Disclaimer: I do not own Hogan's Heroes! I'm just playing in their sandbox as any fan would.

A/N: This is my first foray into the HH fanfic realm. I've loved this show for years and finally felt the urge to sit down and write something...!

Fish Stew

'It was hardly to be doubted, that several vessels reported to have encountered, at such or such a time, or on such or such a meridian, a Sperm Whale of uncommon magnitude and malignity, which whale, after doing great mischief to his assailants, had completely escaped them—'

"Carter."

'—to some minds it was not an unfair presumption, I say, that the whale in question must have been no other than…'

"Carter!"

At the sound of his name, Sergeant Andrew Carter glanced up from the book in his hands. Stretched out sideways on his bunk, wearing a worn flight suit and boots, he looked in the direction of the voice. In the center of the clapboard, shoebox, building known as Barracks Two, Corporal Louis LeBeau stood beside a potbellied stove. Arms crossed, with a steaming spoon peeping from under an elbow, he glared comically out from beneath an oversized chef's hat.

Carter grinned. An expression which fit his plain, angular, face. "No, it was Moby Dick."

"C'est vraiment stupide de faire une chose pareille." LeBeau muttered, rolling his eyes. "Why are you reading aloud Carter, eh? No one else wants to hear a story about a giant fish."

"D'accord," An English brogue butchered the French in agreement. Above Carter, on the top bunk, Corporal Peter Newkirk shifted his languid position, rolling onto his stomach. Hanging his head over the edge of the creaky beds, he tugged on a dwindling cigarette and jerked a thumb toward the pot simmering on the hot cast-iron stove.

"Don't you know what LeBeau's been cooking there all evening? Well, I'll tell you…it's fish stew. Now, if we gotta eat it, if 'n you don't mind, I'd rather not read about it first."

Carter brightened, "Fish stew, huh? Is it Friday again?"

A loud clang drew their attention back to the stove. LeBeau slammed the belly-door shut over the fire, and turned his glare on both of them. "Friday? Sacre bleu, fish stew –ha! It's 'bouillabaisse' geniuses."

"Just because you name it something which cannot be spelt, doesn't change what it is," Newkirk said. "It smells like the Thames in here."

LeBeau stiffened. His spoon froze mid stir, and Carter waited for a snappy reply. At first the fight seemed it would continue, but after a pause LeBeau simply straightened to his full height and went back to the soup. It was apparent he had chosen to ignore the insults.

Shooting Carter a quick wink, Newkirk took the Frenchman's silence for submission and turned back to face the ceiling. A victorious smile split a path around the cigarette clamped between his lips. It was daily spats like these that kept their little band of heroes together, and he knew it.

The date was January 16, 1943, and the gears of World War Two were in full swing. It was a time of Victory Gardens, War Bonds, and Betty Grable. Across two continents, every allied soldier dreamt of peace. And for the prisoners-of-war trapped in enemy camps all over Europe, peace could not come soon enough. To the men of Luftwaffe Stalag 13, an air force POW camp in the middle of Germany, the end of the war was a goal only they could help achieve. Made up of different races and talents, they formed a secret task force known only to the Allies. Their purpose: to sabotage the efforts of the Third Reich. Loyalty and accord, along with comradery, was the other half of what kept the rag-tag group together.

Carter closed the book and straightened into a sitting position. "Sorry guys, I guess I didn't realize I was reading out loud. Sometimes I do that, you know? I just get carried away. Boy, that Herm Melvile was one swell writer."

"No, kidding. That's funny. I always thought Herman Melville wrote the great white whale." Newkirk said.

He, unlike the gangly blond bunk-mate beneath him, was average in height with an athletic build. His dark hair and sideburns added a certain refined air to his otherwise ruggedly-handsome face. His blue eyes were at the moment closed, giving time for his unusually long lashes to rest against ruddy cheeks. Newkirk was far from RAF material, which was most likely why he had never exceeded Corporal. Instead, he made a better pickpocket, forger, and performer than an officer –though he was apt at impersonating one from time to time.

As a hustler, Newkirk was by nature laid-back, cautious, and capable. Such traits contrasted with those of his friend Carter, a North Dakota farm boy with klutzy tendencies. Carter had a talent for basic chemistry, but his love was for explosives. Just the mention of dynamite or destruction was enough to awaken, what the other men jokingly referred to as, the "pyromaniac" inside of him. Despite his eccentricities, he was a sensitive guy with a heart for small animals like rabbits, and an interest in all the newest Hollywood films.

On the floor, LeBeau listened to the exchange. In terms of physical characteristics, he was a world apart from the rest of the Stalag inhabitants. A foreign powerhouse of emotions and ideas, packaged in a short frame, compact body, black hair, and wide brown eyes, he was an endless well of French pride. What he lacked in new clothing, he made up for in passion -passion for France and for cooking. Tasting the bouillabaisse on the end of his spoon, LeBeau smiled in satisfaction.

"Where did you get the book, Carter?" He asked, feeling more cordial.

At that moment, three hollow taps echoed up from the pipes beneath the floorboards.

"Oops, the Gov'ner's comin' up." Newkirk said, swinging his legs over the mattress edge. He dropped to earth and paused only to adjust the battledress blouse of his blue-grey serge uniform. "Carter, watch the door."

Obediently, Carter abandoned his book and scrambled out of bed. Going to the door, he cracked it open. A blast of cold air met his face, and he peered out at the Stalag 13 compound. Nighttime had fallen an hour earlier, and with it, a flurry of snowflakes had begun, raining down in thick, soft, clumps, to blanket the ground. The spotlights from the guard towers outside the barbed wire, busily swept over the buildings inside the fence, and across the way, the shadowy bulk of Barracks Three could be seen in intervals. Its roof white with newly formed snow drifts. Scanning the quiet, wintery, scene from left to right Carter found no foot soldiers in sight. For the moment, they were safe. Turning around, he offered Newkirk a 'thumbs up'.

LeBeau left the pot and hurried to a set of beds in a corner of the barracks. Newkirk was already there, and he slapped the top bunk with the heel of his palm. Triggered by two solid hits, the squeak of pulley wheels could be heard as the lower mattress lifted, and a section of wood floor swung free. A second later the bed slats dropped down to form a ladder, revealing a secret tunnel entrance.

Newkirk leaned over the opening. "All clear, sir!"

The sound of footsteps on rungs echoed in the hole and Colonel Robert E. Hogan, group leader and senior POW camp officer, appeared, climbing up from the network of tunnels below. Close on his heels another prisoner followed; a recent transferee and RAF bomber pilot by the name of Sergeant Christian Holden.

"What's the word, sir?" Newkirk asked. Once both men were clear of the tunnel, he smacked the frame again to reverse the process. The entrance closed, leaving an ordinary barracks cot behind.

Hogan studied the small clipboard in his hand. Clothed in brown slacks, a dress shirt, and a leather A-2, he walked toward the table. A crusher cap sat atop his coiffed dark hair, adding a touch of panache to his appearance. An officer in the United States air force, he was a dignified and attractive man. Fearless, dutiful, and brilliant, he led his band of soldiers without fail, earning both their respect and loyalty, and coining the phrase Hogan's Heroes in the process.

"Well," Hogan stopped before the table. Casually lifting one foot, encased in a russet colored officer's shoe, he set it on the bench seat. Supporting an elbow on his knee, he read the information scribbled on the paper. "London reports SYMBOL has come to its first decision in three days…" He glanced around at the handful of expectant faces surrounding him. "Apparently, Old Winnie and Roosevelt have come to the conclusion the Axis powers must surrender unconditionally, right after they decided on tea instead of coffee."

He sniffed the air. "Oh, we're having bouillabaisse again, huh?"

"Oui, Col-o-nel." LeBeau nodded, pronouncing the last word phonetically.

Newkirk sat down on the bench deflated by the news. "Blimey," he groaned. "Then what are we all doin' here? I could have told them that –three years ago!"

Taken in by the conversation, Carter wandered over. "Gee, and think of all the money they would have saved in overtime."

Hogan looked up. "Carter, watch the door."

Carter nodded. "You got it boy, er, Colonel."

A smile twitched on Hogan's lips. Watching the skinny Sergeant return to the post, he felt like a father with a forgetful son, and by the chorus of complaints rising from the other enlisted men, he began to feel like a father with an entire brood of children. Resisting an eye roll, he raised a hand for silence.

"Alright! Cut the chatter."

The room fell silent.

"Kinch is on the radio, still receiving," he continued. "But it looks like London wants us to hit a munitions convoy passing just outside of Düsseldorf, midnight tonight."

"Twelve tonight?" Carter said. "That hardly gives us time to plan anything, you know."

Hogan sighed. "The door."

Carter grimaced, realizing his fumble. "Right. Sorry, Colonel."

LeBeau waited till the compound was again under surveillance. "Why did London wait so long to relay the message?"

Hogan set his clipboard on the table. "Because, with the run of bad luck we've had recently, they wanted to be a hundred percent sure on the validity of tonight's mission. None of us need another bogus target to blow up –we've wasted enough dynamite already!"

"Yeah, 'n now Germany's got seven new holes –and I ain't talking about the ones in Hitler's head." Newkirk said. "Over the last month, every piece of information we've received has been a total wash. I say, with all the snide truck and train routes the Krauts have been layin' on us, one might start to think they had gotten wise to our whole operation."

"Or they've just gotten lucky." LeBeau said.

"Maybe they're just getting smarter?"

"Andrew!"

Carter jumped in his skin at Newkirk's shout, and he scurried back to his station with a terse 'Get your arse to the door!' ringing in his ears.

For a moment Hogan considered what Carter had said, before dismissing it with a shake of his head. "Nah, never happen."

"Bloody impossible," Newkirk crushed the cigarette butt into a tin ashtray. "So what's the plan, Colonel?"

Standing with both feet on the floor, Hogan tugged the hem of his jacket. "I can't think on an empty stomach. LeBeau get the food, Newkirk get a map. The rest of you…clear a place."

The men disbanded immediately, sweeping the table clean of card decks and laundry. Newkirk procured a rolled chart as ordered, spreading it out on the table top for his commander to see. Together they began to wade through the slew of colored lines covering the paper, matching the coordinates against those scribbled on the clipboard pad. LeBeau turned to disperse the soup, but stopped short upon finding the newest member of the gang hovering over the open pot.

"Excusez-moi, what are you doing?"

Surprised, Holden straightened upright. A nervous expression spread across his structured face; high cheekbones, prominent jaw, pale skin, and all. His watery blue eyes darted this way and that under a mop of curly blond hair. Every muscle tensed beneath the periwinkle turtleneck sweater and webbed braces he wore. To LeBeau he appeared to be stalling for an explanation.

Christian Holden was an inigma. Although he had proven himself to be smart and even tempered on occasion, he was also edgy and uncomfortable around other prisoners. So far, Newkirk had been the only one successful in reaching him. LeBeau guessed it was Holden's age. At twenty, he was the youngest airman in their Stalag. He was a child. A green-flyer clean off the battlefield, and as with most baby-pilots, he was jumpy and untrusting. To make matters worse, once on laundry day, LeBeau had caught glimpses of yellowing bruises and scars on the young pilot's arms. He knew what they were. The Gestapo left a prominent calling card.

On a personal level, Holden's interactions reminded LeBeau of a wounded cavalry horse he had once met. At ten years old, he had come across the battle worn gelding in a field outside of Paris. Horses were a rare commodity in France at the end of the First World War, and young horses were even more rare, which made this one special. Previously a robust Throughbred, the gelding was now a worn four year old. It survived the last leg of a war, to be ruined and abandoned in the countryside. LeBeau could still remember the gnashing teeth, flashing flint hooves, and rolling white eyes, of the terrified horse as he and his father tried to help it. In spite of the pain, the crazed gelding shied at every kind effort and lashed out in anger instead. In the end, only a merciful bullet to the head had been the answer. The horse had become too much of a danger to itself.

"Oi! Leave him be, he's a Surrey lad," Newkirk said, breaking into LeBeau's silent observations. "Try not to be so sensitive."

LeBeau watched Holden relax. Newkirk certainly had an effect. "I cannot help it, mon ami." He said, "The English revile good food. I get suspicious."

"Show me some good food and I won't revile. Holden lad, I'd put the lid back on. That dreg is liable to take the paint off the ceiling."

Dropping the pot lid with a clatter, Holden stepped away forcing his hands into his pockets. "Uh, yeah," He said, finding his voice. "I'd take a plate of bangers and mash over this lot any day, I would."

Hogan chuckled.

"Animals," LeBeau said. He stirred one last time and lifted the pot from the stove. Carrying it to the table, where a series of mismatched ceramic bowls awaited, he ladled the rations and passed them around.

"Still all clear, Carter?" He asked, handing the Sergeant his allotted dinner.

"Uh, yup," Carter said, diving hungrily into his dishful with a dented spoon.

Soon everyone was eating. All except for Newkirk and Holden, who declined with a combined, 'Delicate stomach, us English. We can't put just anything in', to which LeBeau responded in a stream of unintelligible French. Even Hogan discussed the advantages and disadvantages of ambushing the convoy dressed as SS men, around mouthfuls of watery fish.

"It's been a while since we've played Gestapo dress-up." He said.

Newkirk poured himself a cup of coffee. "Marvelous! I've been dying for a chance to try out those lovely pair of black pumps the Red Cross sent."

Suddenly, the secret bunk entrance activated from below. Everyone perked up, alert, as their second in command, Sergeant James Kinchloe, ran up the ladder.

"Colonel Hogan!" He paused on a rung. His long, square frame, blanketed in an olive drab field jacket, was visible from the waist up above the hole in the floor. Beads of sweat glistened on the ebony skin of his forehead, beneath the bill of a sweater cap. His mustache twitched with his lips in anticipation. In his hand was a slip of blue paper.

Hogan recognized urgency when he saw it, "Kinch, what's wrong?"

"Sir, I beg to report," Kinchloe took a breath. "We've got a code red emergency—"

Just then, Carter let out a yelp, "Schultz is coming!"

Everyone froze.

"And he's got Klink with him!"

TBC, Thanks for reading!

*SYMBOL was the codename for the "Casablanca Conference", held in Morocco on January 14-24, 1943*