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"We must consider releasing Hogan to Wetzlar," Boehringer said when Junge came to him ten days later. "He is still telling us nothing, and we are getting toward the end of our thirty days with him. This morning he was noticeably slower in his movements, took longer to answer my questions—or not answer them, depending on how you look at it. He is weak in body but strong in mind. I don't know what to make of him."

"I find him quite fascinating, Otto," answered Junge. "And apparently I am not the only one. General Burkhalter from Luftwaffe Headquarters in Berlin has called me more than once about this man. It seems the Fuhrer himself is interested in our Colonel Hogan."

"He did cause quite a stir when he was in the air, didn't he?" Boehringer said with a nod of admiration for his adversary. "Do you remember what it was like, Karl?" he asked. "Up there, wreaking havoc on the enemy?"

Junge shook his head. "I can barely remember yesterday. Don't ask me to remember something I did twenty years ago."

Boehringer laughed, then got back to business. "We've captured a most extraordinary man, Karl. We can't let him leave here without using every method of persuasion at our disposal."

"We have not used every method. Not yet."

"What do you suggest?"

Junge shrugged. "Geheim Staats Polizei."

Boehringer shuddered. "I can't say I care for them."

"Who of us can?" Junge replied. "Give it one more day, Otto. And if our Colonel Hogan won't answer you questions, then call in the Gestapo."

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"Hogan…Robert E… Colonel… US Army Air Corps… Serial number 087…67…07."

Hogan spoke slowly, struggling to stay focused on the present. He had had a bad night last night. Nightmares and pain had kept him in a constant state of half-wakefulness, and hunger and thirst were now an overwhelming presence. But the idea of simply telling what he knew never even occurred to him. It wasn't an option. Period. No matter how long the Krauts kept at it. And according to the scratches he had somehow managed to carve onto his wall, whether he was in a regular cell or solitary, this was now the twenty-sixth day the Germans were asking him the same questions. And it would be the twenty-sixth day they got no answers.

Boehringer came around the desk, this time pulling the chair away from the wall and gently pushing Hogan into it. He snapped his fingers in Hogan's face to get his attention; the American looked up at him, not speaking. "Colonel Hogan, you are not holding up well in these little sessions we have each day." Hogan said nothing. "Berlin is still asking questions. I still have no answers. Can't you see that this cannot continue indefinitely?"

Hogan remained silent. "Colonel Hogan," Boehringer tried again, "you are leaving me little choice. I am going to have to call in the Gestapo." He waited, hoping the word would have some impact on the prisoner. It didn't, at least externally. "Colonel Hogan," Boehringer said. "Colonel Hogan!"

Hogan did not respond. His eyes were focused on the wall behind Boehringer.

Boehringer brought his face close to Hogan's. He did not want to bring in the Gestapo if he didn't have to. Besides it meaning he admitted defeat himself in this interrogation, he also didn't like most of the tactics the Secret State Police used to extract their information. "Colonel Hogan, give me something. Anything. Something I can use to show that you will be willing to cooperate with us."

Hogan's eyes moved to meet Boehringer's. Then he spoke softly and calmly. "Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, US Army Air Corps. Serial number 0876707…"

Boehringer could have recited it with Hogan. He knew he had no choice now.

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"See how you fare with him now. If you still have trouble, call us and we will be more than happy to return."

With these final words from the Gestapo men still ringing in his ears, Hogan was escorted back to his cell the next evening. Carried was probably a more accurate description: he could not walk on his own, could not see more than a foot in front of him, and he was leaving a trail of blood down the corridor from wounds once sewn up that had reopened during his "interrogation" by the two men sent from Berlin. He was drenched with sweat, his face still dripping as he was tossed into the tiny room, and his body was shaking with exhaustion and exertion. No one spoke to him as they shut the door. No one offered him water to offset the raging thirst within him. No one assured him that this ordeal was nearly over. Day twenty-seven, Hogan thought. One he hoped his mind would mercifully let him forget.

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"You knew, didn't you?"

The enraged face of Boehringer stared down at Hogan as he blinked in the bright beam of the flashlight the German had shining directly in his eyes.

"You knew! And you let me make a complete fool of myself in front of the Gestapo!"

Hogan just looked back, confused, and made no resistance when Boehringer grabbed him angrily by the collar and pulled him out of the cell. He shoved Hogan ahead of him down the hall, pushing him and striking him whenever Hogan stumbled with his still-cramped legs straining to come back to life after a night in his crowded chambers.

"I asked you about the daylight raids. I lowered myself to almost beg you to give me something I could tell Berlin about the bombing mission you were on. You gave me nothing. Nothing! And now news comes about a full-force daytime strike over a railway yard at Rouen yesterday! You knew about the Allied plans all along, and you strung us along like a kite!"

Hogan continued moving down the hall, trying to assimilate everything he was being told. Suddenly he was seized from behind and pushed into another cell. Smaller than the one he had just left, with no light and no windows. He tumbled into it as Boehringer continued his tirade.

"You will learn what happens when you try to make a fool of me, Hogan. This cell is specially constructed. It reaches temperatures of one hundred and thirty degrees during the day, and at night it drops to below freezing. You are going to spend considerable time in here, Hogan. And when I let you out, if you have survived, I will be asking you the same questions. If you don't answer them, you will find the Gestapo will not be as polite as they were yesterday!"

The door was slammed shut, and Hogan sank as low as the confined space would allow. Still exhausted, aching, and confused, he tried to make sense of Boehringer's outburst. A daytime raid over Rouen. So the bombing mission Hogan and his men had been shot down in had been considered a success. Hogan shook his head slightly in disbelief, and tried to mentally prepare himself for whatever lay ahead.

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Hogan next saw light eleven days later, when the door to the overheated cell was pulled open unexpectedly. He immediately squeezed his eyes shut, unable to take the brightness of the hall, and he tried to breathe in the fresh air as it broke through the wall of heat that enveloped him. He had thought surely at first that there would be at least one opportunity each day to escape the stifling, suffocating heat—when Boehringer questioned him about the daytime missions. But after a couple of days without Boehringer sending for him, Hogan determined that his internment in this torture chamber was a punishment, not merely a means of weakening his resolve, and he lay half-dead during the overwhelmingly hot days, and going past freezing to nearly hypothermia as a result of the blanketless, freezing cold nights. The combination had left him with a raging fever, which in turn did him the favor of occasionally leaving him far away from reality, something he considered a blessing in his darkest hours.

A guard pulled Hogan up by the arm and tried to get him to walk. But he was weak from illness and an almost complete lack of food, and his legs ached from the inability to move them in the cell, and he merely sank to his knees when prodded. Finally the guard in charge slung Hogan's arm over his own shoulder and half-dragged him down to Boehringer's office.

The Major was enjoying a pipe when Hogan was deposited on the floor in front of the desk. Wordlessly, he watched Hogan pant painfully and try to cope with the protests from his abused body. Shaking his head, he came to stand above the American. "So, Colonel Hogan, tell me, how are you finding it in your special room? A bit warm?"

Hogan let out a small whimper of pain and managed to croak, "Water… Please… water…" There was no saliva in his mouth with which to wet his parched lips.

"Maybe tomorrow, Colonel; maybe tomorrow. For today, I just wanted to give you one more opportunity to tell me all about the American daylight raids."

Hogan frowned, but he was not concentrating on Boehringer's words, or the German's fixation on the daylight bombing missions. All he needed was something to ease the razor blades in his throat, and something to cool his fevered brow. But Boehringer had just said that was not forthcoming, so Hogan let his mind wander again to the world that his delirium had created for him, one in which there was an endless supply of cool, running water, and friends and family to remind him to remain strong in the face of the enemy. He struggled, almost automatically now, to get out the only words he could allow himself when in the room with Boehringer. "Hogan… Rob—Robert… E… Colonel…Army—U…S… Army… US… Air…Corps…Eight… Zero Eight… Seven… Seven Six…" And he trailed off, confused, and unable to get the numbers right in his head.

Hogan was asked questions but could answer nothing, as he was no longer in the same room, mentally, as his interrogator. Boehringer ordered Hogan back into an ordinary cell for the night. Hogan did not hear the Major inform him that the next day, he would be visited again by the Gestapo.

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Hogan was startled awake by the sound of his cell door being opened. Whereas when he had first arrived at the Durschgangslager der Luftwaffe he would react swiftly and strongly to any contact with the Germans, now Hogan was sluggish. He turned his head slowly toward the noise at the cell door, and very carefully considered whether it was worth moving. Any unexpected pull and Hogan would be thrust into a cycle of immediate and excruciating pain. So he was cautious, and untrusting. He tried stretching his sore legs out, but he was given little time to get some feeling back in them before he was hauled to his feet and pulled down the hall to Boehringer's office.

Hogan was still blinking in the comparatively bright light of the office when Boehringer entered. "Colonel Hogan, good morning," the German said pleasantly, going behind his desk but not sitting down.

Hogan nodded, still vague and not yet focused.

"You would like some water, yes?" Boehringer asked. He turned to a pitcher behind him and filled a glass. He held his hand out to Hogan to take it. "Here," he said, almost as a friend, "you must need this. It has been a long journey for you."

Hogan's mind vaguely picked up the words. He couldn't remember going anywhere. Was Boehringer speaking metaphorically? Hogan thought the office looked the same as it had before. Maybe all the offices look alike, he thought with a quick flash of despair. Hogan fought to clear his mind. But it was too hard today, and so he said nothing, and it took another prompt from Boehringer for him to take the glass filled with blessed water. When Hogan did take it, he drank the glassful in one hit.

Boehringer smiled and nodded his head like an approving parent. Hogan was still partly lucid; there was still hope for cooperation. Boehringer was pleased that he had insisted on giving Hogan extra food rations last night; it would help strengthen him, perhaps drive back some of the illness, and give him the motivation to bring an end to this on his own.

"Today, you will be meeting not only with me, but with two guests." The door opened and two men in black leather coats and trilby hats entered. "Herr Becker," he said, nodding to the first man, "and Herr Lipke. They are from the Gestapo. They would like to ask you some questions of their own."

Hogan fought hard to maintain a carefree façade. But it wasn't easy to come by, and he was sure he was failing, as he could feel his legs starting to shake violently from both his fear and his frailty.

"Gentlemen, if you please," Boehringer said. "Tell me what you would like Colonel Hogan to do, and we will see to it that he complies."

"Make him sit down," said the one identified as Lipke. His voice was rough, his English heavily accented and not very good, Hogan noticed.

Boehringer nodded and gestured for the ever-present Obergefreiter to bring out the chair when Becker grabbed Hogan by the collar and threw him into it. More startled than hurt, Hogan took a moment to gather himself before glaring back up at Becker. "That will do," Becker said.

Boehringer took note of the sudden flash in Hogan's eyes and quietly approved. There's still life in you yet, Hogan. Let's see what match you are for these two barbarians.

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Though it was Boehringer's responsibility to oversee the questioning of prisoners, once the Gestapo took Hogan down to another interrogation room, he looked in less frequently. He found it hard to face the brutality of the men sent from Berlin, even though he could sometimes see where their hot tempers were coming from. Hogan was still strong enough to throw a few sarcastic comments back at the pair, a talent not well-received by Becker and Lipke. Boehringer himself had at one stage been driven to the extremes of frustration, wondering why in God's name this man didn't end the torture he was bringing upon himself, and he backhanded Hogan across the face, an action that Hogan responded to by simply saying through quickly swelling lips, "Temper, temper, Major."

Now, Boehringer simply made an appearance each morning for show, silently taking stock of the prisoner, then leaving the Gestapo agents to do the work they unfortunately did so well. By order of Herr Lipke, Hogan had been deprived of sleep since their arrival, and now, as the fourth day of Gestapo torture began, Boehringer looked at the American strapped to the chair with something akin to pity. Hogan's head was dropped against his chest, a heavy beard not quite covering violent bruises on his swollen cheeks. He was dripping with sweat and breathing shallowly, and the Major could see traces of blood on the shackles holding Hogan's wrists and ankles in place. He looked in just in time to see Becker yank Hogan's head up from his chest by the hair, and he fought down the urge to bring the obviously suffering man some water to provide him with support and strength. For the briefest second, Hogan's pain-filled eyes met Boehringer's, and the Major turned on his heel abruptly and left the room.

He called Junge into his office. "We aren't going to get anything from Hogan," Boehringer said angrily. "It's time to release him."

Junge nodded thoughtfully. "Our friends from the Gestapo have not been able to break him?"

"Oh, they've broken him, all right," Boehringer said bitterly. "They've broken his body in many places, I'm sure. But they haven't broken his spirit. He's sticking to name, rank, and serial number. Or whatever he can manage to remember of them in the state he's in."

"So what do you suggest?"

"Get him out of here. There's nothing to be gained by continuing this. Send him to Wetzlar. Get him assigned to a Stalag Luft. Just get him out of my sight."

Junge looked at his friend. "Hogan bothers you, Otto."

"Bothers me?"

"You do not want to see him."

"I don't want to see any man treated as he is being treated unnecessarily. It is my opinion that we will get no information from him. And in that I have the authority to release him to the transition camp."

Someone knocked on the door. "Come!" barked Boehringer.

The guard who had been standing out side the Gestapo interrogation chamber entered and saluted. "Herr Major, Herr Becker asks that you organize for Doctor Weinzaphel to be present tomorrow for the American's interrogation."

Boehringer and Junge exchanged glances. "What for?"

"He says the doctor must be in attendance for all floggings exceeding thirty strokes."

Boehringer felt bile rush up into his throat, and he swallowed it, almost glad of the bitter feeling, as it reminded him he was alive. "It will be done," he said. He dismissed the guard and sat down heavily. "Well, it is out of my hands now, Karl. If they want Weinzaphel, they also believe he will give up no information. I cannot order his release now. But Hogan will not survive a flogging; that much is certain." He shook his head. "Blasted sadists. Any normal man would simply accept that this enemy cannot be broken and send him on his way. But the Gestapo… they cannot look bad in front of their superiors, and so they will flog him to death, and say that they had to try to get him to talk." He slammed his hand down on the desk. "It is quite clear even now that he will not tell them anything. From the way he looked when I was in there this morning, I doubt he could even if he wanted to."

Junge nodded agreement. There was nothing else to be said. Sometimes, this was how it ended. And there was nothing either of them could do about it.

The phone rang, and Boehringer picked it up harshly, still angry at the thought of the unnecessary events to come. "Boehringer," he snapped. His expression changed abruptly and he toned down his anger. "Jawohl, Herr General. Ja…. Ja. Natürlich, Herr General…. Ja, sofort…. Danke, General. Heil Hitler."

Boehringer replaced the receiver and moved swiftly around the desk, calling in the guard standing outside the door. "Go tell Herr Becker and Herr Lipke to cease their interrogation of the prisoner at once, and tell them to report to my office immediately."

The guard accepted his orders and took off down the hall. Junge looked questioningly at his friend as he closed the door once more. "Otto? What's going on?"

"That was General Beidenbender." He shook his head slightly. Imagine, being promoted for shooting down one man. But then, they were talking about Hogan…. "He has ordered Hogan to be sent to the Hohemark."

Junge raised his eyebrows.

"Apparently Berlin believes that a man with a will and a mind like Hogan's is worth studying. And since he has not given in to our methods of interrogation, they would like to study him instead and see if there is anything to be learned from him scientifically."

"To be learned from him?" Junge echoed.

"In other words, Karl my friend, to use him as a lab rat, before finally letting him go."