True to Hochstetter's word, Hogan kept his uniform. He was in and out of consciousness for twenty-four hours before he was able to stay awake long enough to have a meal. His bomber jacket and cap were returned to him along with his ration of thin potato soup and a hard square of bread.
The hospital was well populated. Most of the prisoners suffered from malnutrition, pneumonia, dysentery or all three. In retrospect, Hogan was one of the healthiest men there, including the doctor and his three aids. All four men were prisoners themselves, in better condition only because they had more access to the few medicines provided, and better rations.
There were no pain killers to be had, he was told, and Hogan's presence was clearly an imposition to the already overworked hospital staff. The pain of the busted rib would be debilitating if Hogan didn't find a way to overcome it, so he did what he could to be useful. His first day on the 'job' he emptied the overflowing bed pans at a snail's pace.
Bathed in sweat and stopping frequently he forced his mind onto other things. Escape, Hochstetter's mysterious mission, impotent worry over the safety of his men, anything to push the pain to the background.
By the end of the day the doctor and aids took pity on him and he was slipped a syrette of morphine halfway through the night. The tiny aluminum toothpaste tube, probably preserved from what remained of a field medic's kit, wasn't sealed, but the needle was unused and the sweet bliss of the injection made the day's agony a mere memory.
The following morning he was forced to stand for roll call with the other hospitalized prisoners, and spent the two hours standing in a puddle of water, supporting another prisoner that had fainted halfway through.
Robert Hogan had always believed in the importance of first impressions and had been careful to cultivate his. First and foremost he did what he could to establish that he only spoke English. The decision vastly limited the types of prisoners that would even attempt to communicate with him, but opened the mouths of those who spoke German, but never in the presence of any of the guards. He learned more as a dummkopf American fly on the wall, than a spy.
Most of the 'old' prisoners in the hospital were political enemies of the Fuehrer, transferred to Gusen while it was being built. The new prisoners were almost entirely Russian POWs and those recently labeled as traitors to the German war effort.
Even the doctor and his aides were prisoners, sent from Mauthausen, the old camp. The doctor, Wilhelm Bogden, was German born, London educated, and spoke both languages flawlessly. He had a weakness for America and happily befriended the colonel, keeping the wounded man up well into the wee hours of the morning of Hogan's third night in the camp, discussing benign lore about the 'American Colonies'.
Neither man delved into his personal life, or his past. What mattered most, as Bogden said, was the future. Survival.
Hogan was permitted five days of 'rest' in the hospital before SS guards moved him into a smaller barracks near the north wall of the camp. This, as it turned out, was Gusen's idea of officer's barracks.
Outside the hospital, the camp was split into two main areas. One reserved for POWs and the other for political prisoners. On the POW side of the camp the men were still clad in their uniforms, and none of them forced to wear any camp insignia or badges. Low granite walls were topped with what Hogan assumed was electrified fencing and barbed wire, the walls redundant in most areas.
Marched into the grassless clearing inside the perimeter of guard towers and gates, Hogan's ears were assaulted with a barrage of Russian insults, aimed at the Krauts escorting him to his new home. Three main barracks were set up in a U formation in the geographical center of the POW compound. The stone-base, wooden buildings stretched to two stories, with a balcony running the length of the second story.
The courtyard inside the U and every inch of space on the balcony was occupied by Russian bodies, a sea of men staring at the newest addition. Hogan studied their faces openly, calculating body language, facial features, physical attributes and group dynamic. He'd been in Stalag 13 too long, he realized, overwhelmed. He'd spent too much time with the same men, the same Kommandant, the same rules.
The officer's barracks were set apart from the massive U. A single story barrack with two doors and four windows. Two on the front, and one on each end. Men lounged here too, but with a little more decorum about their posture, and in absolute silence.
There might have been a set of stairs drawn into the plans for the building, but they had never been built, forcing Hogan to take on the two and a half foot step up. An interesting challenge with a broken rib.
None of the Russian prisoners offered to help him, and Hogan made no attempt to ask for it. Once inside he paused to lean against the first bunk he came to, wrapping his arm protectively against his side until the throbbing began to die down.
Compared to the overcrowding of the enlisted men's area, the officer's barracks seemed spartan, even with every bunk filled. Hogan stayed near the door, watching his SS escort depart, until he could stand straight again.
Being the only American in the camp did not always, apparently, make him a tourist attraction. While not completely ignored, he hadn't been greeted by anyone, revealing a lack of official organization. Hogan expected some of it. Doctor Bogden had intimated that the camp population grew exponentially in waves, even as disease rippled through the ranks. With that much turnover, establishing command over so many men would seem insurmountable. And Hogan was another new man. Unless he survived the prerequisite first week in the barracks, he was nothing more than a dead man walking.
Colonel Hogan was exhausted and would have given anything for a small corner to lie down in. Half the bunks were occupied, and those that weren't quickly became so as he approached them. He wasn't welcome, clearly, and he didn't particularly care to stay either, but it seemed for the moment that he didn't have a choice.
It came as a genuine surprise when a lieutenant suddenly stepped away from his bunk and snapped a salute, then of all things, smiled at him. Hogan returned the salute, casting a glance around the room before he looked closer at the young, relatively healthy Russian. Then he smiled himself.
"Lt. Igor Piotkin…" Hogan said, unable to stop the triumphant laugh that escaped him. "I thought we sent you to the Russian front?"
Igor nodded, looking somewhat abashed, dark eyes sparkling. "Dah, you did. But…I fly again, I am shot down again…"
Hogan laughed a second time, despite the discomfort it caused, and studied the man closely. His slow recognition of the Russian pilot was understandable. The man had been fifty pounds heavier, and a lot younger when Robert had last seen him. The camp had aged him unnaturally and Piotkin now bore a badly healed scar over his left eye. "How long have you been here?"
Igor spread his arms out and sighed. "Six month, seven...I lose track of big numbers...count by meals here." The Russian put a still powerful hand on Hogan's shoulder and smiled wanely. "I thought being stuck in Germany is bad...but there...is like heaven. Here? Hell."
"Sounds like your English has improved."
"Dah!" Igor brightened, "Der was Englishman here, highest ranking...Good man, but...sick. He die...month past."
"A month ago you mean?"
"Dah! Ago, month ago." Igor nodded practicing the word a few times before he swept his hand toward the north corner of the building. "Please, we don't have empty bunk, but I will share with you. Come."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Hogan said, meaning it more than he realized. In the back of his mind he was realizing that this was what it felt like to be any one of hundreds of men that had passed through Stalag 13's underground center. Igor himself had been one of those men, and like Hogan, had been the lone representation of his nation at the time. Unlike Igor, Hogan hadn't come into the camp armed, and he had yet to bite anyone. A few of the men looked like they might bite him, though.
Piotkin had next to nothing in the way of possessions but he cleared what he had off the blanket that covered the thin mattress of his bunk. Hogan took his time sitting down, resting his back against the barrack wall. The Lieutenant watched closely with concern and curiosity and finally asked, "You were shot down?"
"Blown up." Hogan said, smirking a bit at the Russian's reaction. Their conversation had attracted the attention of Piotkin's upper bunk mate, and the colonel assumed that the man must know a little English too. "And then I was given a camp welcome from a Gestapo man I've come to know and revile."
"Gestapo.." Igor shuddered theatrically. At a curious look from his bunk mate, Igor translated some of the story into their native tongue, and the second man shuddered as well. "They do not fight like men. They fight like badgers. Turn Russians against Russia."
Another string of Russian echoed their way, this time from across the narrow aisle that separated the bunks into rows. Igor nodded vaguely over his shoulder and said, "That man, Ivan, is bomber...drops bombs...his brother joined with him, to drop bombs too. Then disappear from ranks. Ivan parents get letter four month ago-"
"Four months later..." Hogan corrected quietly, but Igor shook his head.
"Ago, ago." He insisted patiently. "Four months ago they get message. Their son join German army, was killed in action. Ivan find out...he drop bomb on his brother."
Hogan said nothing, there was nothing to say. He had his own reasons for hating the different and more seedy parts of the German war machine and he knew he wasn't alone.
"Your...uh...your men. They were...blown up too?" Igor asked carefully.
Hogan smiled softly and shook his head.
Igor took a deep breath and nodded with relief. "They are good men. Do good work."
The Russian fell silent and Hogan was grateful. Hochstetter had put him in the camp for a reason, and while Hogan suspected it was something more complicated than simply prying more information about the underground out of him, he wasn't about to take any chances. The operation at Stalag 13 might have been hanging by a thread, but it was still operating. Hogan wouldn't allow himself to be the reason it came to an end.
"This Gestapo man…this ublyudok. He bring you here?"
Hogan nodded, surprised at the disturbed look the Russian was giving him.
"Why not to Berlin?" Igor asked.
"Yeah, I've been…trying to figure that out myself, Igor. You wouldn't happen to have any boiled water available, would ya?"
Igor blinked at the request then looked around him, "Water we have, Colonel…but no boil. We can have no fire."
"What about the camp Kommandant, has anyone tried talking to him about conditions around here?" It felt like a foolish question, even as he was asking it, but Hogan had a purpose and withstood the look of sympathy Igor gave him.
"They are the SS, Colonel. It is like talking to d'yavol. Not to be done unless death is the only option."
Hogan nodded, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "I figured as much, Lieutenant, but I had to ask."
"I will get clean water, you stay, sleep while you can." Igor suggested, moving to his feet and revealing the collection of Russian soldiers that had migrated to the bunk over the course of the conversation. It was amazing the difference a mutual friend made at a party.
Igor took advantage of the men gathered around him and started a lively discourse that ended with the production of a tiny feast of Red Cross offerings. A two ounce tin of preserved pears in juice, half a tin of crackers, a partial chocolate bar and a box of seedless raisins. By no means all that the men had, but certainly an overwhelming act of kindness for a total stranger.
Hogan tried to refuse the food half a dozen times, but was persuaded to keep it or risk deeply insulting the men who had provided it. He ate all of it, slowly, enjoying every bit of the food as if he hadn't tasted anything so rich in a lifetime. It was welcome, after the rations he'd choked down in the hospital, but compared to LeBeau's meals at Stalag 13 it was slim pickings. He made it look like he was eating a gourmet meal.
As he ate the crowd of curious men, desperate for news of the outside world, grew and Hogan soon found himself sharing news of the war. Carefully crafted so that it sounded like he was a bombardier freshly shot down, translated happily through Igor who was willing to keep up the ruse so long as it brought a moral boost to his compatriots, Hogan's story turned the barracks full of listless and lackadaisical prisoners briefly into proud fighting sons of Russia.
If it was the last good thing Hogan did in this war, he thought, at least it had been worth it.