I have loved Hogan's Heroes since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy. I acknowledge their ownership and that of Bing Crosby Productions and intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story.

Chapter 1: New Guests

Schultz paused outside the door to Barracks 2. It was his first stop on his current mission, and he was both looking forward to it and dreading it simultaneously. All the men inside would be delighted to see him . . . or at least to see what he was carrying. But he sometimes feared for his life on these occasions. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and announced loudly, "Mail call!"

He was instantly swarmed by the men, all of them shouting, tugging at his uniform, pulling at his arm, bumping against his backside . . . where had his gun gone? He grabbed just in time to prevent one of the prisoners from actually seizing the bag that held the envelopes and packages. He didn't see which one it was, but he could rule one man out: if it had been Newkirk, he knew he would never have felt it. He was trying to outshout the whole dozen of them without success when he heard a very welcome addition to the chaos.

"All right, everybody, pipe down. Give Schultz some breathing room!"

"Danke, Colonel Hogan!" said Schultz, sighing in relief that the senior officer, drawn out of his quarters by the uproar, had come to his rescue. But that relief was short-lived when Hogan himself snatched the bag holding the mail and poked around in it.

"Colonel Hogan, I am the one who is supposed to hand out the mail!" Despite his bulk and deep voice, the big sergeant's voice approached a whine.

"Sure, Schultz, you do that," Hogan answered absently. The colonel's actions did not match his words, though, as he continued to sift through the letters. He pulled out one, then a second, before handing the bag back to Schultz. He called out over the grousing of the men in his barracks, "Okay, fellas, Schultz'll get what's in here to you."

The colonel then turned and headed for his own room. In the midst of the clamor, no one noticed a small frown furrowed between his brows as he looked down at the envelopes in his hand, as though they somehow weren't what he had been hoping for.

ooOoo

Kinch looked up from monitoring the radio when he heard footsteps on the ladder. "Hey Colonel," he greeted his CO as Hogan skipped over the final rung to land with a light spring on the packed earth tunnel floor.

"What's the news from London?" Hogan asked.

"They've had intelligence that a munitions convoy should be coming through here in a couple of days and want us to confirm it, then take care of it if possible," Kinch informed him, handing him the paper on which he had written the message.

Hogan nodded as he scanned through it. He checked his watch. "Shouldn't Newkirk and Carter be back soon?"

"Oui," LeBeau answered, coming in from the next chamber where they stored the uniforms they used for undercover missions and a stock of civilian clothes for outfitting downed fliers they were helping back to England. "But we heard a raid earlier; it sometimes takes longer if they find a crew." He shrugged, hands in his trousers pockets. "Maybe they got lucky tonight."

"As long as they aren't stopping by the Hofbräu in town for Newkirk to get lucky," Kinch griped, still somewhat steamed at the Englishman for having endangered the operation a couple of months earlier by flirting with a woman who turned out to be a Gestapo agent.

"I don't think he'll do that again. He's learned his lesson about staying professional," Hogan said grimly; the fallout from that mistake had been hard enough to repress even the usually ebullient Newkirk for a good while. "They aren't yet overdue," he added after a moment, steering the conversation back to its original topic.

Just then they heard the scuffle of feet from the emergency tunnel that ran into the woods well beyond the camp fence. Carter emerged first, a big grin on his face, three unfamiliar men in American uniforms behind him, all of whom looked to be in their late twenties.

"We found all six of a B-26 Marauder crew, Colonel!" he announced with excitement.

"Where's Newkirk?" Hogan asked with a nod at the three newcomers.

"He'll be right along with the others. He said he'd bring up the rear and make sure they all got in. They were just coming down into the tunnel behind us."

"Good. I'm Colonel Hogan," he introduced himself to the three newcomers. The three traded startled looks before the tallest man, a blond, stepped forward.

"First Lieutenant Smoot," he said, taking the colonel's hand and shaking firmly. "And Sergeants Burgin and Toft," he added, gesturing toward the more average sized brown- and sandy-haired men behind him. "Our CO is behind us—he wanted to make sure everyone got down into safety first."

"Welcome to Stalag 13," Hogan smiled reassuringly. At the sound of more feet shuffling down the tunnel he turned to welcome the next group.

Kinch, glancing up from his seat, saw the colonel's face go ashen as he gazed at the group now entering the room: Newkirk, his face serious and apprehensive; one more sergeant with light brown hair, easily the smallest of the bunch; a tall captain his early thirties; and then another second lieutenant, with black hair, clearly several years younger than the others. The last guy couldn't be more than nineteen, if that, Kinch thought, looking over their latest arrivals. The Army seemed to be putting just kids up in the sky now; no wonder the colonel looked a bit sick over their new guest. Something else rang in the back of his mind: the kid looked familiar somehow. . . .

"Bobby?" the colonel rasped out, staring in shock at the new second lieutenant.

The young lieutenant looked equally surprised. "Dad?"