The sun rose slowly from the east as it did everyday. The barbed wire glinted as the early morning rays made their way across the barren ground. Even with the sun shining the temperature barely rose above the freezing point. Those out-of-doors moved around quickly trying to keep their blood flowing, their breath trailing behind them in clouds of steam. From out of one of the many buildings a group of men emerge. They were haggard and weary. They had a look about them, the look of caged animals. It was appropriate as that's exactly what these men were, they were prisoners, prisoners of war. The year was 1943; the country- Nazi Germany; the location- a prison camp known as Stalag 13. Of the many such camps in occupied Europe it is the most infamous. It is the one camp that has never had a successful escape in over 200 attempts. The group slowly crossed the prison yard, each consciously aware of the soldiers in the guard towers. Any thought of making a dash for the main gate was immediately discarded. The tower guards were armed with heavy machine guns and the rest were all armed with Lugers. The prisoners came to a stop in front of the Commandant's office and stood at attention. They knew the routine, it had been the same since day one. It was time for morning inspection. The Germans made them wait for several minutes before they arrived. Of the prisoners, five of them stick out. They have an air about them. These are men who just seem like they're used to being in control. That is, before their spirits were broken. Corporal Louie Lebeau was a french national. Though short in stature, at 5' 3", he once had the heart of a lion. When he first arrived in the camp he was a brash young man- always ready to cause trouble. No matter how many times he was placed in the cooler or "questioned" he never cracked; but one day he crossed the line with the camps commanding officer. The Commandant then took a personal interest in him and through several weeks of psychological torture he completely destroyed him. Corporal Peter Newkirk was from London, He had been a gunner on a R.A.F. bomber. One night while on a mission to bomb a refinery over Hamburg his plane had been shot down. He suffered numerous injuries, including a bullet lodged in his rib cage. His spirit was broken by the Gestapo as they beat one of his fellow survivors to death in front of him and left the body in his cell for three weeks. During that time they supplied him with water, but no food. Word around the camp was that he'd nibbled on his deceased cellmate's fingers to keep from starving to death. He never talked about it. Sergeant Andrew Carter was from North Dakota. He was a munitions expert. His entire platoon had been wiped out in an incident involving one of his homemade explosives. Truth be told, it wasn't an accident. Several of his former mates used to tease him, constantly making him the butt of their jokes and pranks. He warned them that he'd make them pay. They didn't believe him. Now their corpses are rotting in a mass grave somewhere in the south of France. No one makes fun of him anymore. Sergeant Sam Kinchloe or "Kinch", as he was Known, was a kid from Detroit. He was a math whiz and had been a navigator on a U. S. Army Air Force bomber. Being the only black man in his unit hadn't been easy. He constantly suffered from both verbal and physical attacks. His plane wouldn't have been shot down if his commanding officer had taken his advice and flown a different route. Unfortunately the C.O. Couldn't see past his bigotry to see it for the smart thinking it was. Life in the camp was especially hard for him and the few other black soldiers. They had to deal with abuse from both the Germans and the other prisoners. Colonel Robert Hogan was from Cleveland. He'd been leading a bombing mission against a secret rocket plant in Heidelberg when his plane was forced down by German fighter planes. As the camps highest ranking P.O.W. He was entitled to special privileges. Unfortunately for him, the Germans didn't feel the same way. There were rules and regulations involving the treatment of prisoners; they were followed- when the Red Cross sent inspection teams, that is. In his more than two years at the camp, Hogan had endured incredible hardships at the hands of the Nazis. He had broken quickly. Just then, out of the corner of Hogan's eye, he spotted a figure coming his way. It is Schultz, the Sergeant of the guards. At 6' 3" and 300 lbs. Sgt. Schultz was an incredibly imposing sight. He had a look of cruelty about him. His eyes were cold and dead. A shiver went up the collective spines of all the prisoners. Each one had at one point or another experienced a "session" with the man. He's a master at it. He never leaves a mark unless he wants to. "Actchung!" he bellowed In his deep gravelly voice. All present snapped at attention, eyes forward. Not a muscle twitched. They knew better. Slowly he did a head count, smugly confident that all will be there. It had been a month since the last escape attempt. Schultz had single handedly captured the man. While being drug back to the camp the prisoner had defiantly spat in his face. The man's body still hung on the barb wire fence where Schultz had hurled it after he'd broken the man's neck with a single twist. Prisoner of War convention be damned. The head count completed, Schultz nods to himself and comes to attention. After a few moments, the Commandant's door opened and out stepped Colonel Wilhelm Klink, known all over the Third Reich as "The Iron Colonel." While not as imposing as his sergeant, Klink had a persona about him that was even more frightening. He didn't rely on brute strength, his methods were far more subtle and devious. He replaced his trademark monocle and clutched his riding crop under one arm as he looked over the assembled rabble. He took great pleasure in turning a defiant man into a quivering mass afraid of his own shadow. He can remember the point in which each man before him had been broken. One of his most cherished achievements occurred when he had a session with a now long dead prisoner. It had taken place in a room with just the two of them present. Klink never once spoke, he never laid a hand on the man. Over the course of several hours he just sat there in front of the man, the only light a dim lamp, Klink just sat there staring at him. Every few seconds tapping his monocle, the light glinting off of it. He repeated this for a week before the man finally succumbed to madness. Even when left alone the poor fellow claimed he could still hear the tapping and see the light. In desperation he gouged his own eyes out and cut his ears off. When that didn't work, he killed himself by swallowing his own tongue. To some it was murder, to Klink it was a hobby. "Report!" He yelled. Schultz takes two steps forward and saluted smartly. "Mein Commandant, I beg to report all present and accounted for." "Thank you Schultz, at ease," Said Klink as he swaggered forward to inspect the prisoners. "So. Once again we all come together. Once again you show me the might of your illustrious allied forces," said Klink, a sarcastic lilt in his voice. Hogan began to say something but thought better of it. Men have died for less. Unfortunately for him, Klink noticed. "Yes Colonel, you have something to say?" "No... no sir, it's nothing," muttered Hogan nervously. "Are you sure? I'm quite certain that you were about to say something. As a matter of fact, I KNOW you were going to say something. Now what was it?" asked Klink in a voice tinged with evil. "No sir, I swear. I..." Hogan never finished. Klink's riding crop lashed out, striking Hogan in the face, sending him crashing to the ground. A bloody red welt had already formed on his face. Several of the prisoners tensed up, afraid that they too would be punished. Lebeau moved to help Hogan, anger swelling up inside, but was restrained by Newkirk and Carter. They knew that such an action would result in severe retribution by either Klink or Schultz. Kinch did nothing. Hogan treated him like shit and he quietly approved of what was happening to him. "Insolence!" yelled The Commandant as he walked to where Hogan lay and kicked him squarely in the ribs. "You shall learn respect for the Master Race!" "Please Colonel, I'm sorry," whimpers Hogan. "I meant no disrespect." Hogan slowly began to rise and Klink kicked him again. Just then Lebeau broke free, for the first time in a long time feeling the inner fire that once had made him a fierce soldier. He moved to Klink and grabbed him by the collar. "Leave him alone you damned filthy Kraut!" He screamed. He then made a move for the pistol that Klink wore at his side. Suddenly Schultz grabbed Lebeau by the back of the neck, lifting the little Frenchman in the air as if he were a kitten. "How dare you lay hands on the Colonel you stinking cockroach!" shouted Schultz. "Make him pay Sergeant," said Klink. "Javolt, Mein Commandant." Schultz easily lifted Lebeau above his head, holding him there, making sure that all of the prisoners had a good view, and then bringing him crashing down onto his right knee. The sound of Lebeau's back breaking could be heard all across the camp. For a moment all is quiet. Then a gurgling sound could be heard. It's Lebeau: he'd survived the maneuver, but suffered massive internal injuries. Besides his back, many ribs were broken, several puncturing his lungs. Schultz dropped him to the ground and spit on him. Slowly, Lebeau drown in his own blood. "Bastard!" yells Hogan. "You didn't have to do that." "This one must learn the hard way my dear Hogan. I would dare to guess that very few of the others will now be tempted to try anything similar to what the late corporal tried. I believe you call it 'tough love'." Hogan lunged at Klink- throwing a feeble punch that the Commandant easily side-stepped. Off balance, Hogan once again fell to the ground. "Ah, defiance. It's been so long since I've seen it in you, Hogan. Unfortunately we can't afford that. It might incite the others. Luckily, I have a way to nip it in the bud," said Klink, a smile again crossing his face. He then turned to Schultz and nodded. A command was barked to several German soldiers and Hogan was drug to his feet. They then forcibly dragged him to the prison fence and tied him to a fence pole. They formed a line directly in front of him. Through his fear, Hogan recognized it as a firing squad. "Remember... no one escapes from Stalag 13," said Klink, "No One." The Commandant then turned to the firing squad and raised his right hand. The last thing Hogan saw as he closed his eyes was the glint of the sun off of Klink's monocle- that damned monocle. He heard the sound of guns firing, felt a piercing pain in his chest, and then all was black. Two years later, in 1945, allied forces would liberate Stalag 13. None of the men from Hogan's day would survive that long. Schultz would be tried at Nurenburg, all the while claiming that he was just following orders. He would also point out that he was Sergeant Hans Schultz while the name on his arraignment papers was Sergeant Johans Schultz. That technicality, along with his very affable personality and his steadfast claim that he "knew nothing," would result in his release along with an apology from all involved. He would then move to Hollywood and, with a large sum of gold that he'd "inherited" during the war, would open his own movie studio. His funeral in 1981 would be a who's who of celebrities and world leaders. It is most remembered for the touching way that President Ronald Reagan broke down and cried while delivering the eulogy. Colonel Wilhelm Klink disappeared before the Allies arrived. He was reported as being seen all over post-war Europe. There are rumors that he immigrated to Brazil or Argentina like many other war criminals. The last reported sighting of the "Iron Colonel" was in 1975 when he would have been 78. While many derogatory things can and have been said about him it must be noted in his favor that while in charge of his prison camp not one, single, solitary prisoner ever escaped. Can the same be said of American Prisons?