and name, rank, and serial number."

"He knows things, Karl. He knows much more than he is telling. We must find out the meaning of those daylight raids he was involved in."

Junge nodded. "He is uncomfortable when we ask about those. Did you notice? He seems to be remembering something when we bring it up."

"His defeat and capture, perhaps."

"Perhaps. But I think there is more to it than that. He is a strong man, Otto, very strong. Make no mistake about that. But even Achilles had one heel unprotected. I think Hogan's Achilles heel is those daylight missions. Mark my word."

Boehringer nodded. "I will consider that when I question him. What is his condition?"

"He is tired. He is hungry. He is still unwell." Junge shrugged. "He is stubborn. Do the best you can."

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Boehringer puffed harder on his pipe as Hogan moved further into the room. The American officer was dirty, dirtier than he had been when he was brought before him in the first place, and he sported a heavier beard that unsuccessfully covered what was becoming a gaunt face. The smell of dirt and sweat was always unpleasant to the fastidious Boehringer, and he was hoping the cherry wood scent of the pipe would mask some of the odor that always came with long term interrogations.

Hogan glanced at the chair in front of Boehringer's desk, knowing that he would not be asked to sit down. The small cell he was sharing with two other men did not give much opportunity to stretch or lie down, and he was tired, hot, still hurting and scared. Still, he tried his best to cover up his emotions, and prepared himself for what was becoming a less than comforting routine.

"Colonel Hogan, how are you this morning?" Boehringer asked pleasantly.

Hogan nodded briefly, acknowledging the Major's presence. "Some days it's just not worth getting up in the morning," he answered.

Boehringer smiled. "Colonel Hogan, I will begin this session as I have all the others. I would like you to tell me about your defeat in the air and your capture."

"Didn't your fighters take any snapshots?" Hogan asked.

Boehringer let a small smile pass over his lips. More of the same. "You know what I need to know, Colonel Hogan. Why were you out on a bombing mission during the day?"

"One of my men is afraid of the dark."

"And you felt the need to cure him of this fear over Hamburg?"

"The bombs look prettier when they hit their targets here."

Boehringer slammed his fist down on the desk. Hogan gave a small start but said nothing and did not try to move away. The German's voice was rich and loud with anger. "You are a murderer of children, Hogan. Do you realize that? Your bombing raids kill innocent people—women, children, families. Is that the brave, honorable work you want to tell your family that you accomplished here?"

Hogan wanted to respond. He wanted desperately to scream at Boehringer that he didn't want innocents to die. Despite the fact that he had been trained to think of the targets on the ground, not the people that were near them, part of him always knew that no matter how careful they were, some bombs would fall wide of the mark, and God knew who would end up being hurt, or killed. But he couldn't say any of that, not to Boehringer. And so he remained silent.

"You are directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds, maybe thousands of people, Hogan. Innocents who work in German factories and on German farms. Children who dream of going to school and marrying their sweethearts and running in the fields with their friends. They will not be able to do that now, Colonel Hogan. And it is all your fault."

Hogan closed his eyes and ran a mantra in his head while Boehringer was shouting at him. He's just trying to wear you down. Don't listen to him. He'll say anything to get you to break. Don't listen. Don't listen! "I was doing my job," Hogan said quietly, opening his eyes.

This seemed to have some impact on Boehringer. He stood up from his desk and came around menacingly, close to Hogan's face. "And I shall do mine," he almost hissed. "Colonel Hogan, if I do not start getting answers from you, today, you are going to find yourself in solitary confinement for an indefinite period of time."

"Swell," Hogan replied. "It's pretty crowded in my room."

"You will be deprived of your Red Cross food, your blanket, and your cigarettes."

"I'm trying to give up smoking already, thanks."

Boehringer exploded. "You are a filthy, useless, failure of an American!" he shouted. "Good for nothing but being shot down and abandoned by your country! Why do you think you owe them some kind of loyalty? You owe them nothing! And now, you remain loyal, and they are offering you nothing in return. No one has asked for your release, Hogan. No one. You are alone. They have abandoned you. And yet you persist in your foolish patriotism and suffer for them."

"Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, US Army Air Corps. Serial number 0876707."

Boehringer shook his head, frustrated, and called for the guard outside the door to come in. "Get away from me, Hogan. I will speak with you again later today. Let us see how flippant you are when you've had a chance to experience a very different kind of imprisonment here."

Hogan just lowered his eyes, and allowed himself to be led out of the room.

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Boehringer sighed as he went back around to the back of his desk. "Colonel Hogan, why do you persist in putting yourself through this? We could end this all right now."

I'll bet, thought Hogan, looking up at the weapons mounted on the wall behind the German. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the Obergefreiter standing beside him, rifle at the ready. Hogan said nothing.

"You are tired, Colonel, yes?" Boehringer asked, noticing Hogan's less upright than normal stance, and a stoop to his posture that had been becoming more pronounced each day.

Hogan still said nothing, blinking tiredly, certain that he was swaying slightly at the moment but not having the strength to care. He had been held for ten days in solitary confinement, a tiny, dark, damp room that left not enough room to lie down, and not quite enough room to stand up. His muscles were sore from cramping, and the wound that had started to heal on his left leg was sore to the touch. Hogan suspected it was not responding well to his treatment.

In between the wearisome interrogation sessions with Boehringer, Hogan tried hard to remember what had become of those lost days between the start of his mission over Hamburg and his arrival at Oberursel. He remembered bailing out of Goldilocks, and he remembered someone sticking a rifle in his wounded gut and sending him into spasms of agony. But he couldn't remember much else—how he had gotten the injuries, how he had been fixed up, how he had gotten here. It scared him. But the insistent question-and-answer sessions actually made him feel a little better; if he had told the Germans everything he knew about the plans for the daylight bombing attacks, and every other classified thing he knew, they wouldn't be asking him now. So at least he must have stuck to the basics: name, rank, serial number.

There had been little chance for Hogan to take stock of his condition. In the times he was left alone, he fairly collapsed from exhaustion or weakness or hunger. The food rations were far from the Red Cross parcels he had been told were standard issue even at this level, and water was not forthcoming as often as his thirsting body craved it. But he didn't need a proper examination to know that he was hurting. Aside from his leg, his abdomen was still a throbbing mess, and he guessed that even if food were plentiful he wouldn't be able to eat much of it. His stomach burned, and the dots of red on the bandages around his torso told him all was not as it should be. His arm was clearly still bleeding on occasion, but no one else seemed to take notice when Hogan wiped a trickle of blood away when it made its way down to his hand. And his head still pounded mercilessly, something he grew to accept as normal from here on out, and he simply tried to work around it.

His sporadic and confused dreams often took him home, back to Connecticut and back to his friends and family, and it was always a blow to his spirit when he woke up and found himself still incarcerated in his tiny cell. As part of his interrogation, Boehringer often mentioned "home," and while not naming people or places specifically, it was quite clear the German was bringing the subject up to break the spirit of his target. It was working, Hogan thought, and he determined not to let it continue. It wasn't what his family would want anyway.

"Believe it or not, Colonel Hogan, I am tired, too." Boehringer sat down and clasped his hands together on his desk. "You see, as long as you keep your Allied secrets to yourself, I have to ask you the same questions day after day after day. It's keeping me up at night, Colonel Hogan, and I don't like it."

"Maybe you need a sleeping pill," Hogan said simply.

Boehringer shook his head. "You never cease to amaze me, Hogan. Do you like that horrid little cell you are in? Do you like the idea of being tortured until you pray for death?"

Hogan stared straight at the Major. "I can't say that's ever really appealed to me."

"It is you who controls your future, Hogan."

"I doubt that very much."

"Tell me about the daylight raids, Colonel Hogan. Why were you and a small group of planes out over Hamburg? Why did the Allies risk sending you out in broad daylight?"

Hogan remained stoic. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…

"You know these things, Colonel. Do not think I believe otherwise. Your reputation precedes you. Your destruction is well known."

More concentrated silence. Hogan knew he had to make it through another session with Boehringer, and he was feeling himself weaken. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven…

"You would like to sit down, Colonel?" Boehringer nodded toward a chair behind Hogan.

The slight menace in Boehringer's voice told Hogan this was not an invitation, and he stayed still. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses…

Boehringer's tone abruptly grew hard. Hogan steeled himself. He was used to this flip-flop of emotions from the German already; just another way to keep an already confused prisoner off balance. "I am tired of your insolence, Hogan. Get down!"

A sudden forceful strike on Hogan's temple with the Obergefreiter's rifle sent the Colonel sprawling to the floor. He stayed there, his head exploding, the world spinning, one more feeling of hopelessness being added to the growing collection of doubts in his mind. As we forgive those who trespass against us…

"Now you are down where you belong." Boehringer seemed to calm down after the spurt of violence. "Stay there, Colonel," he said with mock gentleness. "You appear to need the rest."

Hogan fought back the nausea starting to rise within him and got up on his knees, then up to his feet. Boehringer watched him without comment or action. Hogan staggered unsteadily but did not back down, ready to go back to his cell, where at least he could console himself and try to regain his equilibrium.

Boehringer shook his head. "You really are something else, Colonel Hogan. But I'm afraid I have not gotten what I need from you yet. Berlin is most anxious to know what is in your head, and so far all my attempts to be a gracious host to you have been rebuffed. Therefore, I shall not be so gracious any longer." He stood up. "From today you will be on starvation rations."

Hogan managed a derisive snort. "You won't have to change very much to do that," he retorted. He wanted to lunge at the Major, the man currently responsible for his misery, the man telling him that he was going to make Hogan's life even more wretched than it was now. But he knew the move would be useless, and probably lead to further injury, something he couldn't afford in his already precarious state of health. Lead us not into temptation…

Boehringer sneered back at him. "Then you will have very little to worry about." He looked at the Obergefreiter. "Take him away."

Hogan stared bold-faced at Boehringer as the Corporal pulled Hogan by the arm. The intensity in Hogan's eyes both fascinated and unnerved the German.

Hogan let out a loud breath of relief as he was pushed back into solitary confinement; he had survived one more encounter with the enemy. He settled into the crouched position that he had adopted to allow himself to get some rest and finished the prayer he had begun so fervently for strength. Deliver us from evil… Please…