Author's note: As requested quite a while back by several readers of "Swapping Generals" (my rewrite of the episode "The General Swap"), this is a re-visioning of "Hogan, Go Home," an episode which some fans have found unsatisfactory in its portrayal of Hogan's willingness to leave early in the episode. This story follows the plot of the original episode fairly closely; it's essentially the episode from Hogan's point of view, including a number of missing scenes, to try to explain why Hogan acts as he does in the episode and to give the episode more consistency. Thus naturally a number of lines from the original episode are sprinkled throughout this story, mixed with other dialogue of my own invention. You don't have to have read "Swapping Generals" to understand this story, though this is intended to correspond with my rewrite of the other episode, particularly my final chapter on General Barton. Familiarity with the original television episode will be a help, though.

I have loved Hogan's Heroes since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy, although I have taken the liberty of adding a few minor characters of my own to the original set. And though I borrow the plot and some of the dialogue written by Bill Davenport in his memorable Hogan's Heroes episode "Hogan, Go Home," I acknowledge the ownership of the creators and writer and of Bing Crosby Productions, and I intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story.

ooOoo

How on earth had his life gotten so completely screwed up so quickly, Hogan wondered furiously, as Corporal Hahn pushed him roughly through the door and he stumbled into the cooler cell. As the door clanged shut behind him, Hogan folded his arms around his chest and glared at the far wall, refusing to turn around and give Hahn the satisfaction of seeing his face as he was locked in. The key scraped, turning the lock, and Hogan gritted his teeth, then a long moment of silence followed, during which Hogan stubbornly kept his back turned. Finally, the booted footsteps stomped off down the corridor, receding to the short stairway that led back outside from the lower cell floor.

Once he heard the outer door to the compound open and shut, Hogan finally swung around, glowering at the barred doorway. He wasn't in an isolation cell, so he could see out through the door. The problem was that anyone in the corridor could see in equally easily. That was the reason why he and his men had never bothered to create an access to this particular cell—a short-sighted decision that meant that he was really stuck here, unable to communicate with his men, until Klink decided to let him out. The question was, would his hasty arrangement with Newkirk actually work to get him out of here? If not, he was probably going to be looking at these four silent gray walls for quite a while.

Though that might be preferable to listening to Crittendon.

Too angry and restless to sit down on the hard wood bunk, he began pacing the small cell, reviewing what had led up to him getting thrown in here. Not two days ago, he'd been in command of an elite secret espionage and sabotage team; now he was in effect demoted, plus stuck in the cooler for who knew how long. He was mad at London, mad at Klink, mad at Crittendon, and—above all—mad at himself.

It's your own stupid fault, he castigated himself, reaching back in memory to two nights earlier….

ooOoo

He was so tired. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs as he raised the pointer on the diagram of the Kessling refinery, going over the placement of the bombs he'd painstakingly worked out so that they could take out the munitions train along with the refinery. But he had to make sure that everyone understood the strategy of the layout and their own role, since timing was going to be crucial.

The plan had taken an immense amount of measuring and figuring to find the right placement that would ensure achieving both objectives. (When he was a kid he never would have believed that wars involved so much math.) So by the time they'd gotten it all worked out the hour was late—or early, depending on how you looked at it, with only a couple of hours left to try to get any sleep before morning roll call. But everyone's mood was good, even his own; the double goal on this mission seemed doable and complete success very likely. It had just taken a lot of hours to get it all nailed down, and coming on top of several late nights for other missions this week he was really tired. Kinch had offered earlier to close things up downstairs, and Hogan was going to let him do it for once.

Exchanging goodnights with his men, he wearily hauled himself up the ladder and then moved quietly through the common room to his office, nodding to Saunders and Addison who were still up and on watch, standard practice when the main team was in the tunnels below. Closing the door to his quarters gave Hogan the usual sense of mild relief, momentarily shutting out his duty. He shucked off his uniform, folding it and putting it on his footlocker where it would be handy in the morning, and pulled on his pajamas. Then he hauled himself up into the upper bunk, where he arranged his blanket over himself as he stretched out. Consciously, deliberately, he relaxed his tight muscles, one group at a time. Lassitude overcame him quickly. Thank God this wasn't going to be one of those nights when he couldn't stop his mind running. . . .

"He's gonna be pretty sore about it, all right." Kinch's voice, right outside his door.

Dear lord, now what?

"But he's never got this kind of a crazy order before." That was LeBeau.

That didn't sound good. Hogan raised his head slightly, then let it thud back against the thin wood shavings mattress.

Newkirk said, "I think we ought to let him sleep a little while longer, you know, before we tell him."

As he forced himself to sit up, then swing down from the bunk, grimacing as his bare feet hit the floor, Hogan wasn't sure whether to be irritated that they'd think of delaying giving him orders that had come through, or to be moved by Newkirk's apparent solicitude.

As he padded over to his locker and pulled on his robe, he heard Newkirk add, "You know what a nasty temper he's got when he's tired."

That tipped him unequivocally into seriously annoyed.

Carter broke in next. "Yeah, and he was beat tonight," he said as Hogan started to pull the door open. Oblivious, Carter went on, "Boy, he'd eat us alive if we woke him up right now with a message like this." Hogan opened the office door fully and leaned on his arm against the door frame, looking at the backs of the four men who comprised the inner circle of his unit, all gathered near the stove. "I'd like him to sleep as long as he can," Carter finished.

"I'd like that too, Carter." Hogan didn't bother to disguise the sarcasm in his voice this time and had the satisfaction of watching all four of them jump.

And then Kinch handed him the piece of paper that changed his life: "You are relieved of duty as Commanding Officer of Special Unit 42136 and directed to report to Washington for a hero's welcome and reassignment to special service for a three months' bond-selling tour."