DISCLAIMER: This may come as a shock, but I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of its characters. All rights belong to the proper owners... I'm not making any money off of this story. Also, all characters are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Guten Tag! Yes, yes, I know. I already have two unfinished stories that many people are waiting on me to finish... and I'll surely try to update them, but I'm really excited about this story and wanted to share it with you all.
As some of you may know, I have always preferred Helga to Hilda. However, after reading some of the stories on here and watching the shows, I have found that she is growing on me. This story is my idea of how she came to be at Stalag 13 and how she came to work with Hogan's Heroes.
Now, this is not what you would call strictly canon. Although, in my personal opinion, if the show writers could play fast and loose with original canon, why can't I?
I have also given the secretaries last names, as I couldn't find anything listed for them. If anyone knows of their last names according to the show, please message me.
Anyhow, I have kept you reading the obnoxiously long note for too long (lucky you there will probably be another one at the end of the story)
Any and all feedback welcomed. Enjoy!

Chapter One

"Hurry," Sergeant Hans Schultz urged for the hundredth time. "The Kommandant will be back from Hammelburg any moment."

"Take it easy, Schultzie," British POW, Corporal Peter Newkirk crooned. He casually batted the brown feather duster over the picture frames. "Colonel Hogan arranged this with Klink. It's perfectly legitimate."

This, of course was a lie. Colonel Hogan, Senior POW, spy and saboteur, required the Kommandant's personal stationery to commandeer a boat. Not a big boat, just a little dinghy. They needed it to meet their newest contact on the Main River just north of Gemunden, tomorrow night.
Usually, they could depend on Helga, the Stalag secretary, to swipe some paper, but she'd been on personal leave for the past week and a half. So, while Newkirk distracted Schultz, Sergeant Andrew Carter, dug through the papers on Klink's desk. He found some sheets of blank stationery and 'accidentally' knocked the whole pile of papers over.

"Oh, gee!" Carter mumbled, "I'm sorry."

He knelt down and gathered up the papers, conveniently shoving one under the desk. Schultz came around and bemoaned his clumsiness. "How will I explain this to the Kommandant? Prisoners rifling through his desk."

"I'm not rifling," Carter said, indignantly. "I…" He paused staring at the letter in his hand.

"Do not read the Kommandant's mail," Schultz said, snatching the letter. Newkirk used this distraction to kneel and pocket the stationery.

"But it's from Helga," Carter protested, pointing to the signature.

Schultz, despite the impropriety, began to read. His brows furrowed together and then his eyes widened, prompting Newkirk to smirk, "that juicy, eh?"

"What is going on here?!" Kommandant Wilhelm Klink stood in the doorway. His monocle was removed, due to fogging up at the sudden change of temperature and his nose was red. His heavy overcoat covered with a dusting of snow. He stepped forward, removing his hat and scarf and putting them on the desk.

Carter joined Newkirk in a line, standing at attention. Schultz hurriedly replaced the letter and moved away from Klink's desk. "Colonel Hogan ordered a cleaning detail," he explained, "and I was supervising."

Klink gestured to the messy desk, "And going through my papers?"

"I, uh, knocked them over," Carter piped up, not wanting Schultz to get into any trouble. Newkirk elbowed him and shook his head slightly.

Klink glanced down at the papers, noticing Helga's letter on top, he turned to Schultz. "If there are to be any future cleaning details, I will order them," he said, angrily in their native tongue. "You take your orders from me, not Hogan."

"As for you two," he switched to English and glared at the prisoners. "If I see you again before this evening's roll call, you'll each get a week in the cooler. Dismissed."

Schultz ushered the two prisoners out of the office and the kommandantur. As they walked down the steps and into the yard, Newkirk pestered the guard with questions about the letter's contents. Schultz, stubbornly remained mum. He pointed toward their barracks, "You two had better stay out of sight, the Big Shot wasn't kidding."

"Aw, he'll get over it," Newkirk said, airily. "He's just mad at you for readin' that letter… must've been a love letter." Newkirk smirked and waggled his eyebrows.

Schultz sighed, "it was not a love letter. Do not start rumors, or I will get into even bigger trouble." He pointed at the barracks, again. "Stay out of sight," he repeated, ambling away.

Carter opened the door and went inside, shivering as he stepped closer to the stove. Newkirk followed him, draping his too big, winter coat on the rack. Newkirk had salvaged it from the garbage heap after Klink threw it out. It was missing two of the hooks and was thus unable to hold Klink's coat. After some minor repairs, Newkirk managed to make it work. Several of the guys had wanted to break it up and use it for heat, but the stubborn Brit insisted it be used for coats. 'Make things a bit more civilized,' he'd claimed.

"What did the letter say?" he asked, sidling up next to him.

"I'm not sure," Carter shrugged, feeling a little frustrated. "I don't even speak German that good, never mind reading it."

Carter had only been at Stalag Thirteen for a few months. He'd been through their traveler's aid society, the year before and when Hogan found out that he'd been recaptured, he took it as a sign. Carter was meant to be a part of the organization. It didn't take the Colonel long to convince Klink that, in order for the higher-ups in Berlin to notice him, he had to flex his muscles. A week or two later, Carter arrived with fifteen other prisoners as part of a transfer. Hogan insisted they'd begin German lessons with him as soon as possible… but, as they say, Rome wasn't built in a day.

"Don't worry," Newkirk assured him. "We'll weasel it outta Schultzie later."

He crossed the room and rapped on the Colonel's office door. Upon hearing Robert Hogan's deep voice giving him authorization, he opened the door and gestured for Carter to follow him."Got it, sir," Newkirk pulled the paper out of his breast pocket and slapped it down, triumphantly, on his superior's desk. "And," he added, a self-satisfied look on his face, "We did it faster than LeBeau could sucker Mueller at the motor-pool."

"Think again, mon bon ami."

Newkirk turned half-way and spotted his little, French mate with his arms crossed and leaning against the back wall. Corporal Louis LeBeau held out a hand and gave the 'give me' gesture. Newkirk turned his wrist over and pulled the leather strap on his watch. With all the sullenness of a three year old, he handed it over.

"Cheer up," LeBeau couldn't help getting in a friendly dig. "You will probably cheat me out of it at cards tonight."

"Knock it off, fellas." Hogan, up until this point, had been ignoring their tomfoolery. He was writing the letter from Klink. Klink was a hard man for Hogan to mimic in letters, because he was made up of two parts arrogance, one part vanity, and the rest… sheer cowardice. All of which Hogan found utterly contemptible, not just for a military officer, but in a man in general.

"Okay, what do you think?" he handed the letter to Newkirk.

Newkirk skimmed over the lines and nodded approvingly before passing it back to LeBeau. LeBeau chuckled, "your spelling is better, but other than that..." he passed it on to Carter, who because he couldn't read German gave it back to Hogan.

"That reminds me," Newkirk drawled out. In truth, he hadn't really forgotten, but was thankful for the opportune moment to work it into the conversation. "Andrew, here stumbled upon something in Klink's desk that might be of interest to us."

"Oh?" Hogan turned to his newest member, expectantly.

Carter looked surprised at the sudden attention. He turned red and stuttered, "Well, I don't know about interesting… but… well, I found a letter addressed to Kommandant Klink."

"A letter to Klink? In his desk? Non," LeBeau mocked. He and Carter hadn't been in very good stead for a couple of weeks now, but neither party would admit what the depute was about. Hogan was inclined to let them work it out themselves… as long as it didn't interfere with morale or their work, that is.

"So, he gets letters from Helga every day, does he?" Newkirk mocked right back.

Hogan leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully chewing on the top of his fountain pen. "What are you thinking?" he finally asked.

Newkirk's lips tightened into a firm line. "Well," he began carefully, knowing full well that Hogan and the secretary had been involved to some extent. "I've always had a gloomy outlook on life. A cynic, me mum said… but, I can't help but think it's a bit fishy that she up and vanishes one day without so much as a by-your-leave then she's writin' letters to Klink."

"Maybe she's extending her leave," LeBeau suggested with a shrug, "It could all be perfectly innocent."

Newkirk didn't respond, but with the look on his face it was obvious what he thought of that idea. Hogan sighed, "and what was in the letter?"

Newkirk shook his head, "didn't get a look at it; was too busy getting the paper… then Klink showed up."

"And he was hopping mad, boy!" Carter said, scooting forward. "Uh, sir."

Hogan fiddled with the pen, replacing the cap. "You want to break into Klink's office and read it?" he asked, scanning the Brit's face. "Why?"

Newkirk flinched under Hogan's intense scrutiny. He shifted and cast a quick glance at LeBeau. "Guv, I'm not saying she has..." he broke off not wanting to finish the ugly thought. He tried again, "She knows an awful lot about us and what we do..."

"After everything she's done for us?" LeBeau said in disbelief, his nose crinkled up in distaste, "You think she'd just…"

Hogan held up a hand to indicate silence. He looked as troubled as Newkirk felt and not for the first time was Newkirk glad he wasn't an officer. "Okay, go get the letter."

Newkirk shook his head, "Can't. The way Klink was acting, I wouldn't be surprised if he locked up his papers and with me lock picks gone I wouldn't have a chance."
Newkirk had his picks taken from him weeks ago when he'd been captured on a routine mission. Hogan had gotten him back in one piece, but the picks were probably still locked away in that drawer. They'd requested new picks from London and they were placed on priority. Unfortunately, supply drops were few and far between.

"Then why even bring it up?" LeBeau snapped.

Newkirk hesitated, not wanting to send the Frenchman through the roof. "Because Schultz read the letter."

LeBeau was fuming as Hogan quietly, but firmly, gave the order. Make the strudel.

H~H

It had been almost half an hour since that meeting in the office. LeBeau had taken his frustrations out on the dough, pounding it against the table. After it had been set aside to rise, he turned to the apples. Peel, cut, core, slice and repeat.

Carter watched from the other side of the table. Newkirk hadn't spoken since Hogan had ordered them out. A thick, eerie silence had enveloped them, making everyone one in the room tense and uncomfortable. Every now and then LeBeau would mutter something to himself. Finally, Carter couldn't take it anymore and asked LeBeau what he had said.

"I said," LeBeau barely looked up from his cutting board, "If I never see another apple strudel or any apples, for that matter, it will be too soon."

Carter was silent a moment and then perked up, "but what about that restaurant you want to own, after the war? Won't you need apples and strudel?"

"Any cafe I own, will be French," the cook tossed the apples in with the cinnamon and sugar mixture. How Newkirk always managed to find cinnamon was beyond any of them, but LeBeau was always grateful to have the spice on hand.

"But don't French-folk cook with apples?" Carter asked. "Mary-Jane's mom has a recipe for clayfoutis and it's real good."

LeBeau visibly cringed at the American's mispronunciation. "Clafoutis, and no. It takes cherries, not apples."

"Mary-Jane's mom always made it with apples," Carter smiled. "Although, maybe that's because they own an apple orchard."

"Or perhaps they are just barbarians," LeBeau said. "I swear, you Americans are worse than the English."

Newkirk jumped down from his bunk and crossed the common room to sit at the table. "Lay off, Louis."

LeBeau focused his attention back on the strudel, but the conversation playing in his mind was far from pretty. Newkirk stood and went back to his bunk. He didn't really want to lay down and smoke some more. He wanted to get out into the fresh, albeit cold, air. He wanted to walk around the camp yard until he could forget this whole rotten mess.

"Gee, I don't see why everyone's so crabby," Carter said. "I mean isn't this what we always do? Bribe the krauts to get the information. A piece of pie."

"You stupid boy," LeBeau bit out, even though in reality there was only a couple of years between them. Carter almost fell out of his seat, surprised at the venom in the cook's tone. He slammed the pan of cooked apples on the table and continued, "what do you think? This is just a game we play?"

Carter wasn't sure what he'd done to set LeBeau off and looked to Newkirk for instruction, "I don't understand."

Newkirk pulled a pack from his bunk and began to smoke. "Andrew," he said, slowly. "The way we work is, well, it's spying."

"I know that," Carter said. He was about sick of everyone assuming that he was dumb just because he came from North Dakota and was only twenty years old… well, he would be in a few weeks anyway.

"and if we get caught..."

"I know," Carter said impatiently, "we all get stood in front of the firing squad. The Colonel already explained all of that. I know the risks."

LeBeau scoffed as Newkirk took a deep drag. "Knowing these risks, you can understand why the Guv needs to be cautious," he watched the younger man's reaction. "And if there were a threat to our safety… then we'd need to take care of it."

Carter blinked a few times, processing what Newkirk was saying. Suddenly, it hit him. That was why everyone had been so upset. They were talking about… about…
His face turned white and his eyes held a glimmer of fear. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He swallowed, hoping his heart would stay out of his throat just long enough for him to speak. "You mean," his voice was nothing, but a hoarse whisper. "We're going to kill her?"

H~H

Helga stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her light, blond hair was pulled back into a loose bun and her make-up was done to perfection. Well, almost. She leaned in and ran her ring finger underneath her lower lip to clean away the smudges. She smiled and sat back, catching his gaze in the mirror.

"Must you go?" he whispered. Sliding the collar of her blouse aside, he placed a soft kiss on her shoulder. He followed the line of her collar bone, placing kisses, until he reached the hollow of her throat. "You could just stay with me instead," he suggested, pulling her into a proper kiss.

She lost herself for a moment, reveling in the warm and tender embrace. When his kisses returned to her neck, she pushed him back. One look in the mirror confirmed that she would have to re-apply her lip stick. "Yes," she said, answering his question. "I promised Colonel Klink that I would return. Besides," her eyes clouded. "I have something rather unpleasant to do."

He sat on the chair beside her French Provincial vanity, watching her carefully remove the lipstick with a tissue. "If it is unpleasant and makes you unhappy then don't do it."

She chuckled, "is that how you became a major? By avoiding unpleasant things?"

"That's different."

"Why?" she countered, "because you are a man?"
He sighed in exasperation and she spun to face him, "Darling, our life together can only begin right, if we settle things now. It is something I must do if I am to move on." She place her hand against his cheek.
"It will only take a couple of days. Maybe a week and then I will be back with you."
When he didn't argue with her, she smiled again, "Be a dear and get the car. If we don't hurry, I'll miss my train."

*To Be Continued*

Author's Note 2:

Okay, so Klink is a little less buffoonish and LeBeau is a little more extreme in the temper. I'm portraying them that way because, to my way of thinking, people don't always act in the same predictable manner all the time. Hopefully, you'll stick with me as the tale unfolds.
Thank you,

L.E. Wigman