I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story.

This story forms a concurrent narrative to part of "Operation Briefcase" (Season 2). If the death of Hercules in that episode distresses you, stop reading now.

Cover image: Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840) "Tree of Crows" (detail)

"Come on, Ned. What are you waiting for?"

Resting one hand against the rough bark of the old oak, the other shading his eyes against the afternoon sunlight filtering through the leaves, Ned gazed up at the pair of legs swinging back and forth above his head.

"I'd rather stay down here," he called back.

He ducked, as an acorn came flying towards him, and a shrill voice sounded from an even higher perch than that held by the owner of the feet: "Funker. Cowardy custard."

Ned could feel his face going red. He glanced at his fingers to see if they'd blushed as well. "I'm not. Don't be such a beast, Atkins - ow!" A second acorn had found its mark.

Atkins Minor laughed, but Dodders twisted around to glare at him, and spoke up in his chum's defence: "Leave him alone, Atkins. He can't help it if he's a bit of a duffer. He had another nosebleed last night from running upstairs too quickly. He had to go to Matron about it."

"He's always getting nosebleeds," scoffed Atkins. "Every cricket match, he gets sent off because his nose is bleeding, usually after he's dropped a catch. He couldn't hold a catch if they handed it to him in a bucket."

"It's not my fault," Ned protested. "Nosebleeds run in my family. And I'm not a duffer."

"Well, you are, rather, old chap," said Dodders.

Atkins shied another acorn, clipping his target neatly on the ear. "You're the biggest juggins in the whole school. I bet you can't climb a tree. I bet you can't even climb a ladder."

"Can, too."

"All right, let's see you do it, then."

"Matron told me not to do anything that might tire me out."

As soon as he said it, Ned realised how utterly feeble the excuse sounded, and he went hot all over with shame. Atkins gave another scornful snigger, and stood up on his branch. "I dare you."

Ned wasn't taking that, not from an absolute rotter like Atkins Minor. He took a deep breath and gripped the lowest branch with both hands. Waving his legs wildly, he managed to swing one foot up and hook it over the branch, but the scratchy bark and sharp twigs hurt his fingers, and without thinking he let go, and fell.

He must have hit the ground jolly hard, because the impact knocked him senseless; and he came around slowly, with a curious sense of the fall having lasted a very long time. He was quite alone, and it was as dark as a moonless night could possibly be.

After a while it occurred to him that he should try to stand up, but it wasn't as simple as that. For some reason, his legs wouldn't move. He wove his fingers into the cat's-cradle of narrow cord in which he was tangled, and tried to pull himself upright. At once he was overwhelmed by a wave of pain so intense, he could almost taste it.

He fell back, and for some time lay still, breathing in shallow gasps.

I wonder where Dodders has got to, he thought vaguely. It wasn't like old Dodders to leave a chum in the lurch like this. Ned puzzled over it, in an odd, muzzy sort of way, until he finally concluded that Dodders hadn't actually been here at all. Neither had Atkins Minor, which was something of a relief.

Funny, the things a knock on the head could do to a chap's thinking apparatus. For a while there he'd completely forgotten how he came to be here, lying in the depths of a foreign wood, with the torn remains of his parachute above his head and fragments of branches, broken off when he'd crashed through the trees, digging into his back. No wonder he'd been a bit muddled when he came round.

He hadn't fallen. He had jumped, from a plane; and if the sticky situation he was in now was anything to go by, he'd made a hash of it.

What about his mission? He groped for the package he'd been sent to deliver, and was reassured to find it still lay on his chest, secured for the jump by a cord around his neck. He'd studied it during the long flight from England until he could practically have drawn it from memory. To all appearances, it was nothing special; a brown leather briefcase, of standard design, artfully scuffed and scratched so it didn't look brand new. His fingers found the clasp; it was undone. Considering what the case contained, it would have been a bit messy if he'd accidentally clipped it shut.

"I suppose I'd better go look for the chaps I'm supposed to hand it over to," he said aloud; and was appalled at how weak and shaky he sounded.

He fumbled at the buckle of his parachute harness, but his fingers didn't seem to know how to undo it. He was still trying when he heard a rustling sound from the surrounding undergrowth, followed by a faint, hissed call: "This way, Kinch. He's over here." Before he had even registered that the words were spoken in English, two figures in black emerged from the shadows. They crouched beside him, one on each side.

"Hercules?" whispered one of them.

"That's right. Are you chaps Stalag 13?" Ned peered up at the two faces; one blackened with soot or some such thing, the other needing no such camouflage.

"We are. Welcome to Krautland."

It was comforting, in the middle of hostile territory, to hear a cockney voice, and to have friendly hands free him from the harness which had resisted his own efforts. But as soon as they tried to help him up, the pain came back, worse than before. For a few seconds his grip on reality wavered, but somehow he held on.

"…must have been the flak when they brought the plane down." The words reached him as if from a distance. A moment later, he felt the briefcase being lifted from his chest, and he clutched it protectively.

"Careful," he gasped. "Loaded. Explosives."

"Can you walk, mate?" asked the Englishman.

The very idea seemed so absurd that Ned had to laugh. "Negative. Sorry."

They didn't hesitate. Without any discussion, working together as one, they lifted him up as gently as they could manage, and set off for home.

Being moved hurt a lot. Ned bit his lower lip and endured as best he could, but it was too much. He had a feeling he had better not to wait too long to tell these men about the briefcase; but for now it seemed so much easier to let go and slip into the relative comfort of unconsciousness.

"You are a clumsy clot, Ned. You nearly pitched down head first," said Dodders.

"Would have been a soft landing," called Atkins. He had reached quite a height by now, and the brightness of the light, scattered among the leaves, made it hard to look for more than a few seconds.

"Well, at least I'm not completely bone-headed, like...like some people I could mention." Ned's voice squeaked, to his embarrassment. He'd just caught sight of the ground, far below, and he felt sick at the thought of what would happen if he lost his balance. But the last thing he wanted was for Atkins, or even Dodders, to know how jolly frightened he was. He shuffled along the sturdy limb beneath him until his back was against the trunk, and slowly stood upright.

"We're a long way up, aren't we?" he said, trying to sound unconcerned.

"Not frightfully," replied Dodders vaguely. "Nothing to get windy about, anyway."

Atkins dropped down to their level, with the grace and ease of a gibbon in its natural habitat. "He's scared of falling," he crowed, swinging his body back and forth with his feet on one branch and his hands holding the one above. "Silly ass! Falling out of a tree doesn't hurt. It's the landing that does for you." He let one hand drop like a plummeting body, and blew a raspberry to imitate the final splatter. "Strawberry jam," he finished in a sepulchral groan.

"Oh, do lay off, Atkins," said Dodders. "It wasn't the landing. You heard what that chap said, it was the ack-ack. Rotten luck, if you ask me. Still, it could have been worse. Imagine the mess if the flak had set off that briefcase."

A chill went up Ned's spine. "I would have been blown to bits. I say, what a frightful idea! It would have wrecked the whole mission."

He gazed at the shifting, indistinct pattern of foliage above his head. The mission, of course; he still had to complete it. There was too much at stake for him to let it go now.

As if from a distance, he heard Atkins's scornful riposte: "The mission's a bust, anyway."

"Sorry, Ned, old thing," added Dodders, "but he's got a point. Even though you've delivered the package, it's no good if they don't know what to do with it. Bad show, and all that, but it can't be helped."

Ned scarcely heard him. The light had grown dim, as though he was drifting into a restless, uneasy dream. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by weariness.

"…gently, now." The voice of the American, Kinch. "Maybe we should rest for a bit. We've still got a way to go, and he doesn't sound too good."

Don't worry about me. Ned couldn't find the strength to get the words out. His limbs were heavy and nerveless, as though they didn't belong to him any more; even the pain of his wounds seemed to have nothing to do with him. Only the weight of the briefcase, still lying on his chest, seemed real.

With an effort, he forced his eyelids apart, and got some air into his lungs. He tried to speak, but the sound caught in the dryness of his throat, and only a rasp made it out.

"Take it easy, chum. Don't try to speak."

They didn't understand. He'd have to try harder.

Listen, chaps. It's absolutely vital that you give this briefcase to General…oh, bother.

All he'd managed was another feeble croak, and that had exhausted him. No wonder the whole school thought he was a duffer; any minute now, and his nose would start bleeding.

"Give him some water, Newkirk. I'll prop him up."

Ned caught his breath, as a strong, steady arm raised his head and shoulders slightly. He felt the rim of a canteen against his lips, and eagerly swallowed the cool sweet trickle of water. For a few moments, he let his head rest against the comfortable support of his new friend; then he sighed, and looked up at his companions.

"Feeling a bit better, mate?" The enquiry sounded cheery enough, but the fellow couldn't hide his concern.

"Quite, thanks." Ned raised an unsteady hand to the briefcase. "Just to be safe, though - better tell you what this is for..."

His voice grew stronger, as he went on. It wasn't quite how he'd imagined this briefing would be given; but necessity was often the mother of odd situations. He spoke as rapidly and clearly as his waning strength would allow, until his words finally began to fail him.

"Okay, Hercules, we've got it," said Kinch. "You've done your part, and we'll take care of it from here on. So all you need to do now is just hang on till we can get you back to camp. Think you can do that?"

Ned was fairly certain he couldn't, but he didn't like to say so; these two chaps had been so awfully kind. So he just gave them a bit of a smile, and braced himself.

"...are you sure you didn't forget anything?" asked Dodders.

Ned looked around. They were almost at the very top of the tree now, and the sunlight had mellowed into the golden glow of late afternoon.

"Did you remember to tell them that the general has an identical briefcase, and that they have to switch them? And that it's meant to do for that frightful blighter, Hitler? And did you warn them about the timer in the briefcase latch?"

But Ned was sure he hadn't missed a single detail. He shook his head, and stretched towards the next branch.

"Dodders, can I ask you something? Were you frightened, when...well, you know, when your number came up?"

The answer was slow in coming. "I don't think I had time to get the wind up. It all happened rather fast, you know. As for Atkins, well..."

"Don't remember anything about it," Atkins shouted back. Ned squinted into the shimmering light; but he couldn't see him.

"I shouldn't worry if I were you," Dodders went on. "After all, once you're here, there's not much point, is there? Come on, it's not far now."

For a few heartbeats, Ned lingered. He hadn't much time left, for the light was fading fast. He didn't want to go on; he would have liked to know whether the mission which had cost him so dearly had been worth it. But he'd done his part, and that would have to do. Reluctantly, but with resignation, he followed his old chum.

And as he went, he found one consolation. There was no need, ever again, for him to be afraid of falling.