Colonel Robert E. Hogan pulled his leather coat tight around his thin torso, shivering in the bitter cold. He glanced around, feeling his men standing around him. Then he looked at the large trucks standing in the compound. Klink strode towards him, his long overcoat swirling around him. "Well, Hogan, the trucks are here," he said.

"I know."

The Kommandant's eyes softened a bit. "You have been a most difficult but fascinating prisoner."

"You've been a fair man, Kommandant." Hogan swallowed hard. "I would like to speak to my men."

"Of course. The others will be loaded." He shouted an order to Schultz.

Hogan turned, glanced at Olson and Parker directing the others into the trucks. Nazi and US flags snapped in the breeze and Hogan slowly moved to face the other prisoners. Newkirk and LeBeau stood in the front, faces expressionless. Hogan walked forward, stomach twisting. 354 POWs going home. 487 staying behind. The left behinds huddled together , an incredibly tiny mass compared to what had been just a day ago. "LeBeau, Newkirk," he quietly said. "Remember what I said."

Newkirk cocked his head. "Of course, gov'nor," he said crisply. LeBeau stepped forward, kissed Hogan on both cheeks.

"Be careful, mon Colonel," he said softly.

Hogan grasped LeBeau's forearm. "You, too, Louis." He studied LeBeau's face, trying to commit it to memory. "I'll see you again."

LeBeau smiled wistfully. "Of course. We will meet in Paris."

Hogan nodded, hugged LeBeau close. LeBeau shook and when they finally broke apart, LeBeau's eyes glistened damply. Hogan inhaled, controlled himself and turned to Newkirk. The cocky Brit studied him then gave a military perfect crisp salute.

"Been an honor, sir," he said in a raspy tone.

Hogan returned the salute. "Thank you, Newkirk." He stepped forward and embraced Newkirk hard. Newkirk's arms pulled him tight for a long moment then released him. "Watch the others, Peter," Hogan whispered.

"You got it."

Hogan stepped back. "Men, it has been a tremendous honor and I look forward to the day when I see you again," he said with a frightful feeling of inadequacy.

Almost as one the men saluted. Hogan saluted back. "Hogan, come on," Klink called.

Newkirk gestured. "Go on, sir. We'll be fine."

Hogan reluctantly stepped to the last truck. Carter and Kinch waited for him. "Sir," Carter whispered. "We can't leave them, sir."

"We don't have a choice, Carter. Get in the truck."

"But the others..."

"Now, Carter."

Hogan followed Carter and Kinch into the truck. The gates swung open and the trucks rumbled out of Stalag 13. Hogan watched his former men until the truck rounded a bend in the road and they disappeared from sight.

Newkirk and LeBeau stood watching the trucks vanish. "Now what?" LeBeau asked quietly.

"We fight on, mate."

"Newkirk, we are alone."

Newkirk grasped LeBeau's arm. "I'm going to fight, LeBeau. You don't have to..."

"Bah. I am with you, mon ami."

Colonel Hogan stood impatiently in line to see General Duncan. The General was in charge of this processing center and Hogan was getting sick of the run around. A uniformed aide came to him. "Colonel Hogan?"

"Yes?"

"General Duncan will see you now."

Hogan followed the man. General Duncan, a short, heavy set General, smiled at him as he came into the makeshift office. "Good morning, Colonel Hogan."

"Morning, General."

"My aide mentioned you've been trying to see me?"

"Yes, sir. For three days."

"What can I do for you?"

"It's about my men."

"Are they all right?"

"My men back in Stalag 13," Hogan clarified.

"You left prisoners behind?" Duncan's voice rose a half octave.

"I didn't have a choice," Hogan snapped. "The Krauts weren't about to let all their prisoners go!"

"Are we talking about American prisoners?"

"No. The British, French, Russian, Canadians--our allies."

"They're not our allies anymore, Colonel."

"These men are heroes, General and we left them in the lurch!"

"Our government made a treaty, Colonel. You don't have a choice."

Hogan ground his teeth. "Can I speak to General Seymour, sir?"

Duncan's eyebrows lifted. "General Seymour?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right, Colonel."

Late that evening, a heavily armed car thundered into the processing camp. Hogan, eating with Kinch and Carter, jerked to his feet as General Seymour entered. "Attention!" he barked. Men scrambled to their feet.

"At ease." Seymour headed directly for Hogan. "Robert." He embraced Hogan warmly. "We've been looking for you!"

"General, meet two of my men. This is Sargent James Kinchloe and Sergeant Andrew Carter."

"So these are some of your famous group! A true pleasure." Seymour smiled. "You boys did great work. Come with me, Colonel."

The men walked along. "Sir, what about the rest of my men?" Hogan demanded.

"What men?"

"All my men. The ones I had to leave behind. Corporal Newkirk and Corporal LeBeau are integral parts of my unit."

Seymour sighed. "Rob, they're not American."

"That didn't matter when they were risking their lives for Americans."

"We have a treaty with Germany. The Brits don't. I'm sorry. They're not our problem any more."

"And what happens to them?" Hogan asked.

"They're POWs. Nothing should happen to them. You did order them to stand down, right?"

"Yes," Hogan said. "I don't know how long that will last."

Seymour turned to face him fully. "If they break that, Rob, then they're spies. And the Nazis can do what they please."

"They're my men! They risked their lives daily. Damn it, Walt, they deserve better!"

"I know they do but it's beyond our control! We are not at war with Germany any more. This is the way it is." Seymour exhaled loudly. "I'm sorry. If it helps, a lot of men feel the same way." he smiled. "I do have some good news. By this time next week, you may outrank me."

"I appreciate the offer," Hogan said. "It means more than you know, Walter. But I'd rather have my men. If I can't get them offically, give me a way to get them out unoffically."

"487 men? How would you even do it? And I think the Krauts would have something to say about that!"

"But they're my men!" Hogan stared at his old friend. How could he explain that he'd left behind more than his men, that two of his brothers were back in Stalag 13? "I owe them my life. Several times over. And so do a lot of people. "

"I know what your men did. It is appreciated and will be remembered."

"By who?" Hogan bit off. "We've already forgotten them."

Three months. Three months since he'd set foot on German soil. Three months with no word from Stalag 13. General Hogan paced his office. A kock interrupted him "General? The Red Cross is here."

Hogan grinned. "Let them in."

Two people entered. "General Hogan, what a pleasure." Abigail Wren came forward, clasped his hand. Hogan smiled wider. "This is Scott Jackson."

"Mr. Jackson." Hogan shook the slight man's hand.

"General."

"Please sit." Hogan gestured and they all sat.

"General, you mentioned you wanted to come along on Red Cross tours. I'm not sure why you do as the US is no longer in the European war but we are heading into Germany on behalf of POWs. While you are welcome, realize that you have no power other than observer."

"That's fine. I was in a POW camp," Hogan said. "I'm very concerned about the prisoners in these Stalags."

"General, this is the first time I've ever had a high ranking officer ask to come along. We can bring you the reports," Jackson said.

"I need to see for myself."

"We leave in a week. We will be touring London first."

Smoke and dust hung over London like a veil. Hogan felt his stomach twist as he studied the wreckage and rubble of the once beautiful city. He didn't wear his uniform as Abigail had warned him the American military was little liked in the torn capital. As the Red Cross drove through the city, he swallowed repeatedly. Ambulances raced by continuously, sirens ripping the air. The Red Cross car pulled up at an aid station and Hogan hurried to help.

Soup and water, bread and bandages. Hogan passed them out to grateful people. The marks of despair were there, the signs of relentless violence. Yet people could still smile and say thank you. Hogan tried to be cheerful.

"Hogan?"

Hogan looked up into the eyes of General Danvers, one of his former commanders. "Sir?" he asked.

"It is you!" Hogan and Danvers embraced. "What in ruddy hell are you doing here?" Danvers' voice rang with delight.

"Helping the Red Cross." Hogan's eyes burned. "We're helping here then going to POW camps across Germany."

Danvers' eyes widened. "You're not planning to go to Stalag 13?" he murmured.

"That's on the tour."

Danvers looked around. "Can we talk?" Hogan nodded. "Can you meet me in that cafe across the street?"

"In ten minutes."

Ten minutes later, the two men sat in a dinged cafe. "Are you still in the military?" Danvers asked.

"On leave."

"Hogan, why are you here?"

"A Red Cross observer," he said. "And I need to check out Stalag 13."

Danvers' eyes filled with pity. "You poor chap," he quietly said. "They didn't tell you a thing, did they?"

"What?!"

"Stalag 13, along with Stalag 11 and 15, have been 'off the map' for over five weeks. No word from any of them and our planes haven't caught a glimpse either. The US knows--we do have some communications--but those camps are almost considered gone."

"My men are there," Hogan said quietly. "Has there been any word?"

"They're not your men, Hogan," Danvers gently said.

"I need to know, General."

"I hope you find out. And bring back the information to us."

"I will."

The trip to Germany made Hogan ill. Battered and torn, Europe seemed like a broken vase, beauty still apparent but shattered. An odd veil of smoke and despair hung over every city and village, seemed etched in every face. And over all were the eternal red and black swastikas. Hogan tried to think uplifting thoughts, tried to believe his men could survive. Yet part of him dreaded seeing anyone, afraid of what he'd find.

The first POW camp, Stalag 5, made him want to vomit. Emaciated men in tattered uniforms watched them with empty eyes. Hogan let Abigail and Scott speak to the Germans, not trusting himself to be civil. He spotted a few men watching them. "Come on," Scott said. "Let's talk to the prisoners."

The Senior POW was a skeletal British Major Ryan. Burning blue eyes scanned Hogan and Jackson. "Major Ryan?" Scott asked. "I'm Scott Jackson, this is Robert Hogan. We're with the Red Cross."

"I'm Major Ryan. I hope you've brought some food."

"We have some, yes," Scott said. "We also brought mail, personal items."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Are there any men who need medical attention?"

The major laughed. "I could sooner tell who doesn't. We're dying, Mr. Jackson. The Krauts don't care about us and would rather see us dead." He looked at Hogan. "Hogan? Any relation to Robert Hogan?"

"That's me, Major."

The Major froze. "Stalag 13's Robert Hogan?"

"Yes, sir."

Major Ryan stared at Hogan. "Would you do me a favor, sir?"

"Anything in my power, Major Ryan."

"I have letters. If you could make sure they're delivered, I would appreciate it."

"I would be honored," Hogan said quietly.

Major Ryan handed Hogan three grimy envelopes. Hogan slid the envelopes into his jacket. Major Ryan smiled at him. Hogan helped the doctors and tried to encourage the prisoners. He casually asked about other stalags but no one had heard much. What few rumors they had heard chilled Hogan to the bone. When they left, Hogan turned to Abigail. "What else can we do?" he demanded.

"Try to send more food, try to put pressure on the Nazis. That's all we can do."

Hogan shook his head.

As they toured the camps, Hogan buried his rage and terror. He simply hoped, with an ever fading belief, that his men had survived. Stalag 11 destroyed that hope. Black smoke clung to melted steel posts and charred girders. "What hit here?" Abigail whispered.

"An incinerary bomb," Hogan choked. He recognized the pattern of the fire, the scraps of shrapnel.

Trucks and small bulldozers shoved debris into piles. "Where are the men?" Jackson demanded. He grabbed a guard. "Where are the prisoners?"

The guard pointed to a few ramshackle buildings. There the Red Cross found around thirty men, bruised and burned. Hogan questioned them quietly, watching the Germans. The tormented men answered cryptically, distrustfully. When Hogan mentioned Stalag 13, all fell quiet. "What are you talking about?" a guard demanded.

"Where this man lives," Hogan snapped. "Where are the doctors for these men?"

"They are helping the wounded Germans. We'll get to the prisoners after the dogs are treated."

Hogan stiffened, fingers clenching into a fist. The prisoner he knelt by touched his arm. "No worries, mate," he murmured. "Let it go." Hogan looked at the young Australian. Dark eyes studied him. "I'll be all right," the man continued.

Hogan squeezed the man's shoulder and stood up. As the Red Cross treated the men, German and prisoner alike, he stood aside and watched, helping whenever he could. "This is a nightmare," Jackson said.

"Where are the prisoners being taken?" Hogan asked.

"Stalag 7," Abigal said.

"7? That place is a dungeon!"

"It's the best we have."

As they neared Stalag 13, Hogan tried not to show his anxiety. The road seemed less familiar than he expected, the barbed wire less shiny yet more intimidating. Heavily armed guards reluctantly opened the gates and Hogan's stomach twisted. Gestapo guards walked the perimeter with Luftwaffe guards. "What's that?" Jackson asked in an appalled tone.

The lead Red Cross truck slew to a stop. "They hanged someone," Hogan rasped. "Dear God, they hanged someone."

He leaped out of the truck. An unfamiliar man in a black uniform stormed towards him. Hogan stared at the body, trembling violently. The corpse had obviously dangled for at least a week as the flesh had blackened and birds had feasted on exposed flesh. "Who are you?" the man asked.

"Who is that?" Hogan demanded.

"That is a spy and I am Colonel Steffen. Who are you?!"

"We're the Red Cross," Jackson said. "Who is that man?"

Hogan walked towards the gathered prisoners, scanning the faces desprately. The emacation no longer surprised him. The scarcity of the prisoners did. Roughly 200 men stood in front of the dilpated buildings. Most were unfamiliar. Few looked at him and those who did had a dull, disinterested sheen to their eyes. Only a couple bore smoldering, furious expressions. One man looked at him closely. "Colonel Hogan?" he whispered.

Hogan wheeled.

"Private Jenkins?"

The bony private stumbled forward. "What are you doing here?" he blurted.

"Helping. Jenkins, what happened to everyone?"

Jenkins cowered as a guard barked at him. Hogan wheeled, determined to attack someone, anyone. "Don't, sir," Jenkins whispered.

"This man needs help," Hogan said. "Come with me, Private. We'll treat that wound."

In one of the Red Cross trucks, Hogan gave Jenkins a sandwich and coffee. Jenkins began tearing the sandwich in huge bites. "Easy, Jenkins. Slow down." Hogan sat beside him. "Tell me what you know."

Jenkins swallowed an enormous bite. "A number of people died after Klink and Schultz were transferred." He looked at Hogan with huge eyes. "Klink and Schultz were transferred to Burkhalter's staff in Berlin. Newkirk and LeBeau tried to keep the missions running. Then they decided we needed to escape as rations had been cut in half and then again. Colonel Steffen and his guards also are a little physical."

Noting Jenkins' numerous bruises, Hogan reflected on the British tendency to understatement. "And?" he quietly prodded.

"So Newkirk and LeBeau and Sargent Winters, the senior POW, started to get people out. LeBeau escaped on the third round with Winters. Most of these prisoners are new."

"Who was hung?"

Jenkins finished his sandwich. He trembled. "A local farmer," he whispered. "He would give us food from time to time."

"Newkirk? He escaped too?"

Jenkins shook his head. "We wanted him to but he wouldn't leave. He's in the cooler with a few others. We haven't seen him in two weeks." He shuddered. "He's to be hung in two days."

Hogan exhaled. He pressed a hand on Jenkins' shoulder. "You rest." He handed Jenkins a sandwich.

"Why are you here, sir?"

"Red Cross. I'm checking up on POW camps."

"Can you get Newkirk out?"

Hogan looked into Jenkins' hopeful blue eyes, so like Carter. "Count on it," he rasped.

Late that night, Hogan pushed on the stove in the guest quarters. It resisted but finally moved. He opened the trap door silently and dropped into a cobwebbed and dusty tunnel. Carefully he walked down the tunnel, noting minor cave ins and fairly recent footprints. He approached the cooler tunnel and pushed the block cautiously.

The stench hit him first, a heavy odor of waste and sweat. Hogan dry retched once or twice and stood up. Cold and dank, the cooler was eerily dark. Dim yellow lights barely shoved back the darkness a few feet. A sound of heavy breathing from across the hall caught his attention. "I'm not here to hurt you," he whispered.

"A Yank?" came a startled reply. "Hell! Colonel Hogan?!"

"Hiya, Tom." Hogan grinned.

"Why are you here?" Bishop demanded in a delighted, thin whisper.

"Red Cross. Who's in here?"

"Me, Michaels, Beyers, and Newkirk." Bishop pressed against the bars. "He's at the end of the row. He needs help, sir." Hogan pushed on the door and raised an eyebrow as the door swung open soundlessly. "Newkirk opened it. He wants us to escape when he--is executed."

Hogan hurried down the hall. In the last cell, he spotted Newkirk. "Newkirk?"

A shuffle and Newkirk limped to the door. "Gov'nor?"

Hogan nodded, not trusting his voice. Newkirk's head had been shaved and it made his eyes look enormous in his bony face. A filthy uniform clung to him and Hogan noted numerous cuts and bruises on his exposed skin. "What in bleedin' hell are you doing here?" Newkirk spat. Anger underlaced his words.

"I'm with the Red Cross."

"Damn it! Some of us should ruddy survive! You were out. Why did you come back?"

Hogan retorted with his own anger. "And why are you here? When Klink left, why didn't you take off?"

"Can't leave the others, gov."

Guilt lanced through Hogan. He fiddled with the lock. "Do you have your picks?"

"Here." Newkirk took his picks and fumbled once or twice before the door swung open. Hogan slipped in and embraced Newkirk tightly. Newkirk clung to him for long moments. "Good to see you, gov," he whispered.

"You too." Newkirk trembled violently. "Give me the rundown, Newkirk." Newkirk quickly updated Hogan. Hogan repressed his rage and disgust at the mention of starvation rations and barrack wide beatings, of Gestapo questioning and savage abuse. Newkirk told him of the escapes they'd managed. "LeBeau got away. You should have left with him," Hogan said.

"Louie isn't far. He refused to leave until I escaped. He's in the local Underground." Newkirk smiled. "Daft bugger. Gov, you need to get home, get away from here. I do have plans, mate."

"Like what?"

"When I am taken out for execution, the others will escape. And the tunnels would be blown to distract the Krauts. It's risky but I think they'd get out with all the distraction."

Hogan swallowed. "You'd be dead, Newkirk."

"The others would have a chance." Newkirk looked at Hogan. With a deep pang, Hogan realized his cocky thief had taken his words to heart. He, indeed, was watching out for the others, to the extent he was giving his life.

Hogan sighed. "We have to get you away from here."

"And 'ow are you going to do that? Gov, in two days, I'm scheduled to be hung." Newkirk's voice quavered once.

"What did you do?"

"Stole from the Krauts." Newkirk rubbed his temples.

"Here I thought Stalag 11 was bad."

Newkirk froze. "Stalag 11? Wasn't that destroyed?"

"How'd you know?"

"LeBeau told me. Krauts say it was a British bomb. I think it was a Kraut one. They killed their prisoners." Newkirk swallowed. "We're next."

Hogan nodded. He looked around the cooler and made an abrupt decision. "Come on," he said. He pulled Newkirk to his feet. "Let's go."

"Where?" Newkirk asked. "We can't just ruddy disappear."

"I have a plan."

Newkirk sighed yet followed. He opened the cells and the other prisoners spilled out. Hogan noted the men all looked at him with confused eyes but listened to Newkirk's instructions attentively. Hogan gestured and the men all crowded into the tunnel.

Hogan looked at Newkirk. "Your idea is good. We'll just escape a few days early."

Newkirk nodded. "Let's go."

In the tunnels, Newkirk handed Hogan a Gestapo uniform and he dressed as well. An odd sense of familiarity filled Hogan as he tightened the belt and slid a gun into his holster. Newkirk tossed him papers and tucked his in his jacket. One by one, the barracks emptied. The men hurried through the tunnels, some dressing in Gestapo or Abwher uniforms. Newkirk spoke quietly to Jenkins, clad in a Gestapo Major uniform. The private nodded and led the others away. "We have to split up the others," Hogan said.

"They're all set, gov. They'll leave through different exits and be careful. Bleeding guards have Gestapo beefing their ranks. LeBeau's group will recognize our men, tho. Uniforms are on a few of the blokes that speak some German."

"You can go," Hogan said.

"Can't. I have to wait." Newkirk smiled. "You taught us well, gov. The men come first."

Hogan waited, constantly straining to hear. The men moved incredibly quietly and quickly but Hogan knew it was a matter of time. Newkirk patiently waited beside him, coughing occasionally and gently touching someone from time to time. "Do you have any weapons?" Hogan asked.

"Some. Certain men have them as sidearms."

Hogan shook his head. "Good job."

"Thank you." Newkirk studied Hogan with an odd expression. "Did you go to other stalags?"

Hogan nodded. "15 is next on the agenda."

"15." Newkirk hunched. "That's where Steffen came from. 'Eard he perfected a few techniques under their Kommandant. We had one poor blighter that transferred in from there. He told us he overheard the guards talking, they planned on razing that camp. Using flamethrowers."

Hogan stared at Newkirk. "They wouldn't dare."

"Gov, the Nazis know they have a free hand. The US was a lifeline. Without you Yanks, well, we'll fight but it'll be a damnsite harder." Newkirk muttered directions to Bishop. "Soviets have had some good luck. Stanlingrad is a bleedin' artery from what I heard."

"Come on," came a whisper. "Come on, you two."

Hogan and Newkirk crept out of an exit Hogan didn't know, in a thicket. "This way," Newkirk said. He moved deftly but Hogan saw the limp. He hurried to Newkirk's side. Together they disappeared into the shadows. Newkirk hurried to a thick grove of trees, pulled a detentator. "Hold on, mate." he cocked his head. "You want the honors?"

"All yours."

Newkirk pushed and explosions rocked the ground. Orange and red lit the sky and sirens wailed. "Damn, Andrew," Newkirk muttered. "Talk about overkill."

"The guard towers are down. Come on, Newkirk!"

Hogan spotted no one near them. "Where are we going?"

"Farm about five miles away. Just me and you. The men will scatter." Newkirk began picking through the woods, Hogan beside him. "Bleedin' hope the Red Cross is all right."

"They'll be fine," Hogan assured.

All that long walk, Hogan listened and thought, helping Newkirk by remaining close at his side. As they neared the tiny farm, Newkirk stopped and gave a three note trill. A pause and a slight figure appeared, garbed in thick winterwear. "Pierre?"

"Here. Got a friend."

Hogan's eyes burned as LeBeau appeared. "Who?" LeBeau demanded suspiciously.

"I know it's not Paris, LeBeau, but I couldn't wait any longer."

LeBeau stared then threw himself forward. He hugged Hogan roughly then Newkirk. "Mon Colonel! You have returned!"

"He's with the Red Cross," Newkirk said.

"Quick, inside." LeBeau escorted his friends into the house. "I heard the explosions. The camp is gone?"

"Yes," Newkirk said as Hogan eased him into a chair. "Ouch. Thanks, gov."

LeBeau helped the men strip off the Gestapo uniforms and went to run a hot bath. "Who's place is this?" Hogan asked.

"Local woman. Mistress to some high and mighty Gestapo general. She's also a top Underground agent. We get warnings of any visit. Plus LeBeau has some dogs that bark as well. He must have them out with the others." Newkirk sighed. "Tomorrow you'll have to sneak back to the Red Cross. Should have had you head back after the explosions."

Hogan looked at Newkirk. "Are you headed back to England?"

"We--LeBeau and me--thought we'd do more good as a resistance group. Blowing trains, munitions. Like we did before. The Underground will help us. Might even get hold of London."

"Little hard with just the two of you," Hogan said.

"We can do it." LeBeau bounced into the room. "It would be easier with you, mon Colonel, but we will make do."

"You would want someone else?" Hogan teased.

"To have you here, mon Colonel, would be tres incredible! We could do so much!"

"It'd be a bleeding dream come true," Newkirk sighed. "Us together again. But seriously, you need to get home. Love to have you but it wouldn't be right."

Hogan swallowed hard. "I'd hoped I would find you two, smuggle you out somehow. Crossing Europe, I saw what Hitler's doing. And I'm sorry."

"You aren't him, mate."

"Oui. This wasn't your fault."

"I meant for leaving you guys. I was wrong."

Newkirk and LeBeau looked stunned. "You're not at war with Germany," Newkirk reminded. "And you more than did your part, mate! You're a bleeding hero!

"He is right! You would have been killed if you stayed. The US is not fighting Germany."

"I am." Hogan looked at his friends, his brothers. "If you'll have me, I'm staying."

Newkirk and LeBeau stared at him. "You're daft," Newkirk whispered after a long silence. "You could be free of all this."

"You could too but you're staying."

LeBeau tossed his arms around Hogan. "Viva la resistance! Viva France! Welcome back, mon Colonel!"

Hogan hugged LeBeau and looked at Newkirk. "And you?'

"Blimey, gov, I don't know what to say. You're utterly mad." Newkirk slowly smiled. "What do we do first?"

Hogan grinned.

Dear Abigail,

Thank you for allowing me on this trip. I have learned so much and hope you will continue the fine work. I'm afraid I will not be on the rest of the trip with you. Other duties have called and I must answer. Please tell the outside world what is happening here. Deliver the letters for Major Ryan as I can not. Make sure everyone sees, understands the evil Hitler has unleashed and why we should all be fighting. I can't tell you my duties but know I have to try to do my part.

Somewhere, somehow this war will end and I can only pray the good guys win. I know I will, most likely , never see the US again. That's all right. Better to know I tried and failed than to live as I had been living. Thank you again for allowing me to come along. Be safe.

Hogan