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The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it flurries of snow that stung at the exposed skin on his face. The small flames of the fire flickered and everyone held their breath to see if, this time, they would finally die away. He moved to block the wind to rescue their source of warmth, and the flames, small as they were, rose up again. But the cold pierced through his thin coat and sent shivers up and down his body. He huddled in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

"Tea, Jerrik?"

Olsen tilted his head, bringing his cheek to rest against his knee, and looked over at his companion. "No, thanks."

"It will warm you," his companion said.

Olsen just sighed, too exhausted to even shake his head as he refused. "I'm too tired."

His companion frowned. "The day is still young and there's more work to do, Jerrik. You can't be too tired."

"Let him alone," another man said.

"No. He must work," the first said firmly. "To work is to live." He reached over and shook Olsen's shoulder. "Where is that American can-do spirit, Yankee-Doodle-boy?"

Again, Olsen sighed. But then he managed a small smile from behind his frost-covered scarf. "Yankee Doodle keep it up, Yankee Doodle dandy–"

"Mind the music and the step and with your axe be handy," the others joined in.

Olsen summoned the strength to chuckle. He never thought he would see the day when a bunch of Germans would be singing Yankee Doodle to cheer up an American. To mock him, sure. But not to cheer.

But he supposed war made for strange bedfellows. No, not war. The war was over. Had been for nearly three years. They should have been sent home a long time ago. But the Soviets needed manpower to rebuild their nation. And their POWs were as good a source as any– better than any, considering they had been the cause of all the ruin.

Of course, Olsen had told them upon his capture that he was American. But trying to explain just how an American had ended up in a German uniform, fighting on the Eastern Front proved nearly impossible. He had been tempted to drop Papa Bear's name, but he wasn't exactly sure how the Soviets, paranoid as they seemed to be, would react to a spy, no matter which side he played for. He tried the half-truth that he had been an escaped POW, dressed in a German uniform, who had been snatched up and forced to fight, but that hadn't worked either. And he quickly realized if he kept pushing, he was going to get himself shot, so he dropped it.

His German 'comrades', however, had believed him. More than one had tried to kill him. But, soon, they gave up when they realized they had common enemies. Not just the Soviets (and Olsen had quickly started to see them as enemies rather than allies), but the cold, the hunger, the exhaustion and the lice. Oh, how Olsen hated the lice.

Out in the remote wilderness of Siberia, escape was impossible. He had tried three times and had nearly paid for the attempts with his life. As the days, weeks, months, and now years passed, he had also abandoned the idea that Colonel Hogan or one of the others would save him. He hadn't become so bitter, however, to think that they had forgotten him; they must have had a good reason for leaving him. What that reason was, he wasn't sure, but he'd go insane if he really thought they hadn't, at some point, tried their hardest to find him.

"I could use some tea," Olsen said. His companion smiled and set about making him a cup.

Johann Dietl had been far too old for war. But desperate times had called for desperate measures and the old man had been rounded up, along with the very young, to try to stave off the Soviet advance into Germany. Olsen was sure he owed much of his survival to the older man, who regarded him as a son.

When Dietl finished the preparation he handed the tea over to Olsen. The hot mug felt good in his hands and he breathed in some of the steam. He placed the mug between his knees and chest, huddling around its warmth. In this weather, it wouldn't be long until the hot tea was stone cold.

"On your feet. Back to work. Back to work!"

The men groaned. Olsen threw out the contents of his cup. The hot tea instantly turned into a puff of snow as soon as it hit the freezing air. He watched the flurries float on the wind, mesmerized by them.

"Jerrik, on your feet. Come on."

He must have zoned out. He looked up at the hand offered to him and slowly took it. Before he knew it, he was on his feet.

"I'll carry your axe. Just move your feet. That's it. One in front of the other."

Olsen lumbered toward the tree line, Dietl holding firmly onto his arm to keep him up.

"You! Stop!"

Olsen and Dietl stumbled to a halt. Olsen warily looked over his shoulder to see a guard approach. The guard raised his rifle and brought it crashing into Olsen's back. Olsen fell into the snow.

"If he cannot walk on his own," the guard sneered, "then leave him. You can fill his quota."

"He can walk. He can walk," Dietl said emphatically. "Jerrik, you can walk."

"Move! Move!" the guard said as he prodded Dietl with the butt of his rifle. Dietl reluctantly moved forward. "You. Nazi pig. You can stay there and freeze." The guard spat on Olsen and walked off.

Olsen almost laughed. If only his guards knew how much he also hated the Nazis. As much as he had grown to hate his captors, he could never and would never embrace the Nazi ideology despite the attempts from some of his fellow captives to persuade him that Nazism had simply been a reaction to Communist barbarity.

The wind hit his back and he could feel snow piling up behind him. Soon it would cover him. He wouldn't be the first man to simply vanish into the snow, never to emerge. Olsen let out a long breath, watching the vapour as it left his mouth. Another breath, another puff of condensation. It was getting harder to focus on it.

"You there. Yes, you! Come here."

Olsen barely registered the female voice, but it was big and loud and hard to ignore completely. It sounded vaguely familiar.

"I have orders for a work detail. It is for a new dacha for Comrade Stalin!"

"I have not heard such orders," a guard sneered.

"Read for yourself, darling! Do you dare question an order from Our Beloved Guiding Star?!"

A dacha for Stalin? If he could just get up, he could volunteer. And if he could volunteer, maybe he'd get a chance to kill the dear Russian leader who had made life hell for so many people, including that of the Soviet people themselves.

Olsen grunted and tried to get up. But his arms shook and his legs wouldn't cooperate and he fell back into the snow.

"I want this one," another vaguely familiar voice said.

"That one? He's dead."

"If he's breathing, he can work. Go find more."

Olsen heard the guard grumble and walk off before barking at a few more prisoners.

"Is it him?" the woman asked, and Olsen could feel her standing over him.

"Yeah, I think," said the other familiar voice. He felt the man kneel beside him. The man turned him over. "Olsen?"

Olsen blinked. He hadn't realized how blurry his vision had become over the last few minutes. He blinked again, but the face refused to come into focus.

"Hey, hey, Olsen, wake up. I've got you. I've got you."

Olsen still couldn't make him out, but he finally recognized the voice.

"Colonel?"

It couldn't be him, could it?

"Shhh. It's all right. You're safe."

"You," Olsen croaked, "found me?"

It was too good to be true. He was dreaming. He was dying. No, he was already dead and this was his entrance into heaven.

Hogan pulled him up into a sitting position and held him tightly. Olsen recognized Colonel Hogan's aftershave and breathed it in. It was real. This was happening. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe it. It wasn't real. But it was. It was.

Relief swelled up and surged through his body and, with no place to go, came out of his eyes as tears. Hogan just held him tighter.

"You found me. You found me."

"Hogan, darling, people are beginning to stare," the female voice, which Olsen now recognized as Marya's, said warily.

"Come on, Olsen, on your feet," Hogan urged. The colonel stood and helped Olsen to his feet. Or, tried to. But even with help Olsen couldn't get up. He was done. Spent. And even this miraculous turn of events couldn't energize him enough to get up.

"Okay, don't worry," Hogan said. "You just hang on. I've got you." With a little grunt, Hogan lifted Olsen into his arms. "Let's go."

"This isn't good, Hogan darling," Marya hissed as she walked beside Hogan. "People will talk. I do not think even I will be able to explain this away."

"We'll deal with that later. Let's just get him home."

Home. He was going home.

It was the last thought Olsen had before darkness claimed him.