A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.

Written for the 2018 Short Story Speedwriting Challenge, and fondly dedicated to the memories of Bernard Fox and Mickey Manners.

What happens when the two contenders for "Most Escapes in a Single War" meet face to face?

An awful lot can happen in two hours.

I must clarify this statement, however. By "awful", I refer to the rather archaic definition of "inspiring fear or awe". And what happened in the first two hours after I encountered a chap by the name of Malcolm Flood did indeed inspire awe, with a generous dash of fear as well.

Allow me to elucidate.

It was a perfectly splendid spring morning a few weeks ago when a prisoner transport truck rolled through the gates of Stalag 18. It screeched to a halt in front of the Kommandantur, and a young fellow wearing the uniform of an RAF sergeant hopped out, not at all inconvenienced by the manacles and leg shackles he was wearing. Two harassed-looking Luftwaffe guards hopped out too, and immediately trained their weapons on him.

I blinked in surprise at this unusual manner of arrival, and blinked again when Colonel Schubert emerged from the building to greet the newcomer. Normally a formal handover of prisoners involved lesser mortals than the Kommandant, and I transferred my bewildered gaze back to the new arrival, wondering why this fellow was so important.

There was nothing remarkable in the lad's appearance, to be sure: thin, dark haired, not overly tall, perhaps five-and-twenty years of age. I straightened my tie—one must ever set a good sartorial example for the men under one's command—and approached the small group outside the Kommandantur.

I offered the Kommandant a brisk salute and he eyed me with some annoyance. "Sergeant Flood is assigned to your barracks, Colonel Crittendon," he growled. "I wish you joy of him." With that, he turned on his heel and strode back into the building.

Very odd, indeed. I pursed my lips thoughtfully and turned to Sergeant Flood. He saluted me, his once-manacled wrist now mysteriously unencumbered and the manacles and shackles now lying on the ground, and I could understand why Schubert was so peeved. The two transport guards appeared to be quite as annoyed as Schubert had been, and they jumped back into their truck, driving off as if the very hounds of hell were in pursuit.

"Well done, Flood," I said, as I watched them depart. "I shall have you teach the lads here your little trick with the handcuffs, what? And join me in the barracks for a cup of tea, won't you?"

As it turned out, that cup of tea was the last quiet moment I was to have for quite some time. No sooner had we entered the barracks than Sergeant Flood had an escape plan hatched, and within the aforementioned two hours we were outside the wire!

As one might imagine, Sergeant Malcolm Flood was and is much more a man of action than yours truly. I prefer to plan my escape attempts cautiously, paying close attention to the last detail, so I was a trifle concerned over the precipitate nature of this particular escape. However, my caution had never enabled me to STAY escaped, as it were, so I thought perhaps the very speed of our progress meant that this time I might make it all the way to England.

As we raced through the woods away from camp, I tried to offer myself some mental reassurance. "Absolutely nothing to worry about," I told myself, but then an unwelcome thought intruded. "Or is there? As Flood's commanding officer isn't it MY job to engineer the escape? Am I abdicating my duty by placing my confidence in a chance-met fellow prisoner of considerably lower rank? Oh, but surely not! The lad is bright, energetic and determined. We shall do very well, and reach jolly old England without delay."

Alas, all too soon I discovered that my qualms had merit and that my confidence in Sergeant Flood's ability to mastermind a successful escape was misplaced. To use a quaint American idiom, this wasn't Flood's first rodeo, and he had no intention of making it his last.

We were huddling in an abandoned barn a few miles from Stalag 18 when the subject came up. I remarked that we had better find a map somehow and plot a route to the coast, and the Sergeant eyed me with some surprise and indignation.

"Wot? Beggin' your pardon, sir, but you can't expect me to say 'forget it, the game's over' now, and head back to old Blighty! My reputation is at stake, innit? I reckon to tot up four or five more escapes before the Allies land on the Continent!"

I was somewhat nonplussed by Flood's airy admission that he had no intention of returning to England. "But why would you want to do that?"

In response, the Sergeant revealed that he had had a civilian career as an escape artist performing on the stage. "Malcolm the Marvellous, I was," he boasted. "Headliner at the Palladium."

"In London?" I said, impressed.

This deflated him somewhat, and he admitted: "No, in Liverpool. But I was a smash, and no mistake!"

"Yes, I can well imagine," I said courteously.

Flood went on to tell me that he had been honing those skills as a POW, with a view to establishing an international reputation to be parlayed into fame and fortune after the war. To achieve that, his goal was to set an all-time record of escapes.

A laudable ambition, to be sure, and not unlike my own efforts. I had managed to escape nine times so far, my immediate recaptures notwithstanding. I said as much to Flood, and he was a trifle miffed.

"Not the same thing at all, sir," he said. "You escaped nine times from just ONE camp. I've escaped from nine DIFFERENT camps! AND I'm in all the papers!"

"I beg your pardon," I said. "You are quite correct: there is obviously no comparison to be made. But this time, at least, I hope to reach England. I understand that you feel you must pursue your dream, but my duty demands that I strain every sinew to get home in order to rejoin the war effort."

"That's just it," Flood said earnestly. "I'm helping the war effort too! Don't you see, sir, that every time the papers report my latest escape, it encourages the people back home? Lifts their spirits, like, because each time it's one in the eye for Jerry."

I should have considered this aspect of the matter, since part of my duty to the men under my command is to bolster morale whenever necessary, and the morale of those on the homefront is no less important, by Jove!

"I beg your pardon once more, Sergeant," I said. "So we shall have a parting of the ways, and may I wish you the very best of luck in your endeavour."

As we spoke, I was aware of the tick-tock, tick-tock of fleeting time. Our erstwhile captors were undoubtedly combing the countryside for us, and it was time we were on our way. We agreed between us that as soon as we reached the nearest town, Flood would head west with the intention of being recaptured in the next day or so, and I would turn my steps northward to the coast and freedom.

As we trudged along the dusty country road we kept our senses at a keen pitch for signs of any approaching patrols, but otherwise it was a tedious walk indeed. Flood did his best to alleviate the boredom by recounting his adventures as an escape artist, and I must admit they were quite amusing, indeed.

I countered with some anecdotes of my own, and Flood grinned. "Ever thought of becoming a stage performer yourself, sir?"

"Not I," I replied. "Haven't the memory for it, I fear. Every time I try to recite a bit of Shakespeare I come to grief."

"That would have 'em rolling in the aisles, sir! I say you should go for it, after the war's over."

"What? Are you saying that I should recite Shakespeare BADLY just to amuse an audience?" I protested. "I can't risk losing my dignity like that!"

"How could you lose something you never had, sir?" he enquired (not unreasonably, I own), and I regretted that I had been quite so candid regarding my own adventures.

But the discussion came to an abrupt end as Flood seized my arm and pulled me to the side of the road. Just ahead of us two men emerged from the bushes and started toward town. They were dressed in workman's clothing and appeared to be farm labourers, except...they were speaking English! In the middle of war-time Germany!

"I dunno, Newkirk," said the lanky one with straw-coloured hair. "We're supposed to pick up those two escapers at the train station in town. What if they aren't there?"

"You worry too much, Carter," said the dark-haired one. "If they don't show up, we scarper. It's 'appened before."

The voices faded as they moved off down the road.

I turned to Flood. "Brothers in arms, egad! We should hurry ahead and join them; perhaps WE are the escapers they seek."

The Sergeant was doubtful. "P'raps so, sir. But somethin' is a mite dodgy about this. How do we know that they aren't Gestapo in disguise trying to track us down? Jerry is tricky, you know. We'd best look sharp and watch 'em for a bit."

I assented, and we followed them at a distance, ready to duck into the bushes if necessary. After a few minutes the two stopped and sat down under a tree, and as we watched the dark-haired one pulled an apple from his pocket and began to bite into it. Then the one called Carter got up and disappeared into the woods.

I nudged Flood and whispered: "Perhaps we should confront this fellow now that he's alone. I am quite sure I can ascertain whether he is a true Briton or not once I speak with him. If he is not, we can tackle him together before his comrade returns."

Flood nodded. "Good enough, sir. But the first thing that we've got to do is not let him know we know."

"Not let him know we know what?" I wanted to know.

"Nothin'. That's why we can't let him know."

"But I don't know what..."

"Exactly, sir."

At this point I feared that I was not quite equal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation. The argument was moot, anyway, because Carter returned...with his hands linked behind his head and followed by two armed men in SS uniform. The man called Newkirk jumped to his feet, raising his hands in surrender. Flood and I had been watching from a nearby ditch and we promptly flattened ourselves to avoid detection.

"I believe this settles the question of which side these two are on, what?" I said grimly.

"Too right," whispered Flood. "What now, sir?"

I made a swift decision. "We follow them and find out where they are to be held. Then we set them free under cover of darkness."

"Oho!" Flood said with a grin. "I have my pick-locks hidden in my sock, sir. What say we break into a house in town and find some civilian clothes, eh? I reckon we'll need 'em."

"Splendid! Lead on, Sergeant."

The destination of Newkirk, Carter and their SS captors was easily ascertained. They entered a building on the outskirts of town (apparently the local gaol), and whilst I kept watch from behind a few dustbins in a nearby alley, Flood went in search of a likely place to purloin the civilian clothing we required. (Not that I condone thievery in any form, but there's a war on, don't you know.)

The SS officers emerged from the building after twenty minutes or so without their prisoners, and disappeared down the street. Moments later Flood reappeared as if by magic. He wore a natty suit, had a basket over each arm, and was accompanied by the unmistakable aroma of apple strudel.

I eyed the baskets, aware of an unseemly growling in my gastric region. "I do hope you have something to eat in those baskets, Sergeant."

"That I do, sir." He uncovered one of the baskets to reveal a half-dozen pieces of apple strudel. "Want one?"

An unnecessary question, I thought. "Yes. And I want the other six, too." I snatched one from the basket and stuffed it into my mouth before asking, somewhat inarticulately: "Clothes?"

"Here you are then, sir." He handed me the other basket and discreetly turned his back as I quickly pulled out the shirt and trousers and donned them over my uniform. "What now, sir?"

"We stroll about the town and attempt to appear harmless, Sergeant."

"Right you are, sir."

I had found during my previous escape attempts that adopting a facial expression of bovine stupidity, coupled with a few grunts and shrugs, usually sufficed to allay the suspicions of passersby, and I shared this information with the Sergeant. Flood agreed—rather too readily regarding the bovine stupidity, I thought—and we split up for the nonce, feeling that would be safer than appearing as a pair wandering the streets.

Before we departed, I wondered aloud about Carter's and Newkirk's mission in town, and Flood said cheerily, "We'll have an answer tonight, sir."

I sighed and shook my head. "Life teaches only one thing—there are no answers. There are only questions." I watched him stroll out of the alley and head in a westerly direction. I followed suit, heading in an easterly direction.

It wasn't far off sundown, and as I watched the sky slowly darken, a few shuttered streetlights came on. I headed back to the gaol, which thankfully was now all in darkness, and which thankfully was not staffed for the night. The door was locked tight and I turned to Flood, who had just arrived and was already pulling his burglar's tools from a pocket.

His gaze was reproachful in the dim light. "Beggin' your pardon, sir—do you mind? Professional secrets an' all."

I chuckled and turned my back."For the first time since I've been in command here, I want to know nothing," I told him. "Have at it, man!"

Even as I spoke, Flood had the door open. We hurried inside, our steps echoing in the darkness. "I wonder where the cells are," I whispered.

"Basement, I should think, sir." He moved across the room, seeking a door by running his hands along the wall. "Feelin' my way in the dark reminds me of my performance where I escaped from a coffin."

I shuddered at the mental picture engendered by his casual statement. "Your chosen career is definitely not one for claustrophobics."

"That it's not, sir. Not for those what don't fancy heights, either. That coffin was suspended twenty feet from the stage with three men lowerin' it from the rafters of the theatre."

"How did three men do that without any help?" I asked, and I felt rather than saw Flood turn that reproachful gaze on me again. "Oh, I know, I know...professional secrets. You must have had a lot of faith on those three men, Sergeant."

"They were my mates, you see, sir. Trusted them with my life, I did, more than once. It's the theatre managers you have to look out for. I remember one in Leeds..."

"What about him?"

"Just don't lend him your bicycle," was the Sergeant's cryptic response. "Ah, here's the basement doorway."

We slipped through and cautiously made our way down the stairwell. At the bottom Flood felt along the wall and found a light switch. The sudden illumination of a single bulb dangling from the ceiling made us blink.

"Reminds me of the cell I occupied in Berlin shortly after I was captured in 1940," I said, grimacing.

"Fancy your being there!" said Flood. "As a matter of fact, I was in Berlin at that time meself."

I was about to respond, but just then the floorboards above our heads creaked and reminiscences had to be put aside. "Hush!" I whispered.

Then voices sounded overhead, male voices.

"You boys sure picked a bad night," Flood muttered (whether he was addressing the voices above us or the two men we were seeking is unknown), and he quickly flicked the light off again. "We'll have to find 'em in the dark."

We hurried along the corridor, briefly lighting matches to peer into cells as we went, and finally we located them: two shadows in the same cell, each huddled on a bunk.

"What the bloody 'ell..." gasped Newkirk's voice, and was immediately cut off, presumably by his cellmate.

Fortunately Flood's deft fingers worked well in darkness, and a muted click allowed us to swing the cell door open in order to slip inside. I promptly shut it again as footsteps could be heard descending the stairs. Flood re-locked the door and we both made a dive under the bunks.

The single light bulb down the hall clicked on again and the footsteps approached the cell. From my place of concealment I could see a gleaming pair of black boots just outside, and a guttural voice made itself heard.

"I thought I would end the suspense for the two of you. Since you are not in uniform, perhaps you would do well to remember the terms of the Commando Order." A soft chuckle, then: "I see that you indeed remember. Till tomorrow, gentlemen."

The footsteps retreated and the light went out.

"Bloody 'ell," Newkirk said again, this time in a whisper, and Carter's indrawn breath was audible. They seemed to have forgotten the presence of Flood and myself, and no wonder.

Then Flood said, "D'you have your uniform on under those trousers an' all, sir?"

"I do," I replied. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I'm thinkin' that the goons will find two Allied soldiers in this cell tomorrow mornin'...in uniform."

Carter's voice was heard then, and his weight shifted on the bunk as he apparently tried to peer under it. "Gee, I wish I knew who the heck you guys are and what the heck you're doing here!"

Newkirk's voice interrupted him. "Don't know who they are but I know what they're doin' all right. Oi there, you blokes under the bunks—bloody charmin' of you to offer, but 'ow can we accept? Uniform or not, you'll end up in a prison camp."

I couldn't help myself. I began to laugh and Flood joined in.

"That's what we do, mate," he said.

A few minutes later Newkirk and Carter were persuaded to depart without ever seeing our faces—which no doubt was just as well—and they took with them the civilian clothes that Flood and I had been wearing. The Sergeant and I took their places on the bunks and settled down for what was left of the night.

I don't believe either of us got any sleep, and all too soon we heard voices overhead.

"We've visitors comin', eh?" Flood whispered. "P'raps the charwoman or the chambermaid?"

"On the other hand, it could be the barmaid," I whispered back, striving for my trademark touch of humour that leavens the most serious of situations, and I was rewarded by a chuckle from my cellmate.

"Never thought I'd hear an officer make jokes at a time like this, sir. Or at any other time, near as I can remember. Am I dreamin', then, or are we dead?"

"I am not dead!" I assured him. "Nor are you. Nor shall we be. We've still got work to do in this bloody war."

And so it proved. We had done our bit for the Allies, and we lived to escape another day!