Somewhere in the city of London, or more precise underground, the high security facility was getting a new inmate. Said inmate was the still quietly fuming US Army Air Force Colonel Robert Hogan, who was by now in heavy restraints, keeping him from running. Although Hogan mused, he wouldn't get really far even if he wanted to in his weakened condition; therefore escaping was out of the question. It would go against his honor as an officer anyhow.
He allowed his two escorts to take him to his final destination, a small dark cell in the deepest bowels of this underground complex. The cell was not only small, it was also cold and wet and the only piece of furniture was a rickety chair. His bunk was just a concrete slab on one side, hastily covered up with a moth-eaten blanket. When Hogan asked his escorts where he was able to relieve himself, one of the men pushed a bucket into his hands, smirking as he answered, "Here, this is your toilet. Use it seldomly; as those are only cleaned every three days." His mate added sarcastically, "Have a nice stay at this downtown hotel, Sir." With those words said, his restraints were hastily removed and the door to his cell was closed and locked, leaving Hogan in complete darkness again.
With no other choice left, Hogan took a seat on the concrete bunk, leaning his back against the wall, not minding the cold creeping into his bones. He sighed deeply, closed his eyes and tried to relax. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep, his soft breathing a sure sign that he entered dreamland.
Hours later, the loud opening of the door woke Hogan from his sleep. After having fallen asleep while still sitting up, most of his muscles had gone numb and protested every movement now, making Hogan groan, as the tingling intensified. The guard just put a tray on the floor beside the door and set a can filled with water alongside it; then he left without a word. Not in the mood for eating, but knowing he had to stay strong; Hogan got up and picked up the tray. He set it on the slab, sat down again and started to wolf down the mosey slices of white bread, drinking lots of water while doing so. Finished, he set the tray on the floor again and started his usual pacing. Five steps forward, a turn and five steps back. This went on for hours, till finally Hogan couldn't take another step and he wearily set back down on his hard cot.
His thoughts were running widely. He was deeply worried for his men; he was even worried for Schultz and Klink, two of his former jailers. But what was nagging at him the most, was the fact that he was completely and utterly alone in this. He had absolutely no idea what this was all about, although if he were to take a guess, it could only be for disobeying an order or two. The latest that came to his mind immediately was his caper to free the French underground agent Tiger, against London's orders! But otherwise, he couldn't think of anything else that would warrant for him to be treated in such a way, like a common criminal and not like a veteran command pilot, who was highly decorated. At least as long as the Germans held him captive, he was able to demand to be treated according to his rank, as the Geneva Prisoner of War Convention dictated it. But here in England, he couldn't demand anything, he just had to wait and see what will happen next.
Even after just a day, he could feel the itch from a growing beard on his face, which made him quite irritable and he wished for a razor to get rid of it. But Hogan knew he wouldn't get one, as it was a potential weapon or it could be used in a suicide attempt. So he had to accept the slight discomfort, swallowing his pride with it. With nothing productive to do, the colonel just laid back on the hard slab, turned onto his right side and drifted into an uneasy sleep, disturbed by horrible images of his own execution by the hands of the Allies, and even worse, the execution of his men! He woke up screaming and drenched in sweat, his black clothes clinging to his skin as they were soaked through with it.
And as if this was not enough, he started shivering too, violently. Must be getting a cold, Hogan mused with a slight shake of his head; or if I'm unlucky, he thought; I might get pneumonia. Now the cold was really chilling him to the bone, the thin moth-eaten blanket not enough to ward off the cool temperature. After the first few sneezes that shook his whole body, Hogan decided to stay on the slab that was his bunk and used the thin blanket to cover his tall frame as best as possible.
To distract himself from his growing discomfort, Hogan started to think his situation through, trying to think of every possible outcome. He tried to look at his situation, as he would have on one of his brilliant, unorthodox plans to outwit the Germans, going through it all in his head. It occupied him for hours, lying there prone on his concrete bed with his eyes closed and deep in thought. And lucky for him, there were no distractions forthcoming down here; it was as quiet as the inside of a church, you could hear a pin drop. Well, except for a few sneezes and light coughing spells in between.
But unfortunately for Hogan, they took away his watch when they threw him into his cell. Therefore he had lost all sense of time, and the single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling didn't work. He had no idea how much time had gone by since he was taken into this underground complex. By now his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could still make out his surroundings, his night vision making it easier for him to adapt to the circumstances. Over time his coughing fits got worse and his body had gone partially numb from the cold. Hogan feared that he might even get frostbite because of it.
Before he could contemplate his fate any longer, the metal door to his cell was opened and two MPs came in. One of them gave him the order to stand up, while the other held him at gunpoint with his rifle. The first one moved up to Hogan and again used iron shackles around his wrists and ankles.
Hogan felt like he had been thrown back in time and he had landed somewhere in the Middle Ages, or at least in the 1800s, as in those dark times, this kind of restraints were used on criminals; but not in modern times. He even said so to the guards, "What happened to good ol' handcuffs? Why use these irons? Are you Brits so hung up on these old restraints? Or am I a special case, hm?"
Not giving an answer to those questions, one guard only replied, "You will only speak when spoken to. Just follow our orders and everything will be fine. If you go against an order, or if you try to attack one of the guards, you will be punished severely; Sir. We make no difference between officers or enlisted men. All our prisoners are just that…prisoners. Now get moving!"
Slowly shuffling out of his cell, Hogan looked almost pleadingly to the guard, using his best puppy dog look. "Can you help me along? It's a little hard to move with these ankle chains, and I don't want to end up face first on the floor."
With a terse, "Fine.", the guard grabbed Hogan's arm and reluctantly helped him to move along the long corridor. Near the end, the guard shoved Hogan into a room; his mate followed and closed the door. Once inside he took off the restraints and then ordered the Colonel to strip. Not wishing to provoke these men in any way, Hogan started to get out of his wet black clothes, beginning with his jacket. He threw it onto the cot on the side, followed closely by his turtleneck sweater. The two guards looked surprised at seeing the bandage around the colonel's lower torso, as well as the deep bruising on his chest. They knew about the head injury, as this bandage couldn't be covered up and the left side of Hogan's face was swollen and bruised. But they had no idea of even more injuries hidden underneath the colonel's clothing.
Still they gave the order to continue. With a grimace and grumbled comment, Hogan undid his trousers' belt and removed it. He took his time in opening the zipper and as to not aggravate his head and ribs, he very slowly eased his trousers down to his ankles; then he stepped out of them. With a flourish, he let his boxer shorts follow his pants before finally taking off his socks. Standing in all his naked glory in front of the two guards, Hogan knew what they had planned for him: a strip search. So without needing an order he calmly stood there with his arms outstretched to the sides, waiting for one of the guards to do his job. "Start searching me, fellas. I don't have all day and I'm already cold. All I want is to get back into my cell and sleep, so hurry it up."
Overlooking this overstepping of his boundaries, the two guards, moved up to Hogan and did a thorough job of searching all of his body's crevices and openings. Finding nothing, they allowed Hogan to get dressed again. Luckily, his clothes had started to dry and didn't cling to his skin any more. He easily slipped back into his comfortable all blacks and then he held out his hands to be shackled again. The guard put the irons on and again, the colonel was escorted back into his cell. This time both guards helped him along. It seemed those minutes in the nude, had worsened the colonel's condition. He sneezed more often, his coughing fits were longer and more intense and he shivered uncontrollably by now. The two guards exchanged a glance, and they decided to take this prisoner to the prison infirmary before he died on them.
Hogan wasn't really aware of this anymore. With every coughing spell, his head seemed to explode and bright stars were in front of his eyes, the pain he was feeling an excruciating agony. When another coughing fit doubled him over, his vision turned black and he lost consciousness; only the fast reaction from his guards saved him from hitting the deck! They moved faster and when they reached the infirmary they shouted for help. A nurse and a doctor came to their aid and together they got Hogan onto a bed. The doctor ordered the restraints to be removed immediately so he could start treating his patient. The guard removed them and they left the infirmary, needing to report this development to their superior officer, who in turn had to report to the head of British Military Intelligence; the SOE (Special Operations Executive), General Albert Butler.
Again Hogan was stripped; the still partially wet clothes were simply cut off of his shivering body and thrown carelessly aside. The nurse covered him with the warm blankets and pulled them up to his neck. The doctor checked his vitals, noted them on a chart and decided to hook Hogan up to an IV, feeding him with the needed medicine to fight this cold and to prevent pneumonia. To help with his breathing, they put him under the oxygen tent. The nurse and the doctor had seen enough of such cases and they both hoped that this young man will make it, as he seemed to be strong and relatively fit. Both also made a vow to do everything in their power to help their patient fight his illness, which wasn't easy to deal with on its own; but combined with his injuries that were still healing, it was another case altogether.
