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

Sergeant Schultz waddled into the Unteroffizier Kaserne and collapsed into the nearest chair.

"Boys, my feet will be very happy indeed when this war is over."

"And the glorious Third Reich is triumphant." This came from old Huntzinger, with thinly veiled sarcasm. The others in the barracks looked at each other...dangerous words, but perhaps Huntzinger felt he had nothing left to live for. The others were not quite that desperate, not yet.

Schultz either ignored the sarcasm or was sublimely oblivious to it. "Ja, ja, Friedrich! But right now all I want is to take off these boots and warm my toes by the stove." He looked over at Corporal Langenscheidt, who had a disturbed look on his face, and was turning a letter over and over in his hands. "Bad news, Karl?"

Langenscheidt looked up. "It is from my cousin Rudi..."

Schultz gave a fat chuckle. "Ah yes! The famous Rudolf Langenscheidt, the war hero! Wasn't he a Leutnant in the Afrika Korps? I hear he gave advice to Rommel himself!"

"Not any more. He is a prisoner of war, in America!"

"Was?" The others in the barracks came close to Langenscheidt and peered over his shoulder at the heavily marked-over letter in his hands.

Dear Karl,

They tell me we are in some remote area called the CENSORED CENSORED of CENSORED. They are treating us all right, and the food is sufficient, if plain. We eagerly await the Red Cross packages and letters from home, so if you are able to write me back, it would be most appreciated.

It is very cold here, colder than home, but the Americans have issued all of us uniforms and winter coats. It is disheartening to see the big "PW" on everyone's back though. It makes me feel like a criminal instead of a soldier.

I have been trying to keep busy. We have a library of sorts here, with books by German authors such as CENSORED and CENSORED. And there is also a camp newspaper called CENSORED. We have also formed an orchestra and have been giving concerts - sometimes the townspeople come, and they seem to enjoy the music.

I have also been out of camp on a few work details. We have been out in the woods, cutting down and hauling trees for the CENSORED in CENSORED. And we get paid, not much, but enough to purchase small items in the camp store. Something funny happened last week, though. Schӓfer and Müller got separated from their work detail, and got picked up by the local police when they tried to hitch a ride back to camp!

There were some troublemakers in camp, who refused to believe that CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED but they have been moved elsewhere and we have a pretty good bunch of fellows now. I have made some good friends here. Ernst and Kurt and I spend much time together. And the American guards are quite pleasant, for the most part.

I have been keeping pretty well, and I think of you often, hoping that you are well also. It is strange to think that you are a CENSORED at CENSORED while I am a prisoner here. I must finish now, as it is time to go to the mess hall. That is really my biggest problem...when I get out of here, I will never eat another pickled herring as long as I live!

Fondly,
Your cousin Rudi

Schultz said, "I am sorry that your cousin was captured, but it sounds as though he is safe, Karl. What is it that concerns you?"

Langenscheidt looked up at the sergeant. "The pickled herring! What does that mean? Is it some kind of code, do you think? Is he trying to send me a message?"

Schultz nodded ponderously. "True, that does sound strange. Why would he be eating pickled herring in an American prisoner of war camp? Now, if he were in Norway, or Denmark..."

"Then he would be in one of our prisoner of war camps," said Huntzinger. "I would have to agree—it must be a secret message, Karl."

The other Unteroffiziers were of the same opinion, but this did nothing to alleviate Langenscheidt's concern. He decided to take his letter to the most intelligent man at Stalag 13, and the one he trusted the most.

The next day, Langenscheidt found Sergeant Kinchloe leaning against the wall of Barracks 2, watching a hotly contested volleyball game.

"Sergeant Kinchloe, may I speak with you?" Langenscheidt asked in a low voice.

Kinch looked at the corporal in some surprise. "Sure, Karl. What can I do for you?"

Langenscheidt looked around cautiously. "I would like to speak with you alone."

"Okay." Kinch pushed himself away from the building and casually walked around the corner to an area not under observation, with Langenscheidt following.

He watched as Langenscheidt pulled Rudi's letter from inside his coat. "What have you got there, Karl?"

Langenscheidt held the letter out to Kinch. "My cousin Rudi has written to tell me he is a prisoner of war—of the Americans."

Kinch did not attempt to take the letter. "Would you like to read it to me, Karl?"

Langenscheidt was embarrassed—of course Sergeant Kinchloe would be unable to read German. He read the letter aloud, and then looked up at Kinch. "What do you think?"

Kinch grinned. "That Rudi doesn't like pickled herring?"

"I am thinking it is a message to me, perhaps a code. Why would the Americans feed the prisoners pickled herring?"

"Beats me. Never touched the stuff myself. Say...do you mind if I check with our pickled herring expert? I mean, Sergeant Olsen?"

"Schon gut."

Kinch walked along the side of the barracks and peered around the corner in the direction of the volleyball players. "Hey, Olsen! C'mere a minute."

A minute later Olsen joined them, a little breathless from the game. "Whatcha want, Kinch?"

"It's about pickled herring," said Kinch.

"No kidding! Where'd you get it? I haven't had pickled herring since..."

"Sorry, Olsen. No pickled herring here. But Karl here has a letter from his cousin Rudi, who's a POW in the States. Says he's sick of pickled herring. What do you think it means?"

"That Rudi doesn't like pickled herring?" said Olsen. "I would say he's a lucky dog, myself. I haven't had pickled herring since..."

"You told us already, Olsen. Karl's worried that it might mean something else...like a secret message, maybe. What are the chances of our POW camps feeding their prisoners pickled herring?"

"I dunno. What else does the letter say?"

So Langenscheidt read the letter aloud again.

"Hmmm." Olsen nodded wisely. "Cutting timber...cold climate...pickled herring...sounds to me like Rudi's somewhere in the north woods, somewhere with a large Scandinavian population. Minnesota, maybe. Or northern Wisconsin. Even upper Michigan. You're from Michigan, Kinch. What do you think?"

"Hey, I'm a city boy from Detroit. The Upper Peninsula is hundreds of miles away from there, with a ferry ride across the Straits of Mackinac at the end of the road. I've never even been there. But," he paused thoughtfully, "I did hear that they were converting some of the old CCC camps up there to POW camps. It wouldn't take much to convert them; from the pictures I saw of the CCC camps back in the thirties, they looked a whole lot like Stalag 13, minus the barbed wire."

Langenscheidt was confused. "You think that perhaps Rudi is in one of those camps?"

Olsen nodded. "Sure sounds like it. It would explain the pickled herring if that's what the locals eat."

Kinch looked at Langenscheidt, his head tipped to one side. "What made you think that Rudi needed to send you a secret message?"

Langenscheidt looked down at the ground, and then back up at Kinch. "I have heard many bad things about Germans who have been captured by the Russians. I was afraid that perhaps he is not being treated well by the Americans, and was trying to let me know."

Kinch sighed. "Listen, Karl, we're the good guys. We uphold the Geneva Convention, the Russians don't. Rudi is in a good place, believe me. And there's plenty of food in America; he won't go hungry." He looked directly at Langenscheidt, holding his gaze.

Langenscheidt stared back for a moment and then relaxed. Sergeant Kinchloe was telling him the truth. He need not worry about Rudi.

"Danke, Sergeant Kinchloe. Danke, Sergeant Olsen. I feel better now."

"No problem, Karl."

That evening, after Langenscheidt went off duty, he sat in the guard's barracks with a beer and Rudi's letter in front of him. Reading it over gave him comfort now instead of disquiet, and he smiled as he read again of the pickled herring.

Across the table Schultz was nursing a beer of his own. Noticing Karl's smile, he smiled too. "You think perhaps your cousin is doing all right, after all?"

Langenscheidt looked up from the letter. "Ja, I think he is doing just fine."

Schultz assumed his most sage expression. "Strange, to think that he is a prisoner of the Americans and here, they are your prisoners. So you are the lucky one, eh?"

Langenscheidt looked down at Rudi's letter and then back at Schultz. He wondered about what the future held for himself, and for Germany, and suddenly shivered.

"Am I? I am not so sure."