Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes; I only wish I did. There is no point in suing me, because I all of my money went towards textbooks.

Constructive criticism is welcome, and I don't mind flames, so long as they're creative. Thanks to Suzanne of Dragon's Breath for the beta and the title.

Chapter 1

"Herr Kommandant, all prisoners present and accounted for." For once the statement was true. The week had been quiet for the prisoners due to the presence of the SS in the area. No one was sure why they were there; they certainly had not informed Klink of their motives, but Colonel Hogan ordered all sabotage and espionage activities suspended. Taking chances with the SS was just too dangerous.

The men of barracks two fidgeted, stamping on the packed snow of the compound as they waited for the ritual to end so they could return to the relative warmth of the building behind them. Even Colonel Klink must have been chilled, for he wasted no time on his usual bluster.

Finally, Klink voiced the anticipated command, "Dismissed." The prisoners turned to reenter the barracks, then stopped as one. The sound of airplanes, German and American, drew every man's eyes to the sky.

"Back, back, back! Everybody back into the barracks!" Shultz clucked as he tried to herd the POWs back inside. His efforts came to naught as the prisoners just ignored him as usual and continued to watch the sky.

One German fighter managed to lure one of the Allied bombers out of formation and shot it down. Moments later, four parachutes dotted the sky, illuminated by the flames of their plane as it crashed in the German forest.

Kommandant Klink straightened and looked his American counterpart in the eye. "This just proves that Germany will win the war," he boasted. "Your planes drop like flies fighting the illustrious luftwaft."

"Maybe this time, Kommandant," the American colonel shot back. "But there's a beach in France that says otherwise."

The German officer was silent, though the prisoners howled with laughter; the remark had hit a nerve. He remembered the day that beach was taken. How could he forget? It had taken weeks to clean up the mess. He was surprised he managed to escape with his skin intact, let alone his command. He made the only reply that let him save face, "Dismissed."

For once, the prisoners obeyed the order with alacrity, especially Colonel Hogan. His grin vanished the instant he crossed the threshold, and he turned to face his staff.

"Are we going to rescuer the bomber crew, mon Colonel?" LeBeau asked.

"We shouldn't," he replied. "The woods are lousy with Krauts."

"But we're going to anyway, aren't we, guv'nr?" Newkirk added.

"But we're going to anyway. Any volunteers? I'd go myself, but I'm due to talk to London. They aren't happy about our little vacation." No one spoke. "Newkirk."

"Sir?"

"Thank you for volunteering. Take Carter and Olsen and go out the emergency tunnel."

It took very little time for the three men to change into their black saboteurs' clothing, but they didn't have much choice but to hurry. Their need to stay outside for roll call had delayed their rescue attempt, so they had very little time to beat the patrols to the downed fliers.

Wraithlike, they moved through the sparse undergrowth as quickly as stealth permitted. All three had been part of the operation for years and had plenty of experience moving undetected through the forest. They were silent, ghosts, mist. Almost. All three froze as Carter missed seeing a stick under the snow, and so stepped on it with a loud crack.

For all of his Sioux heritage, Sergeant Andrew "Little Deer Who Goes Swift and Sure Through Forest" Carter was anything but swift and sure. He cringed at the harsh glare Newkirk aimed in his direction, happy that looks couldn't kill.

When they were certain they hadn't been detected, the men resumed their trek at a slower pace. Though it did have the fringe benefit of making it less likely for Carter to step on another stick, the real motivation was they were approaching the area were the fliers should have landed. If patrols were anywhere, they'd be here.

Moments later, another crack shattered the stillness, and Olsen and Newkirk both turned to glare at Carter. "It wasn't me," he whispered hotly.

Newkirk opened his mouth to reply, but the words died on his lips as the sound was heard again. It hadn't been a twig after all. It was a … gunshot? He moved in the direction of the sound, flanked by Olsen and Carter

As they moved closer to the site, they could hear laughter. Cold, cruel, mocking laughter. All too soon, they reached the source. As one, they crouched in the bushes to watch. The downed fliers had been found, but not by a normal patrol.

In their years as guests of the Germans, the men of Stalag 13 learned that the SS rivaled the Gestapo for atrocities. However, academic knowledge did not make the observation easier to bear.

Flashlights illuminated the appalling tableau. Carter focused on the SS to delay taking in the rest of the scene for as long as he could. There were about twenty of them, all armed, and from what Carter could see, a captain was in command. He seemed cold and cruel, and there was a light in his eyes that wasn't entirely sane.

The SS soldiers laughed at the man in front of them, an American major judging by the uniform. He struggled frantically with his captors, trying desperately to escape, but to no avail. The goons holding his arms only laughed off his attempts and forced him to his knees next to a dark spot.

Carter tried to see what the dark area was; there shouldn't be a shadow there. It was the smell he recognized first, the cold, metallic tang of blood and death. Looking closer, he identified three bodies lying in the dark. What he had mistaken for shadow was actually the dark red stain of Allied blood. It was all Carter could do to keep from crying out in horror.

A sudden movement brought Carter's attention back to the captain. He had drawn his sidearm and aimed squarely at the still struggling American major's forehead.

Carter glanced at Newkirk, who shrugged sadly. Both men realized there was nothing they could do. The three of them could never hope to defeat so many people.

They turned back in time to see the Nazi's finger tighten on the trigger. A fourth shot disturbed the night, and blood spattered on the formerly pristine snow behind the major.

Carter gasped. Unfortunately, the Germans heard the sound, and every eye—and gun—turned towards the American sergeant.

The POWs did not wait to see if the SS would consider the sound a potential threat. Newkirk laid down covering fire, the all three beat a hasty retreat.

Within moments the Germans returned fire. Most of their shots missed. One didn't.