May 1964

Veteran's Hospital

Bridgeport, CT

"That bomber jacket and I have been through too much together to allow some wet-behind-the-ears kid to destroy it now! We may be a bit scuffed up, but we have a lot of miles left in us…I am not bleeding, so you are not cutting it off!"

"But, sir, we have no choice! We have to check you out in order to treat you!"

"That's fine. Just do it without cutting the jacket! I didn't let those blasted ambulance attendants do it, and I am not about to let you do it, either!"

The nurse and the intern staring down at the middle-aged, dark-haired man lying on the gurney were astounded. They were used to belligerent or combative accident victims. Those they could handle easily. This man was neither. He was very calm, but also very determined. He also outranked every single person in the room.

Although, he didn't look it at the moment. He wore heavy, faded Levi's and scuffed combat boots…probably his original pair by the look of them…He held his left arm close to his side, held in place with his right.

Hogan tried again. "Look, pain I can handle. Just sit me up and take the jacket off. My shoulder is just dislocated. Not the first time. It won't matter if it gets jostled around some. Not a big deal. Just ease the jacket off. Then do what you need to do."

The intern shook his head vehemently. "No, sir. I cannot do that. We can't risk further injury. Your shoulder may be broken."

Dr. Michael Freeman had heard the commotion in the far end of the Trauma Ward. He also realized his colleagues must have an extraordinary patient on their hands. One who was apparently making their lives difficult from the sound of things. Well, Freeman, as the head of the Trauma Ward, was used to difficult. He swept into the ward and, before seeing the patient, took the chart from the nurse.

One look immediately told him what the problem was…and he knew they were doomed. This man's reputation had more than preceded him. There wasn't a more difficult patient to deal with on the entire planet. Unless perhaps it was one of the men loyal to him. Not much was known of their activities during WWII, as much of it was still classified, but enough was known that no one messed with the man lying on the gurney in his trauma ward, or the men who had been in his command, even while prisoners. Or, actually, Freeman amended…were still in his command; as two of the younger men still worked with him…

He shrugged off the thoughts and turned back to the problem at hand.

The doctor was frustrated It wasn't like he could just brush off the general's demands. But he was also a patient, and as a doctor, patient well-being came first. Suddenly, inspiration hit. His own father was a Navy veteran, so he really did understand what the jacket meant. But, as his own father had been a Commander in the Navy…also a leader, Dr. Freeman though perhaps he could draw on his father's wisdom to get the man to see reason.

He introduced himself to General Hogan, who was still trying to alternately badger and charm the medical personnel into helping him out of his jacket. Hogan looked up him and grinned. "Hiya, Doc!"

Freeman was surprised at the total lack of military protocol on General Hogan's part, until he thought about it. From what he had heard, this was just his personality. He was not one to stand on ceremony, unless he had to.

Once again, the cajoling and bargaining began, with the doctor rapidly losing both patience and ground. Finally, Freeman asked him, "How do you know it's not broken, sir?"

"Simple. I had it broken one time before, during the war." His expressive brown eyes grew distant and dark. "It's not broken."

Freeman stared at the general. He had not missed the phrasing, and it shook him to the core. All thoughts of trying to persuade the man before him to let him cut the jacket fled.

Quietly, he beckoned to his team. In a low, but determined voice, he told them. "We are going to help the general remove his jacket. We are not going to cut it. I am trusting him about his injury. I will take responsibility." And although there were varying looks of disapproval or curiosity, the team had been given their orders. They would obey them to the letter.

Freeman suddenly thought of something. "Just exactly what happened, today, Sir?"

Hogan smiled ruefully. "Took a turn a bit too sharp, I guess. Slid on a patch of sand, and wrecked my Harley."

The doctor winced. "Tough break."

Hogan nodded. "Yeah. Tell me. Newkirk's gonna kill me. We just finished restoring it."

Freeman's eyebrow quirked. He'd heard the name. "One of your men, isn't he?"

Hogan nodded again, looking askance at the needle one of the nurses held ready. "What's that for?"

"Just a painkiller. This is gonna hurt, sir."

"No, I don't need it."

Freeman smiled. "All due respect, General, maybe not. But, maybe, you deserve it?"

A world of understanding passed between them, and Hogan nodded. The doctor pushed home the plunger, and Hogan shut his eyes, trying to relax.

Freeman told him, "We'll let that work, and take off the jacket in fifteen minutes or so."

He then turned back to one of the nurses and asked, "Have you been able to reach an emergency contact?"

The nurse replied, "We tried, but no one answered the telephone. We left a message at the General's office. They said they would track down the contact. Apparently, they work together." A sudden commotion in the hallway made them all turn, even Hogan.

A slightly scruffy middle-aged man, with brown hair and green eyes stood there, shaking off a security guard who was attempting to restrain him. The man was as roughly dressed as Hogan himself. He zeroed in on Hogan and headed directly for him. "Cor, guv! What've ya gone an' done this time, mate?"

Freeman's eyes widened for a moment. He knew who this had to be. He stepped over to the man. "You must be Peter Newkirk. I'm Lt. Commander Freeman."

"I am. What happened to Colonel…er…General Hogan, then?"

Catching the frantic look on Hogan's face, Freeman smiled slightly. "He'll be fine…why don't you come with me, we'll talk about it." And he escorted the Englishman from the room, much to Hogan's chagrin. If Freeman said a word about the bike, Hogan knew his life was over.

When Dr. Freeman returned ten minutes later, Hogan's shoulder was pleasantly numb. When Hogan asked where Newkirk had gone, the response was ominous. Freeman looked distinctly uncomfortable when he replied that his friend had gone to see about collecting Hogan's Harley. "Yes, well, he did seem a bit…miffed." Hogan rolled his eyes. Miffed. Yeah.

The old brown jacket was finally removed without incident and returned to the general, after his dislocated shoulder had been put back into place and his arm strapped to his chest. A nurse helped him back into his shirt, but he elected to hold onto the jacket. He sat in a wheelchair, waiting for Newkirk to come and pick him up. He stared at the jacket, thinking back on some of the memories the rich, dark brown leather evoked.

"LeBeau, I'm holding you in reserve...we just may have to poison that bridge!" *

"There is no such thing as just one rabbit…" **

"Say hello to Sgt. Freddie for us." ***

There was also a faint odor of cigar smoke, "Hogan, I know you are up to something…" Who would have ever thought Klink really did know what they were up to? He laughed, remembering Liberation, and Klink's greatest coups. ****

No one would ever truly be able to understand what the jacket meant to him. Some might call him foolish or childish for reacting the way he had, but this jacket was connected to a part of him-a part of his life-he would never willingly lose. The men, all of them, truly were heroes. His heroes.

~TBC~

A/N: * "German Bridge is Falling Down." ** "Klink vs. the Gonculator." *** "Monkey Business." **** Okay, there is an unconfirmed rumor about an unfilmed script…but I just liked the idea…so I ran with it.