A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.

Written as an entry for the 2013 Short Story Speedwriting challenge. First line is from Les Fourmis (Empire of the Ants) by Bernard Werber.

You'll see, this is not at all what you expect.

Or maybe it is...I don't know. All I can say is, what happened wasn't what I expected. Not at all.

I guess I should start at the beginning, huh? Since this is about Henry and me, let me tell you how we met.

It was just a regular day at East Jackson High. I was minding my own business when I got a glimpse of that lunkhead Mike Simpson trying to push a younger kid around. Mike was a well-known bully and most of us gave him a wide berth, but that day I just couldn't take watching him pick on somebody smaller than him.

Well, Mike was bigger than me, too, and I'm not sure how it would have ended if another guy hadn't sailed into the fray. When the dust-up was over and the younger kid had run off home, I found himself mopping up a bloody nose as my new ally and I stood over the fallen enemy.

The bully staggered to his feet and I clenched my fists again, ready to resume the battle, but then the creep started to cry.

"Lemme alone! Two against one? Not fair! Not fair!" With that, Mike turned and ran.

I looked over at the new guy, who wasn't any bigger than me and pretty banged up. He was an owlish-looking kid who seemed like he should have been wearing glasses except he wasn't.

I grinned. I probably looked pretty bad myself, but at least Mike got the worst of it. Then I stuck out my hand. "I'm Bill Keegan. Sure glad you showed up."

The new guy grabbed my hand and shook it. "Henry Addison."

And that's how I met the guy who wound up becoming my best friend. Henry was sort of solemn and not much for conversation, but that was okay by me. I had four sisters—two younger, two older—and I figured they produced more than enough conversation for any one person to handle. Being around Henry was pretty restful, actually.

We hung out together, worked on Dad's old jalopy, treated girls to milkshakes at the local soda parlor, allowed my sisters to teach us how to jitterbug, and generally did what most teenagers did in the late thirties.

After high school graduation we both started working for my uncle, fixing cars. And then...Pearl Harbor. Well, Henry and I decided not to wait for the draft. As soon as FDR declared war we signed up for the Air Corps, because Henry was of the opinion that we could learn to do aircraft maintenance. But as fate (and the War Department) would have it, we both got assigned to gunner duty instead.

Obviously we didn't have a clue of what we were in for, but Henry insisted that we would succeed anyway, even though we were going to be air crew instead of ground crew like we had planned.

I was glad when we got assigned to the same squadron, and eventually to the same bomber. Twelve missions we had together, and in between missions we sort of made fools of ourselves in the English pubs. Well, I did anyway. Warm beer really wasn't my thing, but you had to make like the natives if you wanted something to drink, and on occasion I managed to put away more of that warm English ale than I should've. More than once Henry had to drag me out of a pub and back to the barracks.

I tried to thank him once, but Henry just shrugged. "That's what buddies do," he said. And it was true. Through thick and thin, Henry and I stuck by each other.

Then came that fateful flight in August 1943. Just another mission, with the ponderous formation moving inexorably toward the target: the infamous ball-bearing plant at Schweinfurt. A lot of bombers got shot down that day, but Henry and I were naturally concerned only with our own. Boy, were we scared! During those terrifying minutes of smoke, blood and confusion, I knew somehow that I'd been hit, even though I didn't feel any pain. I looked over at Henry, who was my fellow waist-gunner. He didn't seem injured and he had his chute on, but he was just standing there, clinging to his gun turret and staring at me.

"Henry!" I bellowed. "Come on! We gotta get outta here!" Henry finally shook his head dazedly and made his way to the main entrance door to bail out. And I followed him, wondering what would happen next.

On the ground I was glad to see that Henry landed safely, and I told him we had to run and hide. But next thing you know a farmer showed up with pitchfork in hand after calling the Gestapo. Henry didn't say anything to the farmer or the Gestapo, but I knew he was scared. Heck, I was scared too.

The Krauts at the interrogation center didn't pay any attention to me of course, and Henry never talked much anyway, so I thought we got through the whole Dulag Luft experience pretty well. But next stop was a POW camp, and that couldn't be good.

I sat next to Henry in the transport truck with two bored Luftwaffe guards. "Wonder where we're going," I said, but the guards ignored me and Henry just sighed.

As it happened Stalag 13 was our destination, and at first glance it seemed marginally better than Dulag Luft. As I stood beside Henry in the Kommandantur, the adjutant looked up from his desk. He was a mousy looking guy by the name of Captain Grüber, and he said in very good English, "You are assigned to Barracks 2. Sergeant Schultz is your barracks guard, he will show you your bunk."

Well, I still wasn't sure what to expect, and as I followed Henry inside Barracks 2 I had to wonder at the attitude of the guys there. I mean, they were friendly and all that, but boy, were they on the watch for possible ringers the Krauts might have planted. So I just kept a low profile and Henry, like I said, never talked much anyway.

But as the days went by I became concerned; even Henry was never this quiet. I began to worry about him in this strange and scary new place. He just slouched around the compound without much to say to anyone, and he wasn't paying attention to stuff going on around him either, which was definitely not like him.

"Come on, let's join the card game," I'd say, or "Let's see what's going on in the recreation hall," but Henry would pay me no heed.

I figured the problem was this: Henry was the kind of guy who needed to know he was doing something worthwhile. Being stuck in a POW camp meant he wasn't doing anything to help end this terrible war, and he was in despair. And I didn't know what to do.

But after a week or so I realized that this was no ordinary POW camp. Guys here were doing something—I wasn't sure what—to get back at the Germans. And one day Colonel Hogan, the Senior POW Officer, came over to where Henry and I were sitting at the common room table.

He smiled. "You'll be glad to know that after our usual screening for security reasons, we've come to the conclusion that you're the real deal. So I'd like you to join me in my office to discuss your future here at Stalag 13."

Henry didn't reply right off, but he got to his feet, and I followed him into the Colonel's quarters and sat down beside him on the bottom bunk. We both listened to what the Colonel had to say, and boy, did he have something to say!

He finished up with: "...and that's the situation here. If you have any skills that you can offer this operation, great. If you decide not to participate, that's fine too. But you have every right to know what's going on here."

I sat up straight. This was it! This was Henry's chance to pull out of his funk and rejoin the fight against Hitler. There was no way I could contribute to the Colonel's operation, but Henry could, I knew he could.

So I whispered in his ear: "Go on, Henry. Tell him. Not only are you a great mechanic, you can speak German! Tell him!"

And lo and behold, Henry spoke. "Uh, Colonel, I've been meaning to tell you that I can speak German. I didn't want to tell anybody because, well, you know..."

The Colonel nodded. "Of course. You didn't want anyone suspecting you of being a plant." Then he started speaking German, and Henry spoke German right back to him. Naturally, I didn't understand a word, but Henry was smiling—smiling!—and for the first time in weeks, I felt hopeful about him.

And then Henry volunteered something else, in English this time. "And Colonel, I belonged to the drama club in high school."

Well, heck, I'd forgotten all about that! Things were looking up, and when the Colonel told Henry he could sure use him on his team, I jumped to my feet and shouted, "Yes!"

Of course they didn't pay any attention to me. But I knew Henry was going to be a great asset to the operation at Stalag 13.

And he was, in his own quiet way. He never did get to be very talkative with the other guys, but he started to interact with them and they all liked and trusted him. I got to see him take part in a few schemes of the Colonel's, and I felt as proud as if I'd taken part myself.

Then one day we were alone in the barracks, and I said, "Henry, looks like you're contributing more to the war effort now than we ever did as gunners. It's gonna be okay, isn't it?"

And then Henry turned and looked at me. I mean, he looked at me, really looked at me, and his eyes got huge. Then he smiled, and said, "I'm gonna be all right, Bill. You don't need to stick around any more. But thanks, buddy. I don't know how I could have gotten through this without you."

Well, this might sound kinda stupid (all things considered), but I got a lump in my throat. I knew he was right, though. Henry still had a job to do, but my work was done.

And then I heard a familiar voice.

"He's right, son. You've done good, but it's time to go now." Grandpa's voice was calm and deep, just like I remembered. I turned and saw him standing in the barracks doorway, surrounded by that strange glow that you always read about in books but never expect to see for yourself.

Grandpa went on, "You know, he was trying to deal with the loss of you, his best friend, as well as losing his own freedom. But he's come to terms with both now. It's time for you to come home."

I sighed, and then smiled. Yes, it was time. I took one last look at my buddy, and then I walked through that door and into what lay beyond.