No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Original text and characters copyright LJ Groundwater. Thanks.

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Robert Hogan started to lift his head, then stopped abruptly as agony exploded inside his skull. Bracing himself, he tried again, but slowly, and this time he managed to pull himself upright, but not without feeling strong waves of pain crash against his back, his shoulders, his chest. And all through the torturous task, one question persisted in the US Army Air Corps Colonel's mind:

What happened?

Moving his heavy head ever-so-slowly, and still stopping occasionally in deference to a painfully stiff neck, Hogan turned to try and see the person beside him. The slim, helmeted man was slumped awkwardly over the steering wheel, his face turned away, his body limp, and even through blurry vision Hogan could tell that the right arm was broken. He tried to slide himself toward the still form, but gasped when the effort shot fire through his left leg from his toes to his hip. It took him a minute to realize that the mangled vehicle had pinned that leg under the dashboard, from his foot to just above his knee. He was going nowhere. Hogan allowed himself to collapse against the back of the seat, grimacing once as the leather made contact with strained muscles and his whole head pounded ruthlessly, leaving him breathless and distressed.

When the worst of the pain had receded and black dots no longer danced in front of his closed eyes, he tried to take stock of his situation. Keeping his eyes shut, he replayed the day: roll call at Stalag Luft 13, where he was senior Prisoner of War—far too early a roll call after a late night roaming the woods in the middle of Germany, out on a mission to get vital information from an Underground agent about top secret plans to improve Luftwaffe planes. Then a song-and-dance routine with the camp Kommandant, Colonel Wilhelm Klink, so he could get back out of camp today to get London's instructions back to the contact. That's right… Hogan had wrangled a few hours out of camp on the pretence of… what was it?... oh, yes: scouting out the best place to cut firewood for the camp's winter stores—because the forest around the camp didn't have the best wood for the stoves used in the Stalag—at least that's what he thought he made up to get himself in to town. Good grief, Hogan thought wryly, shaking his head at the thought until a flood of pain reminded him that wasn't a good idea; the things I do for my country!

Try as he might, Hogan could remember nothing after that, and when concentrating sharpened the pain in his head, he stopped and let random images float through his mind without order or reason. He saw Peter Newkirk, the English Corporal who was part of his intelligence operation back at camp, flashing a broad smile and laughing loudly at a joke he had just made at the expense of Stalag 13's Sergeant of the Guard, Hans Schultz; he saw Klink, balling a fist in frustration as Hogan slipped out of the Kommandant's office with a pilfered cigar; and he remembered taking a fleeting glance back toward the compound as the car he was now trapped in was leaving the camp, thinking how this was a rare chance to be chauffeured in broad daylight to his meeting place, instead of having to sneak out in the middle of the cold German winter night.

And a fine mess this turned out to be, Hogan thought ironically. He brought a hand up to his head to try and ease the throbbing. Oh, boy, we'd better get out of here… wherever "here" is…. Resisting the urge to simply lie back and let this catastrophe wash over him, Hogan looked out the shattered windshield and tried to make sense of his surroundings. There was a tree trunk, much closer to him than he would have expected normally, and over to one side there was a large boulder and grass, which struck him as slightly out of place, since it was almost in line with the window. Hogan panted breathlessly, "We're on an angle…. We must have slid… down an embankment."

And then, not sure if the man beside him had heard him or not, Hogan lapsed back into oblivion's beckoning arms.

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"Colonel Hogan."

Hogan let the voice sink into his consciousness and mentally considered answering but did not move.

"Herr Oberst. Colonel Hogan."

The voice was a bit stronger now, more insistent. Hogan let out a low moan as his head lolled to one side. He couldn't think of opening his eyes, not just yet.

"Colonel Hogan, you must wake up now. Wake up."

Hogan groaned louder and forced his eyes open. He immediately lurched forward as his head spun and nausea rose within him, and he heaved and choked until the dizziness subsided. Just as he'd feared, the journey into the present carried with it a stronger awareness of the pain he'd been trying so hard to suppress, and now, exhausted by the unwanted movement, he fell back against the seat again, panting and sweating. He would welcome unconsciousness, he thought tiredly. Bring it on.

But it was not to be. "Colonel Hogan," came the voice again.

Hogan drew his focus away from his throbbing shoulder and his aching ribs and his thumping head and briefly, vaguely, wondered who was being so persistent. "Uhhhnn," he groaned in protest. There were intelligible words in his mind, but he could not find the strength to say them.

"Please, Colonel Hogan, you must pull yourself together."

"Whuh-izzid," Hogan slurred. He paused to catch his breath laboredly and tried again. "Just lemmee… sleep…"

"Nein, Herr Oberst. You must stay awake. You have hit your head."

"I know I hit my head," Hogan said sharply, irritably. A lancing pain through his temple reinforced his statement. He hissed and bit his lip, hard. "And I don't think the rest of me's too good either," he added softly. And then a slow, heartbreaking revelation: they were still in the wrecked car. Hogan tried to look at the man beside him; the guard, Corporal Kleinschmidt, was still. "Lemmee… help you… move," he managed. Without thinking, Hogan tried to shift position. His trapped leg protested loudly, causing the Colonel to break out in a cold sweat as his stomach flipped sickeningly yet again. He was sure he could feel blood oozing from a cut on his head, and another on his arm. He did not want to see if he was right.

"No—do not try, Colonel Hogan," came the German's voice.

"Your arm," Hogan panted, battling to stay coherent. "Your arm is broken. What about your legs? Are you trapped?"

"My… left arm is entangled, Herr Oberst. I do not think I should move right now."

The young voice and its intended bravery touched Hogan, and he very much wanted to help make the mere boy beside him more comfortable if he could. "Maybe I can turn you so you don't have to have your face in the… steering wheel," Hogan gasped, still struggling to maneuver himself. The pain was horrific, but he persisted; Hogan could at least see their surroundings. Poor Kleinschmidt could see nothing but the floor of the car.

"It's all right, Colonel Hogan," Kleinschmidt replied, as Hogan had to abandon the effort. "I am comfortable enough as I am."

Exhausted by the exertion, Hogan heard the words through a deafening jackhammering above his eyes. He nodded weakly and forced himself once again to think. "What happened?" he asked.

"We ran off the road, Herr Oberst," the guard replied.

Hogan nearly laughed at the simplicity of the answer. But he couldn't think of anything remotely funny about their predicament at the moment. He waited until he had gathered enough strength again to speak, then asked, "How long have we been here?"

"I am not sure; close to an hour, I think."

The answer startled the Colonel, who instinctively tried to raise his arm to look at his watch. But he groaned and dropped it quickly as a sudden avalanche of pain instantly surged down from his shoulder to his fingertips. When he got his breath back, he tried to gauge the placement of the sun in the sky above them. "Then we're not expected back at camp for three hours. They'll start to miss us about half an hour after that, and then by the time they find us…" Hogan's voice trailed off. Another four hours trapped in a car. Another four hours without anyone to even think about where they might be. Another four hours of extraordinary pain. My head hurts, he thought wearily. Stop calculating. And then, as he thought of the young guard again: And stop thinking only about yourself.

"Are you sure you can't move at all?" Hogan asked.

"I don't want to try, Herr Oberst," Kleinschmidt answered. "I will be fine this way."

Hogan was moved by the lad's steadfastness. "They'll find us," he said breathily, fading once again. "The Kommandant would never let us be late for bed check."

"Stay awake, Colonel Hogan. You must stay awake."

But Hogan found that task impossible. "Wake me when we get back to Stalag 13. I've got John Philip Sousa playing in my head and I need to get away for awhile." Then he closed his eyes and let silky blackness cocoon him.

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The angle of light on the car told Hogan that it was much later than it had been when he last drifted off to sleep or unconsciousness. But an equally astute instinct told him they were no closer to being found. Feeling a little less heavy-headed than he had before, and with the sensation in his trapped leg dulled almost alarmingly, he tried to get a fuller understanding of his situation.

All events from about five minutes after Hogan and Kleinschmidt left camp earlier today were erased from the Colonel's mind, and he had enough sense not to try and force the memories. All he did know had been planned the night before he and the guard headed out: the man Hogan had contacted last night was awaiting instructions from Allied Headquarters in London. Hogan was to have delivered those instructions today at a pre-arranged spot near Hammelburg. But Hogan could not remember if he and Kleinschmidt, his unwitting chauffeur, had even gotten to the town. Judging from the bright daylight still greeting him, he guessed they hadn't. And from the look of things, he wouldn't be making that rendezvous at all—today or any time in the near future.

Now, Hogan thought, a once-over. There was no doubt that he had hit his head, probably on the windshield of the car, when whatever disaster had overtaken them had occurred. A sharp, ceaseless drumming was beating his temples, and any sudden movement increased both its volume and its intensity. Hogan accepted this injury as the main reason for the lethargy and confusion he constantly had to fight, as well as pinpointing it as the source of the sticky trail of blood he could feel on the side of his face from his hairline down to his jaw.

He already knew that his leg was trapped in the wreckage, and the pain that accompanied any attempts to free it only stoked the fire racing freely through Hogan's chest, where he was sure there were at least two broken ribs, and his shoulder, which radiated a slow, deep ache all its own. Tears stung his eyes whenever he moved his neck more than a couple of inches in either direction. And finally, a trickling feeling on his arm told Hogan that there was a cut somewhere that was not clotting on its own, and he could only hope his shirt would help arrest any further bleeding. He had definitely seen better days.

He turned his wavering attention to his companion. Not daring to turn his head to look, Hogan said questioningly, "Kleinschmidt? You there?"

"Ja, Herr Oberst. Ich bin hier."

"How are you… holding up?"

"I am fine, Herr Oberst. How are you feeling?"

"About as good as… I'm sure I look," Hogan replied, still finding it difficult to complete even short sentences in one breath.

Kleinschmidt's complete lack of movement was disturbing to Hogan, whose actions were also severely limited. But the young man's almost serene calm in the midst of this mess was soothing, and the Colonel cursed himself for not taking control of the situation earlier, even taking his own injuries into account. This kid didn't ask to be in the war, he reminded himself. But then… who did?

"We still will not be missed for some time." The German's voice suddenly did not sound as confident as it had only a minute ago.

"Don't worry; there's no way we'll be left for long once we pass curfew," Hogan panted, sure he was failing in his attempt to sound reassuring. "Someone will find us; you'll see."

Kleinschmidt fell silent. Hogan felt too ill to try and resume the conversation, though he had been finding it soothing to have company.

"Have you gone back to sleep, Herr Oberst?" the guard asked eventually.

"No," Hogan whispered. The truth was that the Corporal's words had brought him back from some distant, semi-conscious state. Hogan just didn't have the energy to move, or even to say, anything; pain and blood loss had left him weak and lethargic, and being oblivious to the passage of time didn't seem like such a bad thing. But Kleinschmidt was determined to keep Hogan far too aware of his predicament. "No," Hogan repeated softly; "I'm just… resting."

The Colonel swallowed painfully. God, how he longed for water. All the rain they had had last week… had that contributed to this accident today? Hogan wondered fleetingly. It didn't matter in the end: they were still here, and there was nothing to drink within reach. He felt himself growing cold, even though he knew that in reality he was starting to burn with fever. Determined to keep at bay whatever bleak future awaited them, he gasped, "How you… going over there?"

"I do not feel badly, Colonel," Hogan's companion answered.

"Arm must… hurt like hell."

"It feels quite dull, sir."

Hogan nodded vaguely, then groaned at the instant protest from his sore head and neck. Lucky you, the American thought ironically. His heavy-lidded eyes closed in weariness and despair. How much longer… can't think to gauge it…Come on; stay lucid….

"Talk to me, Herr Oberst."

The plea made Hogan's exhausted mind spin, and he wanted to weep rather than agree to the Corporal's request. But somehow even in this state, Hogan couldn't bring himself to disappoint the young guard, as the face of one of his own men at Stalag 13, Andrew Carter, drifted through his mind. His voice was barely strong enough to carry the few feet to Kleinschmidt's ears. "What… do you want me to talk about?"

"Why did you become a pilot? Were you conscripted?"

Poor kid. Must hurt so bad he's looking for a distraction. "No," Hogan said through a gasping breath as an excruciating pain radiated from his trapped leg, making him arc away from the back of the seat. So much for blissful numbness. "I was already in the service," he said when he could speak again. "It was the best way to get into flying."

"Flying." The voice sounded almost wistful. "You like flying, Colonel Hogan?"

"I did, Kleinschmidt." Hogan's mind reluctantly went back inside the cockpit of his last plane, a B-17 Flying Fortress called Goldilocks. The pain of memories nearly outweighed the pain of his injuries. "I did."

"But you do not any longer?"

What an odd question, Hogan thought suddenly. Then he realized how his answer might have sounded and replied, "I haven't been in the air in over a year now. I like to think I'll still enjoy it if I ever get the chance to go back up there again."

"You will, Herr Oberst," the German Corporal said determinedly. "War cannot hold down a good man forever."

Hogan smiled wanly. How could this boy know whether he was a good man? He must be so scared. "We'll both get a chance to do many things when the war is over," the Colonel said now.

"My brother Karl and I always wanted to go to America," Kleinschmidt said, his voice unexpectedly animated.

"Oh?"

"Yes. We would talk about all the places we would go to. We wanted to see the Liberty statue… and we wanted to see the Grand Canyon. And Hollywood, Herr Oberst. We wanted to go to Hollywood. Karl was always a very good actor. He did a lot of plays when he was in school, and then with a local Theater-Gruppe. He was always so talented. He could even perform Shakespeare with great ease."

Hogan let all the words wash over him. Come on; think. This kid's practically begging you just to stay with him so he doesn't have to think about how scared he is. Clear your head. "That's great," was all he could manage.

"Of course, William Shakespeare is a classical playwright, isn't he?" Kleinschmidt added.

Hogan couldn't miss the irony in the soldier's voice. Classical. It took him a minute, but then he remembered: Shakespeare's Englishness was a difficult thing for the Nazis to accept, though they adored the Bard's works. So he was no longer allowed to be English; he was classical, like Sophocles. And certain plays, like The Merchant of Venice, made the Nazis like him even more. "Oh, of course," Hogan replied with the tiniest of smiles, somewhat buoyed by the shift in focus from himself. He paused to rest. "So will you go to Hollywood—after the war?"

A short silence. "No." Hogan decided to leave that unanswered, and it was Kleinschmidt who picked up the dropped thread of conversation. "Karl was killed about six months after he was called to serve. On the Eastern Front."

Hogan's heart felt a pang at the announcement, something that struck him as odd considering he had never met Karl Kleinschmidt, who had been killed fighting on the wrong side of the war. Still, if Karl had been anything like this brother… "I'm sorry, Kleinschmidt," he said quietly.

"Gunter."

"What's that?"

"Gunter. My name is Gunter. If you wish to, you may call me that, Herr Oberst."

Up to now, Hogan had tried to remain somehow detached from everything that had happened, and was happening, to them. He had tried to concentrate solely on getting through the next few hours with as little pain as possible—and with as little chance of danger to the operation and his men as he could manage. But the invitation to bond more closely with this young soldier was too much for Hogan to ignore. No matter how hard he tried to act otherwise, the reality was Hogan was frightened, and he was despairing, if only just a little bit—and he was saying over and over again in the back of his mind the simple prayer he had learned as a child, to find some comfort in this strange situation: God, I have no power; You have all. Please take care of me.

"Robert." A grimace followed by a calming breath. "My name is Robert."

A long pause. Hogan wondered for a moment if he hadn't made the Corporal feel ill at ease. Then: "Thank you for talking with me, Robert. It makes what is happening less frightening."

"That's okay. Gunter." Another wave of tiredness washed over the Colonel, and with a low moan he closed his eyes. "My head hurts. I need to sleep." A random thought passed through his mind. "You probably should, too."

"I am resting, Robert. You sleep now. We will talk again soon."

And, satisfied with the answer, Hogan drifted away from his pain, and into nothingness.