Master Manipulator

The return of this story. This is an edited version of the original. Past readers of "Master Manipulator" will not find any new content, but new readers will, hopefully, find a sleeker, more cleanly-structured story. Originally written/posted in 2005.

This is the story of Hogan and Klink and their developing relationship throughout the time of the show and beyond, but primarily it's Klink's story with a sometimes radical reinterpretation of his character that still draws off the canon portrayal. The story attempts to cover the entire span of the TV series, citing many of the episodes in, roughly, the order they aired. Dialog and scenes from the episodes are intertwined and reinterpreted throughout, with all due gratitude to the original authors and creators. Any fanfic writer is welcome to use any original character, scene, or scenario in this story in any way desired—sequels or new stories--no need to ask my permission.

Advisory:

While only mild English curse words are used, there are several very strong German curse words used--be advised. Any important German dialog will be translated. Untranslated German words are only exclamatory expressions.

Chapter 1

These are the saddest of possible words:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double –
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."

By Franklin Pierce Adams
New York Evening Mail July 10, 1910

The plane shuddered violently, making a noise Hogan had never heard from it before. Then the controls went to mush and suddenly Hogan found himself living the very scenario he'd drilled into his men time and again.

Somehow it was different when it was real.

Hogan struggled in vain for any hint of control over the falling plane. None. Scheiße, he thought sharply, using the word to himself that he never used out loud.

A frightened shout came over the shriek of tearing aluminum as the Fortress tried to rip herself apart. Hogan gritted his teeth. Abandoning the useless controls, he throttled back on the starboard engines while pushing the port. He felt the plane's attitude change.

"Bail out," he yelled, fighting the throttles, trying to buy seconds for his crew.

Unlocking his seatbelt, Hogan quickly checked his chute harness. Grabbing his co-pilot, he dragged him out of the cockpit. Alive? Dead? Hogan didn't know. No time to check. A glance around the plane. No stragglers. Good boys. Followed orders quick and without question. Not that anyone would question wanting to get out of this bird.

As Hogan threw his co-pilot out of the plane, he yanked the man's ripcord. He'd probably die--if he wasn't dead already--but at least he had a chance.

With last flick of a glance around the bomber, Hogan's contingency plan for just this occasion flashed through his mind. Frankly, the plan was much more appealing as a contingency than a reality. So it was with a wry grin on his face, Colonel Hogan leapt into the flame-filled night.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad… being shot down in Germany, Hogan considered hopefully. It could just work out. Yup. Could be.

Being greeted first thing by a pretty girl… that had to go in the plus column. Step one of all his plans involved a pretty girl. Not too bad. Not too bad at all, what with the scent of the edelweiss in the air, and the moonlight bathing her golden curls as they cascaded down to very voluptuous…

Hogan swallowed hard and twitched his hands nervously higher. It was hard to concentrate on the pretty girl behind the big verdammt shotgun she had aimed squarely at his chest.

With his best disarming smile, Hogan murmured, "Hello Goldilocks."

It didn't disarm her. Instead she leveled the ancient shotgun more firmly, glaring at him while she shouted for her papa.

And then Papa Bear and Baby Bear were there and Papa Bear--a grizzled, no-nonsense sort--had another shotgun pointed at him. Baby Bear didn't have a gun, just a pitchfork. Hogan gulped. He'd heard those stories. The boy--Goldilocks' kid brother, he figured--was a gangly, sneering snot who looked like he stepped off a Hitler Youth poster. Staring Baby Bear down coldly, he thought, smile all you want now. Another year and you'll be cannon fodder at the Russian Front.

"Komm mit," Papa Bear growled, waving the shotgun.

Just about the same words in English as in German. Hogan started cautiously the direction Papa indicated. Hogan wasn't about to let on he understood any German, let alone that he was entirely fluent. Even in his own army, in these times, that was a big no-no. Few outside of the High Command knew.

Taking a step, Hogan winced and stumbled as his left leg tried to collapse under him. It took all his will power not to lower his hands and grab his leg. He didn't. A chest full of shotgun pellets would not improve this evening.

"Komm," Papa Bear repeated, but sounded a touch less threatening.

Must be shrapnel, Hogan thought as he limped forward. He didn't remember how or when it happened. On the plane? Flak in the air? The numbing shock was wearing off, leaving each step a stab by hot knives. He silently ran through his entire repertoire of German curses as he hobbled toward the cottage, then started on the English collection, which had grown in past months thanks to the RAF boys.

"Oh, God," he ended aloud as he sank down by the table. The Kraut family with the shotguns stirred. Hogan froze. Okay… no blaspheming in words that sound too much the same in both languages.

Hogan forced Papa Bear to pantomime the angry instruction for him to put his hands flat on the table's top before he complied. Don't understand German, Hogan chanted to himself. Don't speak it. Don't react to it. It was incredibly hard not to react when Papa told Baby Bear to run off and fetch the Gestapo. Ah, scheiße … he did react, throwing a genuinely frightened glance at Papa on the word 'Gestapo'. Everyone knew that word.

Papa scowled but seemed, to Hogan, a hint regretful. Not quite regretful enough to let him go, but enough to lower the shotgun barrel to a less ready-to-fire position. Now if Goldilocks would only take her finger off the trigger, maybe Hogan could start breathing again.

Mama Bear bustled out from the shadows. Hogan liked her at once. Not only was she a round, motherly sort, but she immediately began berating Papa and Goldilocks for keeping the poor boy--Hogan--terrified he was going to be shot at any moment. Hogan met Mama's eyes, trying hard to look like everyone's very pathetic son. She smiled sadly at him.

"Oh, the poor boy," Mama went on, clucking sorrowfully as she clanked pans in the kitchen. "We should feed him."

"He was shot down five minutes ago," Papa growled. "He's not starving."

"Not yet," Mama countered. "But who knows when he'll next see a decent meal."

Hogan didn't like the sound of that.

"Lisel, put that gun down," Mama ordered. Goldi--Lisel--didn't, but at least she took her finger off the trigger. Hogan let out a little sigh of relief.

"No," Papa was saying. "No food. The Gestapo will be here in a few minutes." Hogan's eyes flicked over to Papa again on the word 'Gestapo.' The big man scowled once more, but now appeared a trifle apologetic. Hmm… not fans of the Bad Guys, huh big fella?

"Well," Mama huffed. "At least I'm going to see to his leg." Papa grunted assent.

Mama came over beside Hogan cautiously. He smiled reassuringly at her. She told him--in German--what she wanted to do, speaking very slowly and clearly. He stared at her blankly until she motioned her intents, then he nodded.

The shotguns leveled again as Mama Bear knelt beside him and gently raised his trouser leg. Hogan's breath hissed through his teeth as she pulled the sticky woolen underwear--worn to protect against the freezing high altitudes--away from the wounds, and it was a struggle not to move his hands from the tabletop. One look at Papa's and Lisel's expressions told him it would be profoundly unwise to do so.

Hogan glanced down. Five jagged holes in his calf. None looked too serious. Gently, Mama cleaned away the blood. A piece of shrapnel showed in one of the wounds. Mama met Hogan's eyes and mimed what she intended to do, all the while murmuring soothing things in a language she assumed he didn't understand. Hogan's hands clenched into fists as she pulled out the metal shard. For the next one, she needed tweezers. Hogan needed a stiff drink, but none was forthcoming.

Then Mama clucked sadly and told him, while miming the words, that the other shards were too deep. She couldn't get them out. Then she showed him the iodine bottle, pulling out the stopper to show him the dark liquid, waiting for his nod before putting the stinging antiseptic on the wounds.

To distract himself during the procedure, Hogan stared at Lisel. Shotgun or no, she was entirely stareable. He worked out an alternate version to how this evening had gone, one with he and Lisel proclaiming their undying love by the edelweiss. A small smile crept over his face as he watched her. Usually it worked on the girls, but this Fräulein was ice to the core.

Clearly annoyed at his study of her, Lisel snapped, "You shouldn't be doing that for him, Mama. He deserves to suffer. He's a murderer."

It took everything Hogan had not to react to that. Instead he flinched at Mama's work with the iodine.

"Hush, Lisel," Papa rumbled.

"He is," Lisel insisted. "He was part of the bombing tonight and you know it. Murderer. Killing our children." She twitched the shotgun barrel and Hogan couldn't help but meet her eyes, though he pretended not to understand her words. "What did you bomb tonight?" she demanded. "A school? An orphanage?"

Hogan inwardly seethed. I'd like to show you what the Blitz did to London, lady, he thought, or to Coventry. He glanced down again. Mama Bear seemed on the verge of tears as she snuggly bound his leg in clean clothes. She eased his trouser leg back down and rocked back on her heels, looking up at him. Hogan murmured, "Thanks."

It might have been the first time Mama Bear heard the word, but she understood it. "Bitte," she answered.

The black uniforms chilled Hogan in a way he hadn't expected. His reaction caught him off guard and Hogan feared he let something the Gestapo must never see show through for a moment before he clamped down his control again. One of the Gestapo wore a SS uniform, a captain. The two others yanked Hogan up out of the chair. Don't resist. Just stay alive. Unfamiliar faces. Very familiar evil on them, matching Baby Bear's malicious glee.

Roughly searched, Hogan saw Papa's and Lisel's eyes widen as the Gestapo thug set Hogan's pistol on the table. It was followed by a pocket knife and a straight-blade knife. They didn't seem interested in anything else he had on him.

His hands were jerked behind his back and cuffed. The captain then approached Hogan, pistol raised, and for a moment, Hogan did believe he was going to die. Glaring at the Kraut without blinking, he sure as hell wasn't going to let this Esel get any satisfaction out of it.

Then the moment passed and the guards dragged Hogan outside to a waiting van. Through the door of the cottage, Hogan caught one last glimpse of the expressions on the faces of Goldilocks and the Three Bears--Mama, wistfully sad; Papa, solemn and serious; Baby, maliciously pleased; and Goldi, coldly contemptuous. Hogan filed that information, as well as his best guess as to the family's location in his memory before the guards slammed the door of the van closed.

Name, rank, and serial number… Colonel Hogan had ground that into his men over and over. Nothing else. Not your squadron number. Not your crewmate's names. Not even if they say it's just so they can notify the families. Not your hometown. Not your dog's name. Nothing. Name, rank, and serial number…

Hogan didn't even get to say that much. No one asked. The captain reached under his shirt, pulling out Hogan's dogtags and read the information to the desk clerk from those. The clerk wrote it down and the guards unceremoniously hauled Hogan off to a cell. Not a single question was asked. The guards were forceful, certainly, but not particularly rough. It wasn't what he had expected of the Gestapo.

Up a flight of stairs, down a long corridor lined with steel doors, Hogan was led. His long-thought-out plan of sneaking across Germany and being back to England in time for the next bombing run appeared fairly improbable at this point. His other plan, which was somewhat more grandiose and had the Brass suggesting he might need psychiatric help, seemed even more improbable just now. Of course, that plan always had seemed improbable. At the moment, though, 'impossible' was definitely in contention.

He only had a glimpse of the interior of the cell as the cuffs were removed and he was shoved in. Bare concrete. No bed. Not even a bench. A bucket in one corner. Nothing else. Bang! With the scraping of the key in the lock, the cell plunged into darkness.

Breathing heavily, Hogan felt his way to one of the walls and sank down slowly to the floor. What time was it? It hadn't been too long. The others wouldn't even be back to England. They wouldn't know yet, at base, Colonel Hogan's plane was one of those never to return. They'd count them in as they landed, searching the sky for the stragglers, the damaged planes limping in slowly, straining to hear the distant engines. Counting. They'd come up short on the count.

Unbelievable. Hogan rubbed his hands over his face. He spoke German like a native and knew the country well, both first-hand and from intelligence briefings. He was well-equipped and not too badly injured. He'd planned for every contingency. Yet he'd gotten caught and ended up in a Gestapo jail inside of an hour after bailing out. He closed his eyes and sighed. If he couldn't manage it, it didn't speak well for anyone else's chances. He tried not to think about the rest of his crew. Or the other crews. A lot of planes wouldn't be coming home tonight.

Hogan sighed heavily and leaned his head back. Yes… they needed help. Help here on the ground. The gears in his head started to turn, churning out and honing ideas. Then he eased down flat on the floor. He'd get right on that tomorrow.

Three, very long, days later the cell door opened and a guard snapped, "Raus!"

He didn't need that invitation twice. Even an interrogation would be better than this waiting. Expecting a dank and terrifying Gestapo interrogation chamber to be his next stop, Hogan was pleasantly surprised when they emerged into the building's antechamber. There waited a Luftwaffe major and two privates. Hearing the conversations, he realized the Luftwaffe major had arrived to take custody of him. Hogan could have kissed him.

Wincing at the unaccustomed sunlight, Hogan struggled between the two rigidly marching Luftwaffe guards as they led him toward a waiting staff car. Even the Gestapo guards had moved slower.

"Slow down," Hogan snapped. His leg screamed at him with each step.

"Langsamer," a voice behind him called. The guards immediately slowed their pace.

Hogan twisted to look at the Luftwaffe major. "You speak English?"

"Ja," the major said shortly, measuringly examining Hogan. "You are injured?" he asked when they arrived at the car. His English was stilted but understandable.

"Yeah," Hogan said. "My leg has shrapnel in it." It was a surprising relief to be able to talk to someone. Anyone. About anything. Hmm… okay, that was something to keep in mind. Name, rank, and serial number…

The major blinked, his expression unreadable. "It will be seen to when we arrive." Shifting to German he told the guards, "Put him in the car."

Seated in back with the major, Hogan ventured, as they started off down the boulevard, "So… where are we going, Fritz?" If they didn't want to question him, maybe he could question them. Seemed fair.

The major threw him a startled glance. "How is it you know my name?" he demanded.

Hogan twitched a grin. "Lucky guess," he said. Now just tell me the ones in the front seat are named Hans and Jerry and we're all set, he thought.

"Auswertestelle West," the major answered Hogan's question. "You know of it?" Hogan nodded. "Ja," the major said, still scrutinizing him. "I think it is not a secret where captured fliers are first taken. The evaluation center…" Interrogation center, Hogan mentally corrected him. "…hospital, and the transit camp, where you will be before being sent to a Luft Stalag."

"Sounds like loads of fun," Hogan muttered.

Very seriously, the major said, "The Luftwaffe is not the Gestapo."

You're all evil Nazi Kraut bastards to me, Hogan thought loudly as he smiled agreeably at the major.

The strip search was fun… in a perverse sort of way. The nature of army life tended to squelch any sense of modesty, and those searching him were professionals, utterly disinterested in anything but methodically accomplishing their task, so there was no sense of humiliation to the process, just amusement to their reactions to some of his accessories.

Dumping Hogan's watch and wallet into a box, one of the men conducting the search informed him, "You will have your personal items--your legitimate personal items--returned to you when you are sent to a Luft Stalag." He hesitated over a set of keys on a ring, raising a quizzical eyebrow to Hogan. "Automobile keys?"

"Motorcycle," Hogan corrected.

"You have a motorcycle in England?" he asked.

"No. It's in the States," Hogan said.

The German scowled at Hogan, then at the keys. "And you carry the keys while flying over Deutschland." He sighed and dropped the keys in the box. He looked up at Hogan again. "Americans are…" He stopped, shaking his head.

"Crazy?" Hogan filled in helpfully.

A miniscule smile twitched at the man's lips. "Ja. That is the word."

Full smiles seemed to be a rare thing in the Third Reich, Hogan considered. And they think we're crazy.

They escorted him to the hospital next. Hogan hadn't been at all sure they would and he didn't relish the thought of having the shrapnel left in his leg, possibly crippling him. He also hoped he'd get a chance to look through the wards; to see if any of his men were here, but two guards led him straight to an exam room near the entrance.

It was like being taken to the doctor when you were five years old, Hogan decided, when you had no say in anything and didn't know what was going on. Except he doubted there'd be a lollipop at the end. No one talked to him or explained anything, just pushed and pulled and pointed until he did what they wanted. He wasn't sure any of them spoke even a word of English. Directed to an exam table, he sat with his leg outstretched, a guard on either side. A doctor and a male nurse/orderly (More's the pity, Hogan thought. He'd hoped there'd be a female nurse.) entered. Never once looking Hogan in the face, the doctor just poked at his leg and began issuing orders. It was disconcerting in a way Hogan had never expected, this being treated as an object… or a prisoner.

At least he understood what they were saying. For a wounded flyer who only spoke English, this must be terrifying.

The orderly pushed up the leg of his trousers, then clipped off the bandages Mama Bear had wrapped around. Hogan jerked as the dried blood on the cloth pulled at the wounds. As the doctor poked and peered, the orderly pushed Hogan down flat, loosing his shirt sleeve and pushing it up his arm--to take his blood pressure Hogan supposed. Then…

"Oh, hey, there!" Hogan yelped and pulled his arm away. "What the hell is that?"

The orderly, who was really far too large and brawny to be called a nurse in Hogan's admittedly biased estimation, had a syringe with a big verdammt needle on the end and was about to stick him in the arm.

"No. No," Hogan said emphatically, fighting not to shift over to German to make it entirely clear they were not to put whatever that was into him. Language didn't matter--they got the message. The orderly straightened. Then the doctor made a curt gesture, barked an order, and the guards were holding him down and that needle was sliding into his arm and the plunger was pressing downward and…

"Mmmm…" Hogan relaxed backward with a sigh. The restraining hands lifted. Okay, no need to worry. Hell, no worries at all. Blinking, Hogan turned his head to admire the ceiling. The movement made him dizzy. But it was a nice dizzy. Oh, hey… the doctor was working on his leg. How 'bout that? Hardly felt a thing. Didn't hurt anymore. That was nice too. He blinked again. Didn't want to fall asleep here. Too important to pay attention to…

Clink. Metal hitting metal. A chunk of the shrapnel. Distantly, he heard the doctor say it appeared to be aluminum. Huh. A piece of his plane. Be nice to keep it as a souvenir.

Clink. One more to go. Hogan blinked hard, fighting the lulling pull. Even through the haze, a lingering thought kept nagging at him. Being helpless, having no control over so much as the next minute of your life. Yeah, he got it now. This was what being a prisoner really meant. Definitely have to do something about that…

Hogan's eyes blinked open. For just a moment he thought he might be in the base hospital in England. The Fortress had managed to limp back home with her wounded pilot. The last days had just been a bizarre nightmare. Then he heard voices and he wasn't in England any more.

Turning his head, he saw he was still on the exam table. His leg was neatly wrapped. He moved it experimentally. Not bad. Of course, he was still pretty doped up. No doubt it would throb later.

Hmm… there was something he noticed when he looked around. What was it? Suddenly Hogan became much more awake. The guards were gone. He was alone.

No, they were at the door. He saw the back of one as he shifted, eclipsing the doorway. Two guards. He heard the other's voice. Yeah, they were both out there. Pat and Mike. Or Hans and Fritz. Whatever the hell it was he'd tagged them. The important thing was, they weren't watching him.

His eyes darted around. Was there another way out besides the door? A window. Slightly ajar. If he moved very quietly…

Easing off the exam table, Hogan paused to test his weight on his injured leg. Not bad. Not bad at all. For all the lingering effects of the drug made him dopey, it also let him walk without a noticeable limp. Okay, now props…

Ah, bless that terse old doctor, he'd left his white lab coat. A counter nearby provided one of those white cloth caps to cover his hair. One more thing to make the outfit complete… Ah, a clipboard and pen. People were clipboards were busy, too busy to stop to ask if they were escaping POWs.

The window creaked slightly. Hogan froze, but the guards didn't turn. Dropping to the ground, on his good leg, Hogan crouched behind the bushes a moment, deciding his next move. The guards would discover him gone at any moment and raise the alarm. They'd assume he was trying to get away. They would look outwards, away from the hospital. So he'd go inwards.

Waiting for a instant no one was looking, Hogan stepped briskly out onto the path and marched up to the front door of the hospital. The exam room was the first door off to the left. His soon-to-be-in-deep-trouble guards chatted with the orderly. Not a one so much as glanced at him as he strode by.

Hogan rounded the corner and entered the stairwell. Whew! There was the first hurdle. He sank back against the wall for a moment to catch his breath and let his racing heart slow down. He knew perfectly well the Germans might shoot him if they caught him, but--damn!--that was fun.

That thrill was enough to carry him up several flights of stairs. By the final flight Hogan's leg started objecting to his callous treatment of the freshly repaired wounds. Nothing he could do about that, though. Or was there?

Come on, Hogan, think. You're a doctor. Or near enough at the moment. Confidently striding over to a medicine cabinet, he opened the door and rummaged through the contents.

"May I help you find something, Herr Doctor?" a lilting voice behind him asked.

"Yes, nurse," Hogan answered smoothly. He turned and gave her his best knock-'em-dead smile. This time it worked. She positively melted. "I'm looking for some aspirin. Bit of a headache," he said.

"Of course." She reached down a shelf from where he'd been hunting and handed him the bottle.

"Thank you, my dear," he said, smiling at her again. She hurried to fetch him a glass of water. Yes, indeed, things were definitely taking a turn for the better here.

Gulping down the aspirin (and sneaking a few into his pocket for later), Hogan managed to deflect his new admirer, saying he wanted to make the rounds, checking on the patients. "No, no, don't let me distract you from your duties." He lowered his voice. "But perhaps later, when you're off work, a little dinner, perhaps?" She blushed and fluttered her eyelids charmingly at him before returning to her work. All good. Able to charm the girls again, at least the ones without shotguns, and apparently his accent in German passed muster. All good.

Feeling more cheery than he had in days, Hogan set off down the rows of beds filled with wounded Allied fliers. The cheeriness faded as he saw the extent of their injuries, as well as their numbers, but the care they were receiving seemed decent. Fritz's words about the Luftwaffe not being the Gestapo played through his mind. Carefully, he studied each man's chart, memorizing the names as he went.

On the fourth bed, he heard a commotion outside. Leaning out the window, Hogan grinned as he watched his two guards run around frantically. Maybe he'd rename them Stan and Ollie. As he expected, the search radiated outward from the hospital building. By the time he'd visited all the beds on each floor he should be able to walk out of the hospital without any notice at all.

Recognizing many of the names on the charts, Hogan grimly made a tally of those injured in his last misplayed bombing mission. What had he done wrong? His plans weren't supposed to fail.

"Oh, thank God," he whispered as he picked up the chart at the end of a row two floors down. It was his co-pilot. He'd have never recognized him, so swathed in bandages was he. Unconscious. Just as well. Hogan studied his chart. The man was direly hurt, but might survive. That was one, Hogan sighed. Now where were the other eight? Hogan sat down on a chair by his co-pilot's bed, squeezed his eyes closed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Colonel?" Hogan heard the low whisper from the next bed. He glanced over, putting his finger to his lips to hush the man. Turning sharply to see if anyone had heard, Hogan scanned the ward. None of the nurses noticed. Shifting the chair around, he pulled it up closer to the other bed.

"Hey, Jim," Hogan whispered, grinning. His navigator.

"When did you join the German medical corps, Colonel?" the lieutenant asked.

"Haven't. I'm escaping. You up for a go?" Hogan asked hopefully. If he could get at least one of his men back home…

Jim shook his head sadly. "I'm not going anywhere for quite a while. Leg's shattered. But you give the Krauts hell for me, okay?"

Hogan nodded solemnly. "I will. What about the others?"

The bombardier had been captured unharmed. Beyond that, Jim didn't know. They'd been too spread out when they bailed out to meet up before the Germans captured them. "You better get going now, Colonel," Jim finished.

"Be seeing you in Piccadilly," Hogan promised, giving his hand a squeeze. It was hard to walk away and leave two of his men behind, but it's what he had to do. Three accounted for. The other six…?

The doctor's lounge was empty. Hogan paused to rest and drink their coffee--the real thing--before deciding his leg really ached far too much to consider walking. He'd flown into the country. It just wouldn't be appropriate to walk out. If not a plane, at least the Germans could provide him with a car.

And the good doctors had fine taste in cars. Hogan found Mercedes keys hanging in the third doctor's locker he tried. There weren't many cars parked outside. It would be easy to find.

Confidence. Assurance. Doctorly arrogance. Just act like you belong, Hogan, and no one will notice.

And they didn't. No one gave him a second glance on the way out. Amazing what you could get away with just by acting like you ought to be doing it. People saw what they wanted to see, he decided as he reached for the car's door handle. This was damned fun, good as a bombing run. Now if he could just figure out how to terminate this little adventure with something blowing up, the fun would be complete.

"Colonel Hogan."

Hogan closed his eyes and groaned. The major. Fritz. Scheiße.

"Drop the automobile keys," he ordered. Hogan let them fall, his heart falling with them. "Turn around."

Cautiously, Hogan complied. The major had a pistol trained on him. He wore an expression that managed to roam somewhere between amused and angry while still stoically bland. Fritz shook his head slowly.

"You caused quite an excitement, Colonel," the major said. "Now, remove the hat and the coat." He emphasized the order by gesturing with the pistol.

Hogan pulled off the white doctor's cap and shrugged out of the lab coat. He laid them on the hood of the car, never taking his eyes off Fritz as he did so. Hogan hooked his thumbs into his jacket pockets and leaned against the car. Fritz's expression shifted toward the amused end of his stoic spectrum. With his free hand he made a small waving gesture. Hogan sighed and raised his hands. So much for this dramatic escape.

There was a great deal of shouting and running around and people blaming other people and stammering of denials and somewhere in the midst of it Hogan noticed that no one had been particularly assigned to watch him.

And no one particularly was.

Very carefully, he eased a half step back. Then another. Slowly he lowered his hands and no one threatened to shoot him. Fritz shouted at Stan and Ollie who each pointed at the other and at the orderly. Others got into the act as the searchers were called back. Another half-step.

One more and he had a fair-sized tree between him and the gathered crowd. Now he'd just turn and casually saunter away.

A bullet kicked up the dirt by his feet. The pistol's report punctuated an immediate silence over the crowd. Hogan froze and raised his hands again.

"I am really growing to dislike you, Fritz," Hogan told the major as he walked up, pistol again aimed Hogan's way. Belatedly dutiful, Stan and Ollie grabbed his arms.

To the guards, but holding Hogan's eye, Fritz said, "Please restrain the colonel so he does not feel the need to wander away again." The major said it in English for Hogan's benefit. To the guards he only snapped, "Cuff him."

With his hands locked behind his back, and Ollie gripping the chain as though his very life depended on it--and maybe it did--Hogan decided that the escape options remaining for today were probably pretty limited. With a sigh, he resigned himself to spending one more day in German custody. But just one.

After the abject desolation of the Gestapo jail, the interrogation center's cell seemed positively luxurious. An actual bed--though the concept of 'comfort' hadn't gone into its design--a small table and chair, and enough room to pace. The window took most of Hogan's attention at first. Barred and shuttered.

Sitting down on the bed, Hogan leaned against the wall and contemplated everything he'd seen so far. The biggest weakness lay in assumptions. Assumptions were made about a prisoner's expected behavior, and variations weren't handled with any sort of imagination or initiative. The guards operated on strict patterns of routine. Hogan only had to find the breach in the routine, drive a wedge in, take advantage and he'd be on his way. Piece of cake…

Early the next morning two guards appeared at the door, ordering him out. Hmm… he'd seen other prisoners being escorted within the prison when he was brought in. They only merited one guard each. But they didn't cuff him, so that was something. As he limped between them down the long corridor, Hogan decided two guards could be an advantage. If he could find a way to play them off against each other…

Hogan entered the spacious office he was escorted to, finding himself being watched with intensity by the plump and pleasant-looking man seated on the other side of a table.

"Please sit, Colonel," the man said with a smile, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

First giving the room a thorough examination, Hogan pulled the chair back a bit and sat, studying the German carefully. He gave one of his patented "You're gonna like me" grins.

The man's eyes shone with lively interest as they played over Hogan. This is a man who enjoys his work, Hogan thought. I just wonder how much he enjoys it.

"You've already lived up to your reputation, Colonel Hogan," the interrogator said. "Resourceful, innovative, and impossible… ahem, almost impossible to defeat." The interrogator's English was perfect, Hogan noted, with a slight British accent.

"I am Ulrich Hardt, senior interrogator of Allied fliers for the Luftwaffe. You may call me Ulrich, Herr Hardt, or--" he grinned "--any colorful American idiom you find appropriate. I will not take offense. And you are?"

Finally! "Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, 0876707."

Hardt grinned even broader. "Of course." He leaned back, his eyes twinkling at Hogan. "Let us have no pretense here, Colonel. We both know perfectly well what this meeting is about. I intend to be completely forthright with you and you, in turn, I expect will be completely un-forthright with me. It's the way this game is played."

"Game?" Hogan couldn't help but echo.

Beaming, Hardt said, "Yes, game. The kind of game I know you enjoy. Strategy and tactics. Give and take. Tricks and deception. I think it will be fun for both of us," he paused and rolled his eyes thoughtfully, "to a point."

Yeah, Hardt, and that point would be…?

The interrogator stood and moved to a side table. He poured out two cups of what looked and smelled to be real coffee. Hardt set one cup on the table in front of Hogan. "Cream? Sugar?" Hardt asked.

Trap, his by-the-book- training screamed. Hogan shook his head. He didn't touch the cup. Bait. Reward. Hogan never did believe in going by-the-book. "Yeah, both. Cream and sugar." Hogan saw Hardt blink and take in this tidbit of data as he poured a generous dollop of cream in the cup and spooned in some sugar. That was too easy, Hogan could see him thinking. For Hogan's part, he decided to play the practical. He might prefer his coffee black, but anything that resembled food wasn't to be turned away lightly.

Then Hogan saw Hardt twig to Hogan's reasoning and nod. Smart man. It all hammered home to Hogan the subtleties and minutia at work here. He had to tread very, very cautiously with Hardt.

Leaning back, Hardt sipped from his cup. Both he and Hogan appraised each other for a quiet minute, then Hardt spoke. "I said I would be forthright with you. I will. All captured air force officers are questioned here. Depending on the information we believe they may have, or that we want, their stays here may be as short as days to as long as months." He stared at Hogan seriously. "I should not be expecting to leave here any time soon, if I were you, Colonel."

Charming, Hogan thought. Hardt went on, "The tactics used in the interrogations vary depending on our evaluation of the subject. Some are immediately threatened with torture." At Hogan's raised eyebrow query, Hardt hastened to add, "But none are actually tortured, I want you to assure you of that. Prisoners here are not physically abused, only threatened. That said, however, techniques to create mental discomfort and stress are readily applied. The cell in which you are housed may be left in total darkness for extended periods, heated or cooled to uncomfortable levels… Simple solitary confinement, I have found, however, is the most effective way to create a conversational atmosphere." He looked at Hogan imploringly. "I sincerely hope I shall not have to order the more uncomfortable conditions to be applied to you, Colonel. I much prefer you to be alert and willing in our talks."

Hogan smiled with perfect insincerity at him and said nothing. Hardt grinned back.

"Of course," the interrogator said. "The talking part is my job. We will be spending many hours each day together for some time to come. If you won't talk about you, you'll have to listen to me talk about myself." He chuckled. "Which may be its own form of torture." Hardt shrugged. "For yourself, Colonel Hogan, you may sit silently. You may recite your name, rank, and serial number as often as you wish. Or you may--as I hope you will--engage in some verbal chess with me."

His face went serious and he leaned forward to add, "But I must warn you, Colonel, at some point, if I show my superiors no results, the matter of your interrogation will be taken out of my hands. The High Command knows who you are and your value as an information source. You are the highest ranking American officer captured thus far, leader of a bomber squadron that has wrecked havoc on our cities and installations." He sighed. "They will not give up on you easily or lightly."

Ten days… Hogan had to admit he enjoyed this game, and playing it with Ulrich Hardt was great sport. The man was brilliant. They talked on countless subjects, each always trying to extract useful tidbits of information from the other without seeming to do so. Any time Hardt slipped in his subtlety, Hogan promptly countered with his name, rank, and serial number, invariably provoking a laugh and a 'touché' from the interrogator. Were it not for the inevitable guards and locked doors, it would have been almost possible to forget the seriousness of the situation.

"Bravo, Colonel," Hardt greeted him on the tenth day of the interrogation. "I have reams of transcripts of our conversations, gone over with a fine toothed comb by our experts and they all agree you've spoken a great deal and yet said absolutely nothing." Then his face went serious and he sighed. "Unfortunately, this means I must 'raise the stakes' as I told you I must when we began. I'm afraid conditions for you must now become less agreeable."

"Of course, Ulrich," Hogan said, scowling. "Because I've been so enjoying the tiny cell and starvation diet until now." Time to get the hell out of here, Hogan thought.

A trip to the latrine between a pair of guards he'd been particularly working on--both spoke some English--and the short trip turned into a longer one out the door. Security was, as he'd predicted, sloppy at points they didn't expect to be breached.

As he eased away into the darkness, Hogan almost wished he could see Hardt's face tomorrow.

As the old saying goes, Hogan thought as he knelt in the dirt with his hands folded on top of his head, be careful what you wish…

"You know, Fritz, it's definite," Hogan grumbled, "I really hate you."

The smile that flickered across the major's face was extremely brief. "I believe you, Colonel." Hogan had gotten five miles before the major and his guards caught up with him. No money, no papers, and no civilian clothing definitely put a crimp in Hogan's travel plans. He made a mental note of this fact.

Escaping from Germany really shouldn't be this hard, Hogan thought sullenly as two guards from the growing list who thoroughly despised him hauled him to his feet. He must be doing something wrong.

The handcuffs stayed on and the lights went out as the guards shoved Hogan back into his cell. Scheiße. Now how do I get out of this?

When Hardt greeted him the next day he wore a sorrowful expression. "I have been instructed to inform you, Colonel," he said without preamble, "that any further attempts to escape will be met with the strictest of responses. You will be put in irons and chained to the floor if need be, to keep you here. For now you will remain handcuffed twenty-four hours a day and no English-speaking guards will be assigned to you." His eyes flashed just a hint of anger at Hogan before he contained it.

The interrogator stared down at the table, tapping his fingers on it. Hogan stood still, watching him expressionlessly. He hadn't been offered a chair, nor any of the other pleasantries Hardt had provided before.

"Now, Colonel, you must provide me with some answers…" Hardt began.

Tersely, Hogan recited, "Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, 0876707."

Hardt strode past him, jerking the door open. "Guard," he called in German. "Take him back to his cell."

An indeterminate number of days… He sat in the endless, unvarying, silent darkness and pulled up various plans and schemes he'd had, reworking and revising them. Just as soon as he got out of here…

Then he gave up the attempt at self-delusion and glumly contemplated the darkness. It was easy, too easy, to see nothing but the dark while trapped in it. Defeat. The darkest hour… The Germans seemed unstoppable. Hogan's own successful bombing raids were little more than pin pricks. Defeat? Their darkest hour… The Brits didn't shy away from the thought; didn't try to paint on a rosy glow. They faced the darkness and troubles staunchly. Resolutely. What were the words their cigar-puffing old bastard used? "though…many…may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air… we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender."

Hogan smiled to himself. Clasping his hands together to ease the pressure of the cuffs on his wrists, he let more words flow through his mind. "We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I can say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might… to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime… what is our aim? I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be."

Defeat? Hmph. To hell with that.

The interrogator, Hardt, appeared positively nervous as Hogan was finally brought into the room. "Colonel..." he began…

"Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, 0876707."

Hardt nodded. Staring down at the tabletop, he said, "The High Command has ordered you to be turned over to the Gestapo tomorrow for more… rigorous questioning." Pausing a moment, apparently waiting to see if Hogan would speak, Hardt cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he added. Hogan believed him.

To be continued...

Notes:

Ulrich Hardt is not the name of the actual head interrogator at the Luftwaffe evaluation center, as this character is not meant to accurately represent a single, real historical person.

The Churchill speeches quoted date from 1940 and the Battle of Britain.