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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Two days later, Hogan was released from the drug experiments, and he slept. He slept long and dreamlessly, all the images that had gone through his head while under the influence of the drugs wiped away. His body was fighting now, fighting to recover and fighting to erase all memory of his ordeal.
Occasionally he would hear voices, feel the touch of someone's hand on his arm or his forehead, but he didn't open his eyes. It was too much effort, and it was so much easier to just lie still and get lost in the comfort of the pillow and the sheets. So he let words pass over his head, uncertain if he was hearing them in English, or if they were in German and he was simply translating them automatically. Would he be able to do that? he wondered. But continuing even that line of questioning was too much, and he drifted in and out of awareness, unconcerned for the time being about what might be coming next.
"You did well, Herr Colonel," someone said at one point. Hogan was alert enough to recognize the voice as Ursula's, but not alert enough to respond. "You will feel strong again soon."
Hogan felt her soft hand on his cheek and sighed but said nothing.
"I have dinner for you, Colonel Hogan. Do you want to eat?"
Hogan moaned softly. A hand gently propelled his head forward. He pried his eyes open slightly. "Herr Colonel, come, you must eat. It has been too long for you to go without food."
Hogan looked at Ursula, bleary-eyed and still unfocused. "How long have I been here?" he mumbled.
Ursula stopped fixing the bed so Hogan could sit up and looked him in the face. "You have slept for seventeen hours," she said simply.
Hogan nodded, but realized that he was still desperately, bone-achingly tired. "I don't remember anything."
Ursula observed, "That bothers you."
Hogan nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all. "Of course it bothers me," he said. "Wouldn't it bother you?" He shouldn't have been surprised, but the bitterness in his voice caught him unawares. "All I remember is…" He stopped as flashes of the drugged sessions played in his mind. The fear, the humiliation, the awe, the disbelief. And words that filtered through the drug-filled haze: "alpha subject," "mescaline," "test specimen." The words chilled him, but he could make no coherent sense of them, and he did not think it would be wise to bring them up. "I can't remember anything I said."
"Why are you concerned, Colonel? What could you have said?" Ursula asked.
Hogan didn't answer the way he knew she wanted him to. He was tired, and sore, and weary of this place, but he wasn't going to give in. "I might have cussed out loud. And I don't like to swear in front of women."
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If Hogan held any hopes that his ordeal was finished, they were dashed just a few hours later when two men came into the room the next morning to move him once again. Saying nothing, they approached the bed, one moving a wheelchair close to its side, the other pulling out a set of handcuffs.
"No," Hogan blurted out, instantly tensing to resist any transfer out of this room. He pressed back against the mattress as hard as he could, but in the end he was simply too weak to hold out, and he was dragged uncomfortably and less than gently out of the bed, continuing to struggle until his wrists were cuffed to the arms of the chair, and they moved down the wide corridor to an area completely devoid of other patients.
Hogan was pushed into another room, this time filled with electronic equipment and panels, but no gurney for him to fear being strapped to. He tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but at this stage could not. He saw a panel with what looked like airplane controls and throttles up near one wall, with a railing running just underneath it and across from one wall to the other, and a small, hard chair in front of it. There was a very large window that ran the length of the room, facing the controls. And, still in only the boxer shorts he was given in the prior experimental sessions, Hogan noticed, shivering, that the room was freezing.
Hogan was left to sit in that room on his own for a long time. At first he tried to keep track of time, but after about two hours, when he was shuddering painfully, he gave up and could only concentrate on the feeling that was starting to leave his hands and his feet, which he noted with some trepidation were starting to turn white from lack of blood circulation.
Some time later, how long Hogan could not tell—minutes? Hours?—two men came back into the room. No one said anything to him as the cuffs were detached from the chair and Hogan was pulled roughly over to the panel. One of the men pushed him down into the hard chair, while the other handcuffed his wrists to the two shackles attached to the railing beneath the electronic equipment. Hogan could not resist testing them just a little, but as he suspected they did not give in to his jerking protests.
One of the pair moved the wheelchair to the corner of the room, and the two of them left as two other men in lab coats entered. One of them approached Hogan and started attaching electrodes to his temples. Hogan writhed and thrashed about in a vain attempt to stop this from happening, but a strong backhand across the face stunned him into stillness, and he submitted quietly, dizzily, as the German continued his work. More leads on his chest. On his back. And, when his shorts were yanked down for the briefest moment, on his groin.
Hogan was too bewildered and frightened to do much more at this stage than try to come to grips with it all. His eyes scanned the room as he was being subjected to this treatment, looking for someone, anyone, who could stop this, or at least explain it. There was, of course, no one, not even Ursula this time, and Hogan tried to focus his thoughts on his family back in Connecticut, who would surely have heard about his bailout by now. He wondered if he had been reported Missing in Action, or if the Germans had bothered to tell his family that he was indeed alive and being held captive by the enemy.
Hogan wondered for a fleeting moment why he was the only one doing this. And he wondered how many other downed flyers had undergone this kind of handling. Some vague clues came to mind, snatches of interrogations he had undergone in the previous weeks, and he began to suspect that he was being singled out. No, that's paranoia, he berated himself. It's not just you. Then the argument began, and he had no answer for the rejoinder that came back: They know you know about the daylight bombing plan. They know you were given sensitive information. They had four fighters gunning just for your plane, Hogan. They wanted you, they have you, and they're going to make this an experience you won't ever forget…unless you're lucky.
Hogan looked wearily at the leads on his body, and at the panel in front of him, and he waited, his teeth chattering. Shortly after, the second man came forward and started speaking in English to him. "You will take these controls and see how well you can maneuver them," he said. "You are not to let go or stop the simulation for any reason."
Hogan looked more closely at the panel before him. "E-Everything is in G-German," he stuttered. "I c-c-can't read—"
"You will figure it out," the man interrupted him. "These are the controls of a German bomber. You are familiar with bombers, yes?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "You will receive orders through a speaker in the corner of the room." The man pointed, and Hogan looked up to see a small box near the ceiling. "You are to obey those instructions as though they are coming from your own American commanders. You understand?" Hogan could not answer, still looking with some incomprehension into the German's face. "You will do as you are told. It would not be worth it to you to disobey."
The German turned to leave the room and Hogan looked back at the panel before him. He didn't understand what the purpose was in trying to get him to fly an enemy plane; he had no intention of joining the Luftwaffe. They could put him front of a firing squad before he would do that. Still, he thought, perhaps if these were accurate representations of German bomber controls, he could get some use out of them. Memorize them and when he was able to communicate with the outside world again, somehow get information to London so they would have a better understanding of the machinery of the enemy. Clutching desperately at this objective, Hogan resolved to see through whatever it was he was about to experience. It was a pipedream, an impossibility, he knew. But it would keep him sane, and maybe keep him alive.
A deep, monotone voice soon came through the speakers. "Start the engines."
Hogan looked at the panel of lights, buttons and levers before him, unsure what to do. Raising one chained arm, he tentatively reached out toward a small switch sitting near the word "Von", and shakingly flicked it toward "Auf." A light humming noise immediately filled the room. Off and on, Hogan figured out. He took a deep breath as he felt some sense of control returning. There has to be more than one engine…. There. He found another switch, and the humming increased. Hogan nodded, pleased, and waited, momentarily forgetting the cold.
"Bring your plane into a formation that reaches a height of ten thousand feet. You will have to bank to the right to get your aircraft in line with the others."
Hogan scanned the panel for the display that would indicate his altitude, and reached out for the throttle. Gripping it tightly, his mind was suddenly thrust back in time to the start of his final mission in Goldilocks, and he paused. He had not allowed himself to think about the men he had been in the air with on that fateful day, had not allowed himself to replay the horror of their ending. It was a survival instinct. But now every detail came fresh into his mind, like he was living it right this instant. He could hear the men screaming in his ears, smell the fear, see the flames, and he was suddenly paralyzed, devastated, and destroyed.
A sudden painful jolt ran through his body, making him stiffen and gasp, and dragging Hogan away from the scenes in his head and back to the present. He panted as he realized the electrodes had been placed on his body to administer electric shock if he did not obey the orders he was given, and he fought to clear his head and find a way out.
"Bring your plane into a formation that reaches a height of ten thousand feet. You will have to bank to the right to get your aircraft in line with the others," the accented voice repeated emotionlessly.
Hogan once again forced his stiff, colorless fingers to grip the throttle, and this time pulled back gently. The room was still freezing, he noticed, as a fresh set of goose bumps appeared on his bare skin. Flyers get clothes to wear, he thought, annoyed. He watched the displays before him, trying to blink away the false images starting to appear before him, and made as though banking to the right to join this imaginary squadron. When he reached the right altitude, he released the throttle with difficulty, his mind quickly wearing down despite his intentions to use this strange experiment to his advantage.
"You will prime the bombs and engage them in the bomb bay. Your target is ten miles ahead. When you reach your destination, you will be at twenty thousand feet."
Hogan looked again at the panel, then glanced up at the large window. Six people were standing there, watching. One had a microphone and was undoubtedly the person feeding him instructions through the speaker. Another was manning a small machine, and still a third and fourth were scribbling madly on paper attached to small clipboards, and nodding brusquely. The other two were wearing military garb, and were simply observing with stern faces that betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
The temperature in the room continued to drop. Where in God's name would he find the controls to prepare the bombs? Hogan looked carefully at all the switches and lights, his mind wandering in the cold and from the senselessness of the situation. If I could just… get warm, he thought, beginning to shiver more strongly. Find… find the switch. Come on. It has to be here. He pulled back slightly on the throttle to show he was starting to bring the plane to a higher altitude, but continued to scan the panel, unable to make sense of it.
He took too long. A stronger, more painful dosage of electricity shot through his body. "N-gaah!" Hogan cried out, squeezing his eyes shut as he arced away from the chair, unable to let go of the throttle. It stopped as suddenly as it started, and he sank back onto the hard seat, his body throbbing, his muscles contracting erratically. He moaned, exhausted, as he panted his way back to calmness.
"You will prime the bombs and engage them in the bomb bay. Your target is ten miles ahead. When you reach your destination, you will be at twenty thousand feet."
Hogan heard the instructions come through the speaker again, and sat forward as quickly as he could manage. He couldn't take another jolt like that; he would simply have to just go with whatever seemed to be the best bet to be the right controls. He felt beads of perspiration forming on his forehead, even though he was shivering from the continually dropping temperature. It had been close to freezing when he had come into the room; now, it was even worse. His small sense of hope was disappearing, and he knew now that all he could do was survive. If he could manage that.
Finally his eyes lit on a small picture of a bomb sitting over a switch near his right hand. One hand still on the throttle, Hogan flicked the switch. He heard an almost hollow, jerking noise, which he presumed would be the equivalent of the bombs dropping into place in the bomb bay. He tensed for a moment, preparing himself for another burst of electricity, but none came, and so Hogan guessed he had done the right thing. As he used the display to jockey the "plane" up to the required altitude, he found himself getting even colder, and his hands were hurting when he tried to grip things. So cold… so cold…
Hogan heard the voice say something to him, but he was starting to have trouble making out the words, and his mind was starting to become totally preoccupied with finding ways to get warm. He had lost track of time; it seemed like mere minutes had passed, though he knew rationally that it had been much, much longer. He looked vaguely, blankly, back through the window to the observers, trembling and bewildered. "Why was your Bomb Group out during the day, Hogan?" he finally heard through the veil of confusion starting to descend upon him. "How long will the daylight campaign last?"
More of that… They aren't going to let me go…. Hogan shook his head and used one hand to uncurl the fingers of the other off of the throttle. Please… please… I'm so cold.
"You will hone in on your target and release your load of bombs."
Hogan leaned forward mechanically, facing the panel but not really seeing anything on it. He could not concentrate, could not think about anything but the coldness of his hands, his feet, his body. He was shaking violently now, and when he without thinking grabbed onto the throttle, it jerked back and forth with just as much force. Hogan's teeth were chattering. He couldn't focus on anything at the controls, and though he feared the reprisals, he could not obey, and moved a leaden, quivering hand to the board and simply dropped it onto a cluster of switches. He couldn't make his fingers grip anything so small, but he tried, desperate to avoid the consequences of failure.
Hogan's breathing was sharp and shallow, and even as his mind wandered, he felt more and more panic building inside him. He couldn't let this happen again, he couldn't. And yet he knew he was losing control of his body in this cold and he could not obey. And he was suddenly tired, so very tired, and he longed to lay his head down on the board and just go to sleep. To the devil with whatever they would do to him; let them do all they wanted, as long as he could rest.
Hogan finally admitted defeat, hanging his head down to his chest and letting his hand slip off the throttle. He sat slumped, body shivering and teeth rattling, eyes closed, and waited. This time the jolt that went through him was so strong that he was lifted off the seat, crying out in an agony he had never before experienced. His eyes shot open and his trembling muscles twitched and spasmed all at once, intensely and unbearably. His head exploded in pain as bright colors appeared and then disappeared before his eyes. He felt his heart beating wildly, strangely out of rhythm, and his groin screamed from the excruciating burning racing through him.
Ten seconds later it was over. The chair had been propelled away by Hogan's writhing body, and the shackles on his arms were gripping him so he was propped grotesquely off the floor. But still shivering violently, and with his muscles clearly still contracting and expanding randomly, Hogan was unconscious. He could do nothing to continue now. Two attendants released him from the chains, poured him carelessly into the wheelchair, and took him out of the room.
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The cycle of tests continued. Hogan was warmed up by being immersed in very hot water, and an hour later, barely aware, he was dressed and locked in a much smaller room where he was given an oxygen mask, only to find the oxygen abruptly cut off and the atmospheric pressure changed in the room to simulate a high-altitude parachute jump from a fatally damaged aircraft. But these trials were much shorter than the previous one, since Hogan's stamina even with full oxygen was no longer something he could take pride in. Time and again, he was revived and then put back to work, and unlike the first test, where he had concocted some unlikely plan to help him get through the ordeal, this time he simply endured it, with nothing in his mind except to continue because that was what he had to do. He gave no thought to the past, or to the future. He was purely locked in the now. And the nightmare of the present blocked out everything else that had been or was to come.
When he stumbled, or faltered, which was now becoming more and more frequent, he was prodded, or more likely struck, back to work, though the blows did nothing to bring back any sense of alertness.
When they continually denied him sleep, Hogan concluded the Germans were now studying the effects of sleeplessness on flyers as well, and after several more hours of work handcuffed to panels of controls, Hogan was released and brought to another room that was outfitted similarly to a gym, and he was told to start walking the treadmill. Hogan did not react either outwardly or inwardly, and simply stepped up to the task. He put his hands on the bars and put one foot in front of the other, slowly making the track at the bottom move. He was sweating profusely and breathing heavily, finding it hard, so hard, to keep going, until finally he simply stopped and lay his head down on his arms across the one of the bars and closed his eyes.
Someone struck his back, and Hogan lifted his head, his vision blurred and distorted, and tried to resume work. A sudden voice behind him surprised him in its clarity. "Rob. Rob, what do you think you're doing? You were never fit for this kind of thing."
Momentarily confused, Hogan turned around to see his younger cousin standing there, arms crossed, the familiar smirk that came out during weekend games of horseshoes adorning his face. Hogan shot him a questioning look. "Jim?"
"Yeah, yeah, Rob—trying to pretend you're in top physical condition!" Jim ribbed.
Hogan shook his head, bewildered. It couldn't be Jim—not here. But when he blinked, the image wouldn't go away. "I am in top physical condition!" he answered. "Or I was." He wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. "What are you doing here?"
"Keeping an eye on you. Somebody has to." Jim moved in toward Hogan, who just stood, watching. Jim turned serious. "You've gotta hold on, Rob. We're counting on you."
Hogan nodded tiredly. "It's hard, Jim. I'm so tired. I hurt so much."
Jim nodded grimly. "I know. But we're here, Rob. Just remember we're here."
Before Hogan could answer, someone struck him again on the back with a stick, prodding him to get back to work on the treadmill. Hogan jumped, stung and startled, and when he turned around, his cousin was gone. Forcing himself to keep going, Hogan tried to focus his mind on survival. But there was a dull throbbing in his skull, and a gnawing fear that the Germans would never let him go back to sleep again, that he would be walking a treadmill or forced to do something else equally inane until he dropped dead. Once when he looked at the bars on either side of the treadmill, he very clearly saw them waving like ropes, and Hogan wondered why his hands seemed to be holding so steadily on something that seemed so fluid. Wait, this can't be real, Hogan told himself. But no matter how much he tried to make the vision go away, it wouldn't, and finally he drew his hands away and stepped off the machine.
No one hit Hogan for this; indeed, when a second person approached him, he seemed more interested in why Hogan had reacted this way more than angry about him having done it. Hogan looked at the man, swaying slightly, and shook his head listlessly.
"How long have you been in this room?" the man asked.
Hogan tried to think straight. He had been walking in this room for a long time. But had he been in this room before? Had he actually fallen asleep at any stage? Had he forgotten anything that had happened? "This is the room where… I don't know if I was… If…" His lack of focus was frightening to him, and he found he couldn't speak properly. His own voice sounded foreign to him, and he was sure his words were slurring. "I d'know," he stammered finally.
"Tell me the sum of fifteen plus one hundred and forty-six."
Hogan tried to place the numbers in order in his head, but he could not. He was at pains to even remember what a six looked like. Anxiety that had been creeping up on him was now making a more aggressive approach with each question he could not answer.
"Tell me the color of your hair."
Hogan could not reply. He was too confused to make sense of the words, and he shook his head in lack of understanding. "Gefangener denkt zusammenhängend nicht," the scientist reported to someone standing nearby with a notebook. The other man noted Hogan's lack of coherence as requested. "Zeit ohne Schlaf: fünfundsechzig Stunden." If Hogan could have translated, he would have better understood his mental confusion. Time without sleep: sixty-five hours.
Hogan's eyes stung and his head pounded. His muscles, raw from near-constant use over the last three days and abuse over the past several weeks, were turning to liquid inside him. No matter how much someone wanted him to stay awake and alert, he found he could no longer obey, and when someone grabbed him and put him in a chair to await his future, Hogan immediately fell asleep. The experiment must have been complete; no one bothered waking him up.