In two days Hochstetter's world had been turned on its ear, then returned to its rightful place, then spun three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.

It had begun with a two day interrogation. Just the sort of intense questioning that he had planned to enjoy putting Robert Hogan through. But this was at the hands of men of inferior rank and ability, and at the behest of Hochstetter's superiors. It was laughable and humiliating at the same time. An unending parade of the amateur hour until a single phone call put it to a stop.

Unshaved, without sleep for seventy-two hours and wearing a wrinkled, borrowed uniform Hochstetter had been marched back to his office by the same guards that had lead him to Herr Schimmer's office. Only this time Herr Schimmer was in the major's office to receive him, and he was smiling.

Hochstetter was allowed to stand at his desk with his steepled fingers propping him up, which was just as well. He would have fallen over without that gracious support. Schimmer babbled on about Hochstetter's dedication and attention to detail, not apologizing for the heinous crime against the major's person, but expressing the complete reversal of the charges of suspicion and treason.

When Hochstetter finally found the will power to raise his head and meet Schimmer's gaze the officer snapped into a salute, that was ignored, and said, "You've got your man!"

Confused Hochstetter's blurry vision finally caught sight of the pile of notes on his desk. One hand reaching for the stack he used the other to toss a salute and managed to say, "Thank you, sir."

Schimmer hustled quickly out of the office, as uncomfortable in it's less than glamorous confines as he was in the presence of a dangerous man that he had just deeply wronged.

The notes were phone messages taken by the switch board. The top few were reports of recent thefts from supply depots scattered around the country.

The next ten were from Leutnant Klendein. He had located a man that fit Hogan's description at a vineyard twenty-seven kilometers north of Passau. The POW's condition had forced Klendein to leave the man at the vineyard, but he was in good care and-

The paper tore in half in his hands and Hochstetter sat down hard on the floor, taking the stack of papers with him. He didn't need to repair the note to see the name printed there.

A Leutnant Hochstetter had reported to Klendein, claiming he had been sent by the major to see to it that Hogan arrived in Berlin in good health.

Hochstetter couldn't explain it. Logically, scientifically it made no sense, but seeing betrayal of all that his son had chosen to stand for written out on paper tore something from his chest that he hadn't expected to be there.

Hochstetter gathered the other notes in his fists, like they were fallen leaves and read each one carefully. Most of the rest of them were the old messages from his wife.

Concern. "Where are you?" "Why haven't you answered?"

Suspiscion. "If there is someone else…" "If you are unhappy…"

Anger. "What do you expect us to think?" "Who would leave his wife and daughter on her birthday?"

Despair. "I cannot understand why you do not reply. The department has said nothing of your status." "I am taking Frieda to my mother's."

Then the follow up messages from Leutnant Klendein, repetitions of the news that had essentially won Hochstetter his freedom. Klendein was unable to get to the vineyard because of road conditions, and was awaiting his orders. Hogan was at the vineyard.

Hogan. And his son.

All he ever wanted…

When he was a boy, all that Wolfgang Hochstetter wanted was his own phonograph. Not to play records, or to listen to his own voice on a silly recording tube, but to take it apart, rebuild it, and see if he could make it work again.

When he was twenty-one, married, and expecting a child that never made it into the world, Hochstetter had saved up the money to buy the phonograph, intent on getting it as a present for his new family.

But his family did not begin then. And the phonograph remained in the store window until a rich man bought it.

Then 'Olf was born, and Wolfgang began to realize that the far more fascinating machine to disassemble and discover was the human mind. He was enraptured as he watched his son explore, learn, surmise, conclude, venture.

The boy was smart like his mother, but short like his father. He was bullied but his spirit was indomitable. He was honest and true like his father, but imaginative and free-spirited like his mother, and the day he declared that he wanted to be a pilot, Hochstetter had thought, 'Nothing else could be more perfect.'

Then the polyteknickum called to inform them that their son had disappeared. He had neither announced his departure to his flatmates, nor removed his name from the roll. He was simply gone.

Hochstetter knew then, he knew that certain…people…were being excommunicated, rounded up, displaced…disappeared. It didn't matter if you were a gypsy, or a homosexual, or a black, or a Jew. If you looked disloyal, you were gone.

Before his son had begun his university education Hochstetter had seen it coming and worked his way into the secret police. The better to appear loyal. The better to protect his family from the rising tide of paranoia and fear.

The better to protect Freida, who was born slower than her brother. Different from her brother, and from the other children on the block. Different enough that if you spent a few days in her presence you would know, but not so different that you could tell just by glancing at her.

Different enough that 'Olf's disappearance sent her into a downward spiral that she had remained in ever since.

Was it worth it? Hochstetter asked himself the question he had been asking endlessly over the past forty-eight hours.

Was it worth it to keep up the charade? To push his heroic son into capitulation, his daughter further into catatonic depression, his wife out of his life forever? Could he still lie to himself and say that he was protecting them by remaining loyal to a madman?

Somewhere…

Hochstetter burst into movement scrambling through the pile of scattered and crumpled notes trying to find the first one that Leutnant Klendien had sent him. The one with the name of the vineyard on it.

When he found it he held it like it was ancient silk, carrying it delicately to the map of Germany hanging on the wall and finding the approximate location of the farm. His hand moved automatically to the side where he kept flags attached to pins. He selected the closest one and was prepared to jab it deep into the cork, but stopped himself.

No…no there mustn't be any trace. If anything, he had to send them somewhere else. Somewhere very far away…

Memories flashed across his mind's eye. Courting his wife. Trips into the country. Wine country. The opposite side of the map.

Hochstetter jabbed in one pin, then another, and another, barely stopping himself at six. Mustn't make it too obvious.

Now…what next?

"What…would Hogan do?" Hochstetter heard himself say, then shook his head. This was insanity. The insanity that affected and tortured all that came into contact with Robert Hogan. For once, Hochstetter found himself enjoying it.

Three days. In just three days they had managed to pull together six hundred grenades, 214 Tokarevs, 15 Lugers, 12 hunting rifles, 225 Russian uniforms, three German uniforms, one thousand counterfeit Marks, ammunition…

"…uh and a partridge and a pear tree, sir." Newkirk announced with a bright grin on his face as he reached the end of the list.

The Tokarevs and the uniforms had come by airdrop, courtesy of the Russian Air Force and a rogue pilot friend of Caine's. The exhausting chain of radio contacts and pick up and drop off points had set even Hogan's head to spinning, but miraculously every crate had ended up in the field behind the windmill.

The grenades and Lugers had been stolen by Hogan's own crew, and by a few scattered undercover operations that had been advised through Kinchloe. Their arrivals had been a constant source of rude awakenings through the second night, but it had been worth it.

Half the grenades were armed, and the other half were blanks used for war games, but under Carter's careful direction, a crew of ten brave souls worked in one hour shifts transferring half the powder from each live grenade, to a dud. This reduced the blasting power, but maintained most of the 'bang' as Carter put it.

LeBeau had been stationed in the kitchen where he and the other bakers in the house were furiously creating a week's worth of rations for the two hundred plus men they were expecting to have to feed. Hogan had given Werner a chance to say, 'yay' or 'nay' to the plan as it would seriously deplete the stores he had set aside for his own people.

This had led to a lengthy discussion that ended with Werner asking if Hogan would consider taking anyone willing to risk it with him.

Hogan put the same question to his men an hour later, all of them aware that this mission was going to be their last, and their most dangerous.

"Let me remind you, that you're trained soldiers. So are the men in Gusen. We're talking about adding untrained civilians to the mix. That could mean disaster. And they're safe, if less comfortable here."

In the end the men agreed, unanimously, that if the men and women were told the straight facts and still agreed to take the risk, they would do nothing to stop them.

That had left Hogan and Newkirk in charge of training the twelve men and boys, and two women, in the art of soldierly combat.

Up until one of the women became a woman and an infant boy.

Hadrian Robert Werner was born healthy and screaming and placed in the arms of his exhausted mother, bright pink with rage at the world.

Attending nurse Newkirk encouraged the boy to rage on while he could. "Before the world tries shuttin' you up, little love."

With only a week and a half left to get his men out of Stalag 13 before the Luftwaffe moved them, there wasn't much time for Hogan to celebrate the new life, though he was flattered that the child bore his name.

Once the food preparations were nearing completion he had stolen LeBeau and directed the Frenchman's hands toward an operation that Hogan had overlooked in the beginning excitement.

"Transportation…" The Frenchman said staring at the farm truck, and the dented, three-wheeled wreck that had been the staff car they'd arrived in.

"Yeah…where's a train when you need one?" Hogan said, silently berating himself for so crucial an oversight.

The guns and uniforms alone weighed more than the farm truck was likely to put up with.

Those that were able to do so had been working at shoveling out a path on the long country lane that lead to the main road, but Hogan knew he couldn't very well force march his 'men' to Gusen.

LeBeau had taken two steps toward the hood of the farm truck when an alarm sounded in the form of surprised shouts. A truck, a big German military truck, had come to a halt at the end of the country lane and a man in German uniform was getting out. Marching down the road.

Some of the children who had managed to get their shovels out that far claimed that he was a general. Others said major or lieutenant. Some said SS, some Luftwaffe. Some proclaimed that he was with a Panzer division.

Caine, who had stayed in the now properly tailored uniform immediately took his place as 'guard' outside the windmill, but through the barn door Hogan could tell he was quaking. Carter quickly scrambled into place beside him, pulling on his helmet and settling his gun, also dressed in uniform.

They stood at attention, waiting as the small dark figure got closer, but not much bigger.

Then Hogan swore under his breath, feeling his own knees threaten to go weak. "It's Hochstetter."