No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

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Boehringer looked at the twitching mass of pain on the hard bunk and shook his head. How Hogan had managed to survive the last four days at the hands of the Secret State Police was a mystery to him. How he had held out for so long under intensive interrogation was just as much an unknown. This American, this man who was so deliberately set upon for defeat in the air, was indeed someone to be admired, someone worthy of his rank, and worthy of the respect of both his peers and his enemies. Boehringer had learned nothing from Hogan except that he was a Colonel in the US Army Air Corps, and he could recite Hogan's serial number as if it was his own. The Gestapo, with all their persuasiveness, had learned no more than that. But while to the Gestapo this was something that could justify their anger and their brutality, to Boehringer it was something that could justify—even if only in secret—his admiration for the prisoner.

Hogan was in a state of half-consciousness, filthy and covered in blood and sweat, with violent bruises painting his face and his neck. One of his arms was extended out from the bunk, and Boehringer could see swollen fingers and a raw, red wrist. The other would have to be the same. The sound of labored, painful breaths echoed off the walls. Boehringer had seen it all before, and he had stomached it easily after his initial indoctrination in the ways of the Nazi Party. But seeing Hogan in this fevered state, and remembering the strong personality that persisted in spite of over forty days of less than gracious treatment by the enemy, Boehringer was sickened.

He entered the tiny room, now illuminated by the shaft of light from the corridor, and stood above Hogan. "The Gestapo will not be back, Hogan," he said. He waited to see if Hogan would respond. He didn't. "I have ordered them to leave you alone; you are going to be transferred to the hospital at Hohemark tomorrow." Again no answer. Boehringer crouched down closer to Hogan's ear. "You are leaving the Dulag Luft. Do you understand?"

Hogan's eyes opened part way, but they were not focused on Boehringer. A spasm of pain made Hogan groan weakly, and a look of confusion and hurt passed over his face momentarily. Hogan was still somewhere far away from this room, the Major realized.

Boehringer stood up again and called for the guard standing outside the room. "Get him cleaned up, and make sure he has a good meal tonight, if he can stomach it. We have to give him to the Hohemark in a condition conducive to their plans. They will not be pleased if we present our prisoner to them looking like this."

The guard accepted his orders, and Boehringer left the cell. That is all I can give you, Colonel. Let us hope it gives you enough strength to survive what lies ahead.

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Hogan cradled his ribs as he got up from the bunk when ordered the next morning. His eyes vacant, he saw only what was directly in front of him; his peripheral vision seemed to have disappeared, along with his hunger, his thirst, and his sense of self. All that remained was the constant, throbbing pain that spread through his entire body, and the heat of the fever that consumed him. He moved where and when he was told without taking conscious notice of the place or time, and he wondered, confused, where his men were, and his family, and his friends. They had been with him all along, he thought, but now they were nowhere to be seen, and he was alone. He stumbled once and nearly fell over. But the hands that stopped that from happening were not those of his father, as he had expected, and the uniform of his guardian bewildered him. Hogan was lost, and he had no idea how to get home.

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With no understanding of how he got there, Hogan woke briefly to find himself in a large, well-lit room, with his pounding head on a soft pillow, his battered body on a firm mattress, with real sheets and a real blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. He considered trying to focus his thoughts. But the soothing comfort of his current circumstances whispered to him to forget that, and his eyelids were heavy, so heavy, that he allowed the softness and the warmth to lull him back to blackness.

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As Hogan's fever receded, he came more into himself and began to be slightly aware of his surroundings. Though still very ill and suffering from his encounter with the Gestapo, his mind was starting to ask questions, and it was disturbing to him that he had no answers. At some stage he had lost track of time, so he didn't know what day it was, much less what time of day it was. He could vaguely remember being in a hospital at some time in the past, but he didn't know how long ago it was, or how he had gotten there, or what had been done to him there. And he didn't know for sure, although he suspected, that he was in a medical facility now.

He was considering opening his eyes to test the light when he heard the door open and someone entered the room. He heard water trickling into a container and soon felt a damp, cool cloth moving gently across his face, neck, shoulders and arms. He moaned at the relief that brought him, and decided against tempting Fate by trying to see straight while his head was still spinning.

An unseen woman said softly, "Are you awake, Colonel?" in a voice that clearly indicated she had been certain he wasn't.

Hogan wasn't strong enough to give a real answer; instead, he let his head loll gently toward the direction of the voice and he moaned again. Oh, how tired…how tired I am….

"You will start to feel better now that your fever is down, Colonel." The cloth continued to make its way around Hogan's body. He felt disproportionately grateful for the ministrations, and found himself concentrating on savoring every moment of gentleness and relief. "When you are up to it, you will eat as well."

Her work done, the faceless voice pulled the blanket back up and brushed back a lock of dark hair from Hogan's brow. He wondered if he had somehow been traded back to the Allies; no one had been this kind to him in any time he could remember since being shot down.

"Sleep, Herr Colonel," whispered the voice. "You need to regain your strength."

Hogan never heard her say it. He had already obeyed.

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A sharp pain in his abdomen was what woke Hogan from his dreamless slumber. He gritted his teeth and tried to draw forward in the bed to help ease the hurt, but a hand pushed back firmly on his shoulder. "No, no, Herr Colonel, we are just assessing you. You must stay still."

Hogan groaned through his teeth and looked at the person speaking. A middle-aged man in a white lab coat was restraining him, and Hogan frowned as he coped with the fireworks the man's touch had set off. Another probe, this time of a wound higher on his chest; then of his ribs, his back, his once-infected leg. Hogan gasped each time a tender spot was touched, still being stopped from pulling away or doing anything to mitigate the pain except bite his lip. When the short examination was over, Hogan was exhausted and his head was swimming. He wanted to ask questions, but he was certain no one would answer. Aside from that first statement, no one had spoken to him at all; it was like he was a specimen in a lab, not a person. What kind of medical facility was this?

"Still very weak and mildly combative," the man said.

Hogan's mind reeled. Combative? You're the one poking me, he thought, lying back wearily on the pillow and closing his eyes.

"We're going to need another intravenous drip," came the voice again. "Get his fluids up. We need him to be strong to begin with."

This time Hogan fought to speak. "To begin with what?" he tried to ask. It came out as a croak from his dry throat.

Hogan felt a woman's hand supporting his head as she moved him toward a glass of water she was holding to his lips. "Never mind that now," the woman said. Hogan tried to open his eyes, but the lids were too heavy. "You just concentrate on getting well."

Hogan drank. "To begin with what?" he persisted, as though protesting the way his question had been brushed aside.

"Sshh," the woman soothed, letting Hogan's head rest on the pillow again and caressing his face with her hand. "Go to sleep."

In his mind, Hogan was continuing to demand answers. But his body was content with the touch of the woman, and he faded away again, despite his misgivings about the future.

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Hogan found it easier to open his eyes the next time he heard someone come into the room. A woman had entered, obviously a nurse, with long brown hair pulled back from her ordinary face. Hogan looked at her, fascinated. She paused as she caught him watching her wheel a tray table over to the bed and smiled.

"Guten abend," she said. "What are you finding so interesting?"

Hogan continued looking for a moment, then blinked himself into the present and turned away. "Nothing. I mean, it just occurred to me that I can't remember when I last saw—" He cut himself off, embarrassed as he realized what he was about to say.

The nurse smiled again as she took his wrist carefully to time his pulse rate. "A woman, Herr Colonel?"

Hogan nodded, disoriented. "Sorry."

The nurse was quiet for a moment, then lay Hogan's arm gently back on the sheets. "I understand. My name is Ursula. Are you hungry?"

Hogan considered. He hadn't thought about food before. But now that she mentioned it, there was some gnawing at his stomach that he was sure had nothing to do with his injuries. He nodded. "I think so."

Ursula smiled. "Good. Then you are getting better." She unveiled a bowl on the tray table that was holding some kind of soup. Hogan leaned forward and sniffed cautiously. "It is a broth with small bits of vegetable and a little bit of meat. You cannot eat a lot at once, Colonel. You are not so recovered as to eat your big American meals."

Ursula propped Hogan up in the bed. Hogan nodded absently, concentrating on the bowl. He grabbed a spoon and lifted his hand, only to notice it shaking in such a way that no soup would ever make it to his lips.

Ursula noticed and quickly stepped in. "No, Herr Colonel. You are still too weak to look after yourself. I will feed you."

Hogan frowned but allowed the girl to spoon the food into his mouth. The first bit of broth went slowly and tantalizingly down his throat, through his body, and smoothly poured into his stomach, where it danced and circled, reminding him of everything he had missed for God knew how long. "It's good," he managed.

Ursula just smiled and continued feeding him.

"What time is it?" Hogan asked.

"It's six thirty in the evening," Ursula answered.

"How long have I been here?"

Ursula paused. "That's not important."

"But it is. I don't know what day it is. I don't know what month it is. I don't even know where I am." Hogan paused. "Am I in an Allied hospital?"

Ursula shook her head almost sadly as she continued to feed the American. "No, Herr Colonel. You are at the Hohemark. You are in Germany."

The answer was a blow to Hogan, and Ursula had to prompt him to keep eating. He continued thinking, then asked, "Are you the one who's been taking care of me?"

Ursula nodded. "Sometimes. You have been very ill. There have been many of us."

"I remember a man saying I needed to be strong to begin with. What are they planning to do with me?" Ursula finished feeding Hogan in silence. Hogan wanted an answer. "What are they going to do?"

"You have done well, Colonel Hogan," Ursula said, ignoring Hogan's question. "The doctor will be pleased with your progress." She stood up and moved the tray table away, then started expertly straightening Hogan's blanket and removing the extra pillows she had used to keep Hogan sitting up.

"Ursula, what are they going to do to me?" Hogan started to worry when she avoided answering him.

"Concentrate on getting well, Herr Colonel. Let others worry about the future." She removed the final extra pillow, took a long look at Hogan, and walked out.

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Hogan was starting to find it annoying that no one woke him up before they started poking and probing him like some sort of experimental specimen. The next time he was roused, he was being wheeled down a hallway, with an intravenous drip trailing beside him. He was aware of being cold, but after the fevers he had suffered, he was not unhappy about the change.

Not fully alert, Hogan tried to take in what was happening. He felt hands less-than-gently transferring him from the travel gurney to some sort of table, and he almost panicked when he realized that he was also being secured to it by cuffs on his ankles and wrists. The intravenous drip was removed, and someone's hands held his head in position as a strap was stretched underneath his armpits, and another across his waist, and someone pulled off the slim hospital gown he had been wearing, leaving him exposed, and vulnerable.

Hogan tried to speak in protest, but the words were oddly stuck in his mouth and he could only make incoherent sounds that no one was listening to. There was a lot of talk going on around him. It seemed like everyone was speaking at once, and hands were moving fast and furious in preparation for something Hogan could only have nightmares about. In spite of himself he could hear his breathing quicken as a bright light was pulled into position directly above him. A large camera sitting on a tripod was moved into view, and the clang of metal instruments and murmured instructions were constant background noise. He could see white lab coats flapping as people moved swiftly from one part of the room to the other, and at one stage a face stopped only a few inches from his own, with a frown that indicated careful study. Hogan tried to draw back but found he had no place to go. And besides, someone was holding his shoulders down against the cold table.

Hogan's fears reached their height as he heard someone say, "All clear? Then we are ready to begin."

The room went quiet. Sweating profusely and unable to stop his eyes from darting around the room, trying to take in anything that would help make sense of this, he gasped, frightened, "What are you going to do to me?"

No one answered him. Hogan fought against the pressure on his head, but the person who had been given the job of holding him in place was too powerful, and he could do little more than gain a couple of inches of extra sightline on either side. The restraints holding his feet and hands were also strong, and pulling against them only made him grunt in discomfort. All he could do was wait.

Soon, a man holding a syringe approached from Hogan's left side. "Gentlemen, a preliminary dose of three hundred milligrams. The time is exactly seven thirty-four a.m."

Hogan started struggling against the restraints, trying desperately and futilely to get away from the syringe that was being lowered toward his arm. But the cuffs and straps held fast, as he had somehow always known they would, and the man's big hand pressed down on his forearm, holding him still. As Hogan continued to writhe, still gasping from fear and exertion, another man came up and pressed down on Hogan's torso to keep the rest of his body still. This had the double effect of both achieving the Germans' goal, and also of causing Hogan considerable pain from his former, still not fully healed injuries. Hogan cried out, then stopped trying to resist, his mind tired of the fight, and of the hurt.

The needle pricked his arm, and a cold fluid was injected into him. Hogan let his rigid body go limp and panted as he tried to regain some control of his breathing. Whatever would happen now was out of his hands.