No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Text and original characters copyright wordybirds. Thanks.

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Chapter One

Double Vision

"What seems to be the problem, Colonel?"

Colonel Robert Hogan pinched the bridge of his nose, then slowly rubbed his eyes. "Tell me I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing."

The young man standing before the US Army Air Corps officer raised an eyebrow, lightly ran his fingers across the beard he'd developed in the last week, and frowned. "I realize I'm not at my best at the moment, sir, but judging from the looks I've been getting since I was brought in here, I must be rather frightful." He shook his head. "If I might have the loan of a bit of soap and a razor, I'll see what I can do about it."

"And that accent. It can't be." The American shook his head and finally looked back at the Englishman. Slowly, as if afraid to hear the answer, Hogan asked, "What's your name, soldier?"

The Englishman smiled. "Squadron Leader Tristan Newkirk, sir. I hope you'll pardon that I don't stand to attention, but the Sergeant here," he nodded at Stalag 13's medic, Joe Wilson, "has already threatened to find his dullest needle and use it on me if I don't cooperate."

Hogan could only stare, then glanced over at Wilson and back to the Englishman. "Newkirk, you said? Squadron Leader Newkirk?"

Tristan nodded, his smile fading, only to be replaced by a certain stubborn look growing in his brilliant green eyes. "Yes, sir. Is there a problem, Colonel?"

Hogan exchanged a hopeless look with the medic. "Problem?" he gulped finally. "No, no, Newkirk... no problem. Just...didn't expect you to be so—uh... to show up here today."

"Quite frankly, Colonel, neither did I. Except I got shot down a week ago and had been on the run from the Jerries ever since. I'd rather planned to be well on my way to the coast by now, but the truck I'd stolen from a farmhouse ran out of petrol about ten miles down the road. I'd just started walking again when I was picked up by a patrol." Tristan shrugged. "We had a slight disagreement at first, but then they convinced me to accompany them here... wherever here is."

Hogan cleared his throat and shook himself to get past his amazement. "'Here' is Stalag 13. We're a small but friendly POW camp just outside Hammelburg. And in your case, you'll find it a little more familiar than most." Hogan paused. "You're getting all the stares today, Newkirk, because... because you're not the first Newkirk we've had the pleasure of meeting. Your brother Peter is here as well... He's one of the men in my barracks."

It was Tristan's turn to stare in shock as Hogan's words struck home. The Englishman couldn't find his voice for the longest moment, and when he finally did speak, it was in a choked whisper. "Peter is here? Where... where is he? When might I see him, sir?"

Hogan felt a tightening in his own throat. When was the last time these brothers had met? When was the last time Hogan had seen his own brother? "If I know my Newkirk—and I think I do—he's wandering around the compound, looking for something to snitch for us to use later on, bless his heart. I'll find him, and I'll bring him to you."

Tristan nodded slowly. "Thank you, sir." He looked away, bringing up a hand to rub his eyes. "That would be very much appreciated."

Hogan lowered his eyes to give this man time to bring his clearly close-to-the-surface emotions under control. I guess neither of the Newkirks is happy about showing his feelings. "I'll get to it right away," he said. "I gotta tell you," he added, shaking his head, "it's like staring at a twin. I'm not sure I can handle two of you; one Newkirk is a handful on his own."

"We're not twins, sir. I'm the elder by four years." Tristan shook his head, and smiled despite himself. "Am I to take it that Peter's made a bit of a nuisance of himself around here, then?"

Hogan couldn't resist a grin of his own in return. "Nuisance? Oh, I wouldn't go that far. Let's just say that the war would be a lot duller place without him. And I'd have a lot fewer gray hairs." He nodded. "You have yourself a rest; I'll bring him to you."

The Englishman nodded and picked up the faded German uniform shirt he'd been supplied with when his own uniform had been taken away to be cleaned, and carefully eased it on over some of Wilson's repair work. "I believe I'll take you up on that, sir."

Schultz walked into the infirmary, and nodded as he saw that everything seemed to be in order. "Colonel Hogan, Kommandant Klink wants you and New... the Squadron Leader in his office right away." He looked intently at the Englishman and shook his head. "I still can't believe what I'm seeing. He cannot be..." The Sergeant glanced at Hogan as if asking the Colonel to complete the statement.

Hogan didn't disappoint him. "He's not," he said flatly. "So now you really have a reason to be frightened." He looked over at Tristan Newkirk and grinned lopsidedly. "Come on—time to meet the Bald Eagle. I'm afraid your rest is gonna have to wait."

Tristan raised an eyebrow as he slowly got off the exam table, his face showing both amazement and amusement at the American officer's words and at his tone. Joking with a guard and making disparaging remarks about the camp's commanding officer? "Bald Eagle" Most interesting. He picked up his peaked cap and settled it on his head as he got his expression back under control. "Lay on then, Colonel."

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"Kommandant, I think under the circumstances the least you can do is let the Squadron Leader here be assigned to my barracks. I can always make room for him," Hogan said, trying to talk past the gaping stare that Klink's face had not lost since Hogan and Newkirk had walked into the room.

For his part, Tristan hadn't said anything beyond the obligatory "name, rank and service number" bit. Though the walk across the compound had reminded him of just how much he ached all over, he wasn't about to show these Jerries the slightest sign of weakness. He kept his mouth shut and listened, fascinated, to the conversation between the two Colonels, paying close attention to the way that Hogan seemed able to manipulate Klink without the German being aware of it.

"Your barracks?" Klink echoed. "What do you expect to do with two of them?" he asked.

Hogan shrugged. "It'll make it easier for me to keep them out of your hair—oops. Sorry, sir. Bad taste."

Tristan barely kept himself from laughing out loud at the wisecrack from the American officer as the phrase Bald Eagle flitted through his mind. He fixed his eyes on the massive blueprint of the camp that hung on the wall behind the German officer, studying it intently to keep himself from even glancing in Klink's direction. A smothered chuckle from Schultz, who was standing behind him didn't help matters at all, nor did the positively cheeky grin threatening to break out on Hogan's face. It was a close run thing, but Tristan managed it. Barely.

"Colonel Hogan, I am not here to facilitate family reunions for prisoners," Klink began, irritated.

Hogan spoke up immediately before Klink could continue. "Aw, come on, Kommandant. Are you saying that you really want to split these men up? How do you think that would look to the men, sir—they already think of you as a father figure—and to separate the sons... well, sir, that's just a punishment that no one deserves, sir. And I might add that, knowing Corporal Newkirk as I do, sir, that you'd be inviting an escape attempt, unruly activity inside the camp at all hours of the day and night—something that might ruin your perfect no-escape record, sir. And how would that look to the folks up in Berlin? Not to go over your head, sir, but if I don't speak up now for your own good, Kommandant, someone else might be dancing on your scalp—and you don't have anything up there to soften the steps!"

Tristan was just on the verge of losing his self-control when he heard Klink's annoyed spluttering and the comment back to Hogan to do whatever he wanted with the Squadron Leader, but that it would be on the Colonel's head if any problems were to result from having the two men in the same barracks. The Englishman watched from the corner of his eye as Hogan tossed off a casual salute that was answered with a much more correct one from Klink and was accompanied by a slightly drawn out "Disss-missed!"

Hogan bustled the Englishman out of the office. "Well, that's one Kraut out of the way. Let's get you back to the barracks to settle in, and I'll get Newkirk—I mean, Peter. I have a feeling I know just where he is."

The Squadron Leader nodded as he limped across the compound. "I must say, sir, that was quite a performance you gave in there. Bizarre, but brilliant, and a distinct pleasure to watch."

"'Bizarre' is a word I get a lot," Hogan answered. He slowed his step. "You sure you're all right to be out of the infirmary? You can always wait to get to Chez Garbage Dump for an extra day if you need the time with Wilson."

"I'm fine, Colonel. Besides, I've had quite enough of Sergeant Wilson's attentions to last me until the end of the war, however long that turns out to be." Tristan shook his head and grinned. "I'm anxious to see my brother, of course, but I'd never hear the end of it if he found me lying on a rack in hospital."

Hogan nodded his head. "I understand. Wilson means well, but once you're with him, he doesn't tend to let go. You can stay in my room for now—you'll have the bottom bunk. Once I'm sure I'm being a gracious host, I'll go get your brother."

Hogan opened the door to Barracks Two and gestured for the Squadron Leader to enter. "Well, it's not much, but it's a hole," he introduced the place. He looked around and saw that the room was empty. He headed for the stove. "Coffee?"

Tristan looked around the room, noting the cramped conditions as he took a seat at the table in the center of the room. "Yes, thanks. So, how have you been getting on with Peter? I know he can be a bit much at times." He smiled, well aware of the irony in his words.

Hogan didn't miss it. He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Tristan. "Newkirk is quite a character, I'll admit that," Hogan said with a smile. Tristan nodded his thanks for the drink. "Stalag 13 can be an interesting place to be, thanks to him."

"I can imagine." The Englishman took a sip of the bitter brew that was pretending to be coffee and grimaced at the taste. "You Yanks and your coffee. Still, it'll do to wake one up first thing, I suppose." Tristan glanced at Hogan and smiled to take the sting from his words.

"I don't call this coffee; I call it sawdust and acorns. But give it a couple of months and this will taste like mother's milk."

"Right, it seems that I'll have time to get used to it." Tristan sighed and studied the contents of his cup. He remained silent for a moment, then visibly pulled himself together and looked up at Hogan. "All right, Colonel. Where do I fit into things here? The Kommandant indicated that you are the senior POW officer; so who is the senior British officer then?"

"Senior—?" Hogan stopped. "Uh... I don't think you've got a full picture of Stalag 13 yet, Newkirk," he said thoughtfully. "This is an enlisted man's camp. I'm not just the senior POW officer for the Americans. I'm the only officer, period." Hogan paused as he considered his own situation, and grew quiet.

The Squadron Leader studied the Colonel thoughtfully, and the image of the blueprint came into his mind. I saw at least fifty barracks noted there, and if this particular one is typical, that's at least... nine hundred men incarcerated here. And he's the only officer. Bloody hell. "Sounds as though you're in need of an adjutant. It's been a while since I filled that role, but I believe I remember how, sir."

Hogan laughed a short, almost humorless laugh through his nose. "Thanks, but I think I have the pattern down now. I figure I won't need a barber by the time I'm fifty. My hair with either be gray or gone." He took a sip of the lukewarm brew and grimaced, then put it down. "The most important thing right now is to get you a place to call your own, and get you to see Newkirk—uh, Peter." He led the way to his quarters and opened the door. "The only privilege of rank here: my own room—and it's furthest away from the stove, so judge its usefulness for yourself when the winter really hits. You can bunk out on the bottom, better for your leg that way, and I've gotten used to being up top."

Tristan looked around the tiny room that seemed to be more office than personal quarters, then back at Hogan. "Really, sir, I don't mind bunking in with the other ranks if you wish to keep your privacy." He paused. "I admit that I'll be grateful for a lower berth for awhile, though."

Hogan shook his head. "No need. Besides, there's no room out there, and you're better off here with your brother than somewhere else. Speaking of which, I'd better go track him down before he has half the guards owing him their next pay packet."