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

Author's note: Many true elements of German and Allied war strategies have been woven into this story. A complete explanation will be posted in author's notes at the end of the story.

Thanks to Marty Breedlove for letting me "borrow" her timeline of Hogan's pre-Stalag 13 experiences.

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Mark Bailey shook his head as the familiar bicycle skidded to an abrupt halt mere inches from his feet, spraying a bit of dirty rainwater from the ground onto his newly polished shoes. "You know, Papa, I wish you'd enjoy the privileges of rank once in awhile and use the car from the base. I'm really quite fond of my toes!"

Colonel Robert Hogan grinned as he dismounted. "No way, Bailey. There isn't enough gas to go around. Besides, I miss my motorcycle. The rush of the ride, the air on my face!"

Bailey grumbled good-naturedly. "Who needs air on his face?"

Hogan laughed. This was part of the normal routine for him and the Lieutenant, and he enjoyed it this morning just as much as any other day. "What's going on today? Roberts still on the warpath?"

Bailey answered by sticking two fingers up behind his head like feathers and "woo-woo"ing with one hand over his mouth.

"Ah," Hogan answered sagely. "Maybe I'd better turn the ol' bike around and head back where I came from."

"No way!" Bailey replied. "You're a wanted man. The old man wants to know where you were this morning for the turnout of the greenies."

Hogan sighed. "It was my morning off, remember? He gave it to me himself for trying to sort out that feud at the beer party the other night." Hogan shook his head as he remembered the almost naïve way he had stepped in when raised voices from two junior officers started interfering with general conversation at the officers' club over the weekend. Hoping to be the voice of reason for the men who were normally quite close, he hadn't actually expected his attempts to bring about conciliation between the warring parties to be rebuffed. But large amounts of alcohol stood between the combatants and clear thinking, and Hogan had been rather unceremoniously, and quite physically, told that his assistance was not required. The men involved had been disciplined, and Hogan had been taken to sick bay to have his cuts and bruises attended to.

Bailey laughed. "More likely to give you a chance to recover," he said. "As I recall, your ribs took quite a pounding. Not to mention that thick head of yours. At least that pair got along quite well when they were beating you up."

Hogan smiled wryly, chagrinned. "Thanks a lot. Remind me never to become a mediator in the peace talks. I don't think I'd survive them. So, where is the old man?"

"Search me." Bailey looked past Hogan to the large Nissen hut that served as the canteen. "Lunch?"

"Sure." Hogan sighed as he looked up at the overcast sky. Charcoal clouds that brought in rain last night were threatening a repeat performance today, and Hogan was a sunshine man. He liked nothing more than to be out in the open air, playing football, riding his Harley Davidson Knucklehead, having a picnic and a game of horseshoes, or just lying in an open field. In his mind, all of those things were more enjoyable in warm, clear weather. But the climate at West Raynham Airfield, in Norfolk, rarely cooperated, and Hogan found it depressing.

Hogan had originally been sent to England as part of the Lend Lease Act, in which twenty B-17 bombers were flown from the United States to help the Royal Air Force fend off the threat from Germany. His cool head under pressure and his obvious consideration for the welfare of his men had brought him to the attention of his superiors, and after countless forays, when the Yanks started arriving in force, he was propelled quickly to the position of commander of the 504th Bomb Group, where he continued to excel and astound those around him. Hogan seemed to take it all in stride, not changing the loyalties he had with his men, and increasing his ability to plan and execute successful bombing missions over Germany. The latest, over an aircraft factory in Düsseldorf, had been a particularly spectacular event, with the factory completely destroyed, and only two B-17s lost. Hogan's own plane, dubbed "Goldilocks" by her crew, had suffered heavy damage, including a mangled rudder, a blown number four engine, and a loss of landing gear that forced a precarious and fiery return to the base. Luckily, the ten men aboard had escaped with only minor injuries, and all had been lauded as heroes, especially when the mechanics on the ground found almost as much damage and shrapnel inside the plane as outside. It was just another legend to add to the growing list that followed Hogan around, and his name came up often, on the airfield and in the administrative offices where the brass decided What Happened Where.

A light meal gave Hogan a new outlook, and when he and Bailey emerged from the canteen thirty minutes later, the clouds had started to break up and a bleak sun was doing its best to provide a miniscule bit of warmth to the earth. Getting back on his bicycle, Hogan said, "I'd better track down Roberts and see what all the fuss is about."

The friends parted company and Hogan made his way to the Group Captain's administrative office on the other side of the base. Entering, he removed his cap and announced himself to the non-com manning the telephone. "Oh, the Group Captain wants to see you, all right," he said in reply.

Hogan cleared his throat, uncharacteristically nervous about seeing the man who had gradually become more of a friend than a military superior, then resigned himself to waiting. James Roberts appeared shortly thereafter. "Hogan, please, come into my office." The dark-haired Englishman gestured for Hogan to precede him into the room. Hogan offered a salute, which Roberts returned sharply. "Sit, Hogan. Please sit."

Hogan frowned, uncomfortable, but obeyed as Roberts sat behind his desk and leaned forward. "Missed you at this morning's new recruit meeting, Rob," he said, immediately falling into the familiarity that their friendship outside military protocol had produced.

Hogan relaxed. "Begging your pardon, Robbie, but I was given this morning off," he reminded Roberts gently.

Roberts looked at him questioningly, then nodded as his memory kicked in. "Ah, yes, because of…"

Hogan nodded once. "Yeah, because of that," he said flatly.

Roberts got the message: Hogan wanted to forget all about it. "Very good. I trust all is well now." Hogan nodded. Roberts moved back into formality; something else was clearly on his mind. "I need to talk with you now, Hogan, about something much more serious than barroom brawls."

Hogan noticed the change, and resumed military courtesy almost unconsciously. He raised an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"I attended a meeting in London yesterday, Hogan, and I don't mind telling you that what we discussed could have a very serious impact on you and your men—as a matter of fact, on all the B-17 crews."

Hogan's expression asked his questions for him. He said nothing.

"Allied Headquarters is talking about having US planes start daylight bombing raids over Germany."

"Daylight?" Hogan repeated, disbelieving.

Roberts nodded. "That's right, Hogan."

Hogan shook his head. "But we're traveling without fighter escort now. We're encountering big problems even at night. What's supposed to happen when the Krauts can see us coming from a long way off? This has been done before, by the British, and it's failed miserably!"

Roberts nodded, understanding. "I know. It's a problem. But we're just not hitting enough targets to be effective over the long run. The Yanks insist they have to consider daylight raids."

Hogan tried to process the information. All he could see was the view from the cockpit of his B-17. "When those fighters see us, they'll be able to come straight into our formation. Flak will increase. Losses will increase. It'll be a mess."

"We're working on improving flying formations. And there'll be a briefing on this whole issue, probably tomorrow. I expect you to be there. In the meantime, I need you to be considering how to get your men to understand the 'why' of this decision." Roberts paused. "It won't be easy, Hogan. I'm not going to pretend that it won't mean anything to our casualty numbers, because it certainly will. But if we're going to make any real difference in this war, these are the things we have to consider."

Hogan stood up. "I understand." Logically, but not emotionally.

"Rob, I don't have to tell you how sensitive this is. You've often been entrusted with our most delicate information; I'm sure I'm not making a mistake discussing this with you now."

"You're not, Robbie." Hogan saluted formally. "Thank you, sir."

And Hogan took his leave, gulping in fresh air outside as though he had been starved of oxygen for days. He hopped on his bicycle and pedaled. Where he was going he wasn't quite sure. But if he kept riding, maybe he could forget he had ever talked with Roberts at all, and could put it all down to being a bad dream.

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"As you know, gentlemen, the Eighth Air Force and the RAF have four priority targets: submarine construction facilities; oil refineries; aircraft factories; and ball bearing construction plants. Under cover of darkness, we are not able to guarantee the results of our bombing missions, and clouds and inclement weather can hamper our efforts. As the German forces continue to advance across Europe, we cannot afford to let these targets slip out of our grasp. Therefore, we must consider radical changes in our plans of attack."

Hogan sat back in his chair in the briefing room, listening to General Alfred Butler explaining the reasoning behind what Hogan considered to be an insane plan to move to daylight bombings. He knew that it would be his job to not only accept the change but promote it enthusiastically to his men, and he found the whole idea distasteful. How could he promote something that he knew would cost more lives? Even in the name of the greater good, it wouldn't be an easy task.

"Are there any questions?"

Hogan considered waiting for the higher-ups around him to start their queries, but finally decided to speak up about something that had been niggling at him since Roberts first brought this new offensive strategy to his attention. "General Butler, sir? Colonel Robert Hogan, Commander, 504th Bomb Group, West Raynham."

Butler looked Hogan up and down as the American stood up. "Ah, yes, Hogan. I imagine you have a lot to say about this."

Hogan shifted his feet and fought back the urge to pull on his tie. He didn't usually mind being in his dress browns, but in a room full of people with more brass on their chests than a four-poster bed, he felt distinctly uncomfortable, and very much on-the-spot. He cleared his throat. "Not a lot, General. Just a question about formation, sir. The B-17s are currently flying without escort, sir, and quite frankly aren't very good at being defensive units. And although they do take quite a bit of punishment, the men on the inside take that punishment with them. What consideration is being given to the attrition rate, General, when making up the flight plans?"

Butler had nodded all through Hogan's question, a responsive habit that rarely did anything to make Hogan feel that his superiors were listening. In fact, he usually felt that the answers were already there, prefabricated and waiting to meet resistance. He hoped that this time would be different.

But he was disappointed. "Yes, Hogan, it's true that the B-17s aren't very strong on defense. But we are counting on the element of surprise to get us through these bombings. After all, even the Jerries wouldn't consider daylight drops—well, not any more, anyway," Butler added with a small smile. Hogan didn't smile back. Butler continued, "As to formation, we will continue with the 'stacks'—flying in three packs of six planes. Top, middle, and bottom, as you are intimately familiar with. We are considering other formations, but at this stage we have no plans to make changes."

"What about assigning us fighter escort?"

"Our fighters haven't got the range necessary to accompany the bombers. They'll be on their own."

The finality of Butler's words shook Hogan. The element of surprise could—might—only work once. After that it wouldn't come as so much of a shock to the Germans when the Allied bombers suddenly appeared on the horizon. And without fighter escort, all an enemy flyer had to do was aim for a B-17 with a frontal attack and the "stack" Butler talked about was in tatters. Hogan sat down, feeling cold to his very core.

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"Hogan, may I see you a moment?"

Though phrased as a request, Hogan knew he had no option to refuse. Butler pulled him up as he left the meeting, and so Hogan turned politely to face his superior. "Yes, sir?"

"Hogan I wonder if I might have a word with you, in private." Butler gestured toward a small room. Hogan nodded and followed. "Colonel Hogan, you have quite a reputation around Headquarters for getting things done."

Hogan said nothing, preferring to see where this discussion was heading first.

"You have a good relationship with your men, do you not?" Butler asked.

Hogan nodded. Of this he was certain, and proud. "Yes, sir. I have an extraordinary crew."

"And you no doubt trust them implicitly."

Hogan frowned, not sure what Butler was driving at. "With my life, General."

"Hogan," Butler said, seeming to regroup his thoughts, "I understand that you and your crew once returned to base with your plane almost ready for the scrap heap—missing bits, in flames, and so full of holes it put Swiss cheese to shame."

"We've all done something like that, sir. But Goldilocks held up."

"That kind of return is due in no small part to the pilot, Hogan. And to the crew that work with him." Hogan held his breath, waiting. "Hogan, I'd like you and your crew to do the test runs of daylight maneuvers."

Hogan exhaled. That was what he had been dreading. "General—"

"We're hoping to start full-scale daylight bombing in August. Before then, we need to see what kind of reaction the Jerries will have. And if we throw just a couple of daylight raids into the mix—while still continuing normal nighttime raids—we might just throw them off enough to make a difference. Hogan, your Goldilocks is the plane to do it."

"Just one plane?"

"No, no, of course not. You will take five squadrons from your Group. We'll have a target destination for you within the next couple of days."

Hogan knew he wasn't being asked, and so he simply nodded, as words refused to form in his throat.

Butler patted Hogan's shoulder. "Don't look so stricken, Hogan; this is a fine opportunity. The Krauts already have reason enough to hate you; they know when they see your plane they're guaranteed a hell of a fight, and most likely a big loss. You've pulled off some of the most daring and, quite frankly, nearly impossible missions to date. Let's give them something to nurture that hatred with."

"Sir, the British have done this before. They stopped because it was costing too many lives, adding up too many losses—"

"And we have to try it again. Perhaps the Yanks can succeed where the British failed." Hogan looked disturbed. Butler changed his approach. "We wouldn't have chosen you if we didn't think you were capable of pulling it off, Hogan. You're one of the best flyers I've ever seen."

"Thank you, sir," Hogan said hoarsely. He saluted Butler and was dismissed with a promise of contact about this assignment in the next forty-eight hours.

He found he couldn't join in the light conversation that peppered the air on the way back to base, and sat quietly in his own thoughts, trying not to let his face betray his fears.