Lost and Found

by Sacskink

In answer to the flattery challenge. A follow-up to Nina Stephens' "Ursa Major" (with permission). How Colonel Hogan continues to adjust to his changed circumstances. Typos corrected ;) Please R & R.

Starting Over

By Sacskink

Disclaimer:

This story is a follow up to Nina Stephens' "Ursa Major."

I do not own the Hogan Heroes characters. They are the property of others.

The characters Victoria Maurier and Ursa Major are used with the kind permission of their creator. Geoff Wallace and Field Marshall von Saal are mine.

Chapter 1: Stille Nacht

A few days before Christmas, and all was quiet at Stalag 13. Colonel Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of the camp had invited his Senior POW Officer, Colonel Robert Hogan, and Hogan's second-in-command, Sergeant James Kinchloe, to for a quiet evening of holiday cheer in his private quarters.

The three men were gathered around the coffee table. Klink and Kinchloe were engrossed in a chess game while Hogan leaned back on the sofa. Both men had been playing regularly against Hogan ever since the American pilot's arrival at Stalag 13 more than two-and-a-half years before. Now that Hogan found it impossible to play, he had suggested Klink challenge Kinchloe directly. This was the first time the German colonel and the American sergeant had squared off, so they were sizing each other up.

At first, they both made a point of announcing their moves, rather like radio announcers might describe a ball game, for the benefit of Colonel Hogan. Hard as might he concentrate, however, the American officer couldn't visualize the changing board as the game progressed. After half an hour he admitted defeat, though he did appreciate their making the effort to include him. The commentary soon devolved into a disjointed series of cryptic interjections and dangling participles.

Colonel Hogan stretched out with his arms folded behind his head and legs crossed at the ankles, his black Labrador Retriever, Ursa Major, on the floor next to him. The air was rich with the aroma of Klink's excellent cigars. Hogan himself was not smoking. He was still embarrassed about nearly setting Klink's coffee table ablaze a couple of weeks before. Next time, he thought ruefully, I might set the whole blasted camp on fire.

Instead, he pretended to be engrossed in the Beethoven symphony playing on Klink's phonograph. He shifted his position and sighed. Some of this thoughts were on the nearby chess match. He loved chess, the ancient game of strategy fitted his personality so well. Another life's small pleasures snatched away, he thought sadly. Damn it, I miss chess!

Hogan was also struggling with a much larger concern: his ability to continue to function as the leader of the sabotage and espionage ring at Stalag 13. True, their first sabotage job after his accident, blowing up the Schlemmer Tunnel, had been a success, but the price had been very high. Hogan himself had nearly bled to death after being attacked by an enraged Gestapo officer. Victoria Maurier, the operative who trained Hogan to cope with his changed circumstances had pronounced him ready to return to duty, and London had concurred, but self-doubt still gnawed at Hogan's gut. Hochstetter wouldn't have gotten the drop on me if I could see. Next time, who knows what kind of unnecessary risk I might pose to my men and our mission. He sighed audibly. Am I being selfish by trying to stay in the game?

Klink and Kinch exchanged a glance. Previously, the German officer and the American non-com had had little direct contact with each other. Despite the gulf in rank and nationality, being thrown together by their concern for Hogan's welfare after the traumatic events of the past few weeks had sparked a sense of mutual respect and the beginnings of a tentative friendship.

At last, Kinch seized his opportunity. "Gotcha! Check!"

"Ach! You're supposed to lose!" grumbled Klink, trying to distract Hogan from his pensive mood. "Hogan, why didn't you explain the rules of the game?"

Hogan smiled and chuckled. "Actually, I never did throw a game, Kommandant."

"Really?" Klink was genuinely surprised. Klink had "introduced" Hogan to chess not long after the American's arrival at Stalag 13, partly as a subtle way of studying how the man's mind worked, and partly because, strange to tell, Klink found that he rather enjoyed Hogan's company, even if he was a prisoner. Later, he came to suspect that Hogan's apparent naivete about the game was one more of the American's subterfuges.

"I had often thought you knew more about the game than you let on."

"Well…I will admit I had played a few times before we met." Ah ha, thought Klink, I knew it. "But, " Hogan continued, "I never got a taste for the game before I landed here."

Kinch nodded sympathetically. Chess had been one of the many factors contributing to his deep friendship with his commanding officer. Kinch, an excellent player himself, found Hogan an apt pupil of the game. I think he was meant for it all along. Kinch knew that Hogan's life prior to Stalag 13 had been dominated by fast machines, motorcycles and airplanes in particular. He just didn't find the time before. Now his flying career is over and he has to lose this too. God, what a shame.

The springs creaked as Klink rose from his seat. He crossed the room briefly, then returned with a decanter and three glasses.

"Gentlemen?" he said as he removed the stopper.

Hogan caught a whiff of cognac and sat up, smiling. Say what you will, Klink has good taste.

They lifted their glasses in a Christmas toast.

"To peace on Earth and goodwill to men," proposed the German officer.

"Amen. To peace on Earth," concurred his American guests.

Later that same night, alone in his quarters, Hogan rolled over restlessly in his bunk, unable to fall asleep. Even though he hadn't slipped back into that numbing despair that had paralyzed him the first few weeks after his accident, he was still plagued with bouts of melancholia and bad dreams. His many friends and well-wishers (a list that included both Klink and Sergeant of the Guard Hans Schultz), although sympathetic, could not really empathize with his situation and the changing moods and emotions that lapped against him, like the advancing and retreating waves on a beach. No one, that is, except Vicky.

The Swiss doctor and operative for British Intelligence had successfully eluded the Gestapo and returned to London. She and Hogan had even exchanged letters, in Braille, via the Swiss consulate and Kommandant Klink, who had volunteered to act as intermediary between the lovers. Who ever thought my fairy godmother would be a bald and wear a monocle? he mused.

Hogan had been practicing with the Braille typewriter that Vicky had left for him. Never a good typist, even when he could look at the keys, it wasn't surprising that his missive was fraught with errors and transposed letters, but he sent it anyway. It was a measure of the deep bond between them that he would let down his guard. He knew Vicky would understand. Thank God for you, Vicky. I miss you. Be careful, love. Be safe.

Comforted by the memory of his dear girl, he finally surrendered to sleep.

Chapter 2: A Meeting with Merlin

A week later, Corporal Peter Newkirk, RAF, sat at a table in the Hofbrau in Hammelburg, sipping beer, playing solitaire and, curiously enough, waiting for Merlin. Upon hearing the code name of the contact, the former magician had requested, nay, demanded the job as professional courtesy. Good Englishman that he was, Newkirk also loved any excuse to sneak out to a pub, even if said pub was crawling with enemy soldiers. Naturally, he was in disguise, this time as an ordinary workman, one of the hundreds coming off duty from the local factories.

Who am I looking for, some bearded loony with a magic wand? Newkirk covertly scanned the room wondering when his mysterious contact would make himself known. Since there weren't any wizards in the bar that day, he would just have to wait for Merlin to find him. He turned his attention back to the cards and the beer.

Directly behind Newkirk was a table full of Wehrmacht officers, ranging in rank from lieutenants to major. They were clearly enjoying themselves: sharing ribald humor and laughing uproariously. Some of their jokes were at the expense of one of their absent "comrades."

"Here's to 'little Walter!' May he go far one day."

"Jah, all the way to the Eastern Front!"

"Jawohl! If someone doesn't shoot him first."

"Jah, jah!"

Finally the major drained the last bit of lager from his stein, signaling that it was time to go, "No way to avoid it boys! No point giving little Walter an excuse to 'tattle' to his uncle." Newkirk deduced from their comments that the person in question was a relative of their commander. Bloody nepotism, thought Newkirk sourly, every army's the same.

The major ignored their chorus of complaints and smiled benignly as they filed out. He then took out his wallet and pulled out some money.

He glanced at the floor and quickly stooped, coming back up with a playing card in his hand. "Excuse, mein Herr," he addressed Newkirk, "I believe you dropped the jack of diamonds."

That was the recognition code. Newkirk turned and thanked him gravely. "Jah, danke. No wonder I couldn't win this hand." Under his breath, he added, "Merlin?"

"Um hmm," the major murmured, apparently studying the spread of cards on the table. He also spoke in a low voice to prevent others from overhearing their conversation.

"Papa Bear?"

"No, just one of his loyal minions."

"I'm sorry, I don't have the information, yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that, I haven't got it. I've been on this for weeks, but no luck. Field Marshal von Saal is calling some meeting of the brass and everything's buttoned up tight! I'll just have to keep trying. I've been after this too long to give up now. I'll make contact as soon as I can, usual channels."

"Papa Bear isn't going to be pleased about this."

"I know. You can tell him Merlin is sorry."

"All right." Newkirk abruptly scraped up the cards and said loudly, "Ach, I give up! I might as well go home to the wife and kiddies." He rose, nodded to the major, and left.

Chapter 3: Good Morning

In a continuation of the dismal pattern, Colonel Hogan woke with a start, drenched in sweat. Major whimpered softly, rested his head on Hogan's chest and licked his chin. Hogan felt his watch. 0130. When is this going to end? he thought wearily as he stroked the Labrador's head. "I'll be okay, boy," he whispered to the dog, "go back to sleep."

Outside, in the main barracks, Kinch was momentarily awakened when Hogan cried out in his sleep. The Colonel's nightmares had become a regular feature of the night in Barracks Two. By mutual consent, his fellow residents pretended not to notice the upsetting sounds of his uneasy dreams. They understood Hogan was battling his personal demons, and didn't want to add to his worries. Over time, they were learning to sleep through without waking.

A few hours later, Kinch again awakened to sounds from Hogan's quarters. This time, however, it was the comforting hum of the Colonel's electric shaver. Hogan had gotten into the habit of rising before the others to have extra time to make himself presentable. He was a fastidious man, and being well-groomed was important to his sense of personal dignity.

The Colonel quietly opened his door and crossed the room to put on the coffee. Hogan's coffee may not have been up to LeBeau's standards, but it wasn't too bad, either. In any event, the boys appreciated the significance of this humble act by their commander. Officers usually didn't perform such menial services for enlisted men, but Hogan was demonstrating his thanks to the men for their patience and understanding during his ordeal.

Kinch sat on the edge of the bunk and yawned hugely, just as "Morning, Colonel. (Yawn)"

"Morning, Kinch."

"(Yawn) What time is it?"

Hogan felt his watch. "Five thirty."

"(Yawn) Ugh. Gimme that." Kinch gratefully accepted a mug of steaming coffee.

The two men sat in silence, drinking their coffee, as the rest of the men dragged themselves up and wandered over to join them at the table.

Kinch gave his boss an accusatory look. "Okay, give. What's the trick?"

"Trick?" Hogan was all innocence.

"Yeah. How come you're awake—and civil—at this ungodly hour? I didn't even hear your alarm clock." Kinch was aware that Hogan hadn't slept through the night, again, and also knew from long experience that Hogan was not a morning person. Even at the best of times he generally woke up reluctantly and very grouchy.

Hogan chuckled quietly. "Major. He's been waking me up when the tower guards open the gates when the supply truck from town arrives. I think he hears the truck approaching." Hogan rubbed the dog's head affectionately. "He won't be denied."

Kinch drained his cup. "Anything exciting happening today?"

"Yeah. First off, Klink wants us to clean up the compound right after breakfast." Hogan waited for the chorus of groans. He was not disappointed.

"Again? We just did that yesterday!" complained Newkirk.

"Oh, hush!" snorted LeBeau. "There's more coming."

Hogan nodded, then continued. "Burkhalter called. Said to be prepared to for important visitors at 11:00. Top brass, highest security, no details. Klink's in a tizzy and wants to put on a good show." Hogan paused to sip his coffee before continuing. "He also wants LeBeau to prepare lunch."

"What!" Now it was LeBeau's turn to complain, spluttering a rapid-fire stream of French invectives.

Kinch let him finish blowing off steam before inquiring, "Visitors? What sort of visitors?"

"That's the sixty-four-dollar question. All very hush-hush. Even Klink doesn't know who, how many or why they're coming here of all places. I've got a hunch, however, that it's something big. Klink, by the way, is not invited to participate."

"That won't make him happy," remarked Carter.

"No, but it makes me very happy. Burkhalter's bellow comes over the microphone so well!" Hogan grinned wickedly as Schultz arrived to shoo them out for morning roll call.

Chapter 4: So This is Stalag 13

Ten thirty. Klink stood on the porch outside his office, scanning the compound nervously. Everything looked in order. He had to admit, the prisoners had done a fine job cleaning up the yard and performing necessary maintenance on the buildings. All that was needed this morning had been a quick rubbish sweep. In fact, he reflected, all the men had been going out of their way to keep the place tidy—not, of course, out of consideration for Klink's efficiency rating—but lest their senior officer trip over unseen obstacles.

On the far side of the compound, a large group of prisoners were engaged in a lively game of American-style football, using a worn out basketball bound with strapping tape as an improvised "pigskin." In the distance, Hogan was completing his daily circuit of the camp, a routine he had established since recovering from his near fatal encounter with Hochstetter, partly to keep up with the numerous men under his command, partly to keep himself in shape. He returned to Barracks Two and took off Major's harness, a signal to the dog that he was "off duty" and free to play for a while. The dog gave a joyful yip and ran into the midst of the football game, grabbed the ball in his mouth and dashed about, weaving a slalom course through their legs, while the men, laughing and yelling, tried to intercept him. Despite his preoccupation, Klink had to smile at the sight.

Colonel Hogan sprawled on a bench outside his barracks, crush cap pushed back, his arms wrapped around himself, enjoying warmth of the winter sunshine. He suddenly cocked his head, alert and focused. Klink also turned as the front gates swung open for a car. The vehicle came to a halt in near the Kommandantur.

Sergeant Andrew Carter ambled over and plunked himself down on Hogan's left. "Visitor at two o'clock," he told the colonel.

"Yeah, I heard it. One car, right?"

"Right-o, boy. I mean, sir."

"Burkhalter?"

"No, I don't think so. I know Burkhalter—no, it's not ol' fatso this time. Wehrmacht—a major."

"I wonder what he's after? Have Newkirk get close and see what he wants."

"Okey dokey. Sir." Carter sprinted off.

Major Erich Gunther got out of the car and massaged the back of his neck. He knew POW camps were miserable places, and like many in the German military, he had heard stories of Stalag 13's fearsome reputation as the ultimate escape-proof prison. Unlike most other men in Wehrmacht gray, however, he knew at least one man incarcerated in that dreaded place. When he learned that his commander had ordered a meeting at the camp, Gunther arranged to accompany him. He was taking an awful to see for himself if his friend was safe.

The camp kommandant, Colonel Klink, waited as the major ascended the steps and saluted smartly..

"Greetings, Herr Kommandant. I am Major Gunther of Field Marshal von Saal's personal staff. "

"Greetings, Major. I am Colonel Klink. How can I help you?" Klink was puzzled, but pleasant enough..

This is the awesome Wilhelm Klink? The terror of the Luftstalags? I don't believe it. Klink was hardly an imposing figure. "My apologies for arriving prematurely like this. I came ahead to ensure that everything was in readiness. The Field Marshal has little patience for, shall we say, surprises?" The major permitted himself a small, knowing smile.

Klink responded with an uneasy chuckle. "I'm sure you'll find the preparations to your satisfaction. My office is at your disposal. General Burkhalter also said the Field Marshal and others would be staying for lunch." Klink hesitated, "I don't suppose you could tell me exactly how many guests we are expecting? I would like to inform the cook, you see." Oh ho, thought Gunther, they haven't told you anything, have they?

Gunther looked around casually as he ticked off the names of the attendees. "Besides Field Marshal von Saal, hmm, let's see. Generals Burkhalter and Volper from the Luftwaffe, Generals Krieger and Meiser for the Wehrmacht, and General Manser from the SS." He was momentarily startled to see his contact from the other day, now dressed as a corporal in RAF blue, loafing nearby. What's he doing here? "So, you see, generally speaking, it will be a very busy morning." The RAF corporal smirked at Gunther's pun, then resumed a poker face and looked the officer straight in eye. The major eyes narrowed as he nodded almost imperceptibly. The corporal returned the nod. So, Papa Bear is onto this one, too? Good. It may take both of us to get the information.

Gunther continued his lazy visual inspection. He noted the prisoners carousing with the dog. That's unusual, he thought. Then his eyes latched onto one man in particular. He was too far away to see the man's face clearly, but he could tell that he was dark-haired and wore a brown bomber jacket. That's got to be him! As Gunther watched, the man appeared to be speaking with a fellow in a ragged sheepskin jacket, who abruptly left. The man in the bomber jacket stood up, adjusted his cap and stretched, then hastily clutched a hand to his flank. Graff could clearly see the man's wore his crush cap pushed back at an eccentric angle.

Graff turned back to Klink, but not before noticing the RAF corporal loping off in the direction of the officer in the bomber jacket. A couple of other drifted over to join them. The confab seemed to be more than just an idle chat. Gunther was certain the corporal was reporting his presence to his chief. The major got a prickly sensation on the back of his neck. Is it possible that Hogan is Papa Bear?

Chapter 5: The Eagle

A few minutes later, the camp gates swung open again, this time admitting four staff cars, each adorned with swastika flags fluttering in the breeze. The cars pulled up directly in front of the Kommandantur, spraying gravel as they came to an abrupt halt. The drivers sprang out to open doors for their illustrious passengers. Field Marshal von Saal climbed out of the first vehicle.

Leaving Gunther on the steps near his office, Klink hurried down the steps to greet his visitors. "General Burkhalter! Gentlemen! Good morning, sirs. Welcome to Stalag 13. We are honored by your presence—"

"Yes, yes," Burkhalter cut him off impatiently. "Klink, do shut up. We have business to attend to. Introductions can wait."

"Of course, sir. Anything to be of service. This way, please."

"I know the way, you idiot."

The Field Marshal scanned the prison yard, then paused when he saw something completely astonishing: a group of POWs romping with a large, black dog. Gesturing impatiently, he asked with a voice that dripped contempt, "Tell me, Burkhalter, is the Luftwaffe running a prison or a resort?"

Burkhalter followed his gaze, his face turning beet red. "Klink! Since when are prisoners allowed to keep pets?"

"The dog," said the Colonel quietly, "belongs to Colonel Hogan."

"How delightful!" scoffed von Saal, "does he also keep parakeets?"

Burkhalter started to splutter, "Hogan? Why does he…oh." He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly feeling deflated and even a bit ashamed of himself. For weeks, Hogan's situation had been the topic of gossip at Headquarters by those who had met, and been outflanked by, the wily American prisoner. Of course Burkhalter knew why—everyone knew why. After all, the use of trained dogs to guide the blind had originated in Germany after the Great War.

Major Gunther's eyes widened. His eyes followed the dog, but rested on the man. He didn't immediately grasp the significance of the dog as he watched the animal run over to his master and saw Hogan take hold of the harness and walk in their direction. As Hogan approached, Gunther could see signs of deprivation on his friend. He's too thin. As he came even closer he could discern the fresh, jagged scars on his temple and chin. My God, Rob, what have they done to you? Major Gunther's mind was whirling.

"Is that General Burkhalter's voice I hear?" sang out Hogan cheerfully.

"Hogan," said the kommandant quietly. The American immediately turned in the direction of Klink's voice. Klink coughed very quietly. Hogan "snapped" into his usual, sloppy salute, breaking the pose not when Burkhalter returned the gesture, but after Klink made a small sound by moving his foot in the dirt. Interesting, thought Burkhalter, Klink is cuing him.

"Hiya." Hogan grinned. He knew people were often uncomfortable around him at first, but was quite willing to take advantage of the reaction—just one more way of keeping the enemy off balance. A couple of prisoners loitering within earshot smirked. They loved it when Hogan toyed with their captors.

It was clear from their expressions and voiced comments that the assembled staff officer were not amused by Hogan's casual greeting. Hogan's mind, however, was on more than just disconcerting some Nazi brass. Newkirk's report that Merlin was also dancing attendance suggested this meeting was very important indeed. Merlin's been after the plans for the coordinated defense of western Germany. This could be a big score.

"Gentlemen," Klink said, "may I present Colonel Robert Hogan, Senior POW Officer? Hogan, you know General Burkhalter—" Klink abruptly stopped speaking as he was distracted by an extraordinary performance.

Von Saal seemed intensely interested in the American officer. He slowly circled Hogan, scrutinizing him from all angles. "So this is the famous Colonel Hogan?" He laughed derisively. Immediately on the alert, Hogan maintained a deliberately neutral expression except for a slight narrowing of the eyes. I don't like this.

Von Saal continued conversationally, "Of course I've heard a lot about you, Colonel. Burkhalter, now you will understand why I suggested holding this meeting here." The Field Marshal stopped when he was directly facing Hogan. He grabbed the American by the chin and turned his face this way and that, studying Hogan's unwavering brown eyes. "Stalag 13 is the safest place in all of Germany, now that the eagle's wings have been so efficiently clipped."

Von Saal felt Hogan's muscles tense up. He snorted and shoved him backwards. Hogan stumbled and landed awkwardly on his rump. His cap landed a few feet away.

The dog growled. Hogan felt for the harness and hauled himself to his feet. He touched the crown of his head, verifying that his crush cap had fallen off. "Major," he said through clenched teeth, "pick it up." The dog obediently retrieved the cap and pressed it into his master's waiting hand.

Although he hid it well, Gunther was shocked. He now understood what was going on, and the meaning of the dog at Hogan's side. Why in hell didn't someone tell me?

Although Klink was unnerved by the Field Marshal's behavior, he had considerable experience disguising his feelings. He subserviently offered his guests a tour of the camp, mostly to fill the awkward silence that followed Von Saal's assault. Surprisingly, The Field Marshal accepted the offer with alacrity. As the assembly set off, the kommandant soon seemed to be in his element, prattling about "iron discipline" and his stalag's "perfect" record..

The other high-ranking officers were clearly impatient to get on with the work they came to do, but had little choice in the matter. Field Marshal Von Saal seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. His comments, however masked in joviality, though, were calculated to degrade and belittle. He seemed to take a particularly nasty pleasure in taunting Hogan, who managed (with difficulty) to restrain his notorious Irish temper. Hogan was seething inside but kept his tongue in check. Got to learn everything I can. Keep your cool. Even Burkhalter was embarrassed, although his dignity wouldn't permit him to dispute with his superior in front of a lowly prisoner. Gunther remained impassive.

By the time the group returned to the Kommandantur, Hogan's face was dark. He hadn't been prepared to handle such outright cruelty. He was about to let Von Saal have a piece of his mind when Klink headed him off. Just a few weeks ago, he had seen Hogan beaten nearly to death by the Gestapo and wasn't going to let the American do or say anything that would give the Field Marshal an excuse to take a crack at him, too.

"Colonel Hogan, you are dismissed," Klink told his prisoner, then added pointedly "I will discuss the Red Cross packages with you later this evening."

"Yes sir, kommandant." Hogan took hold of the dog's harness and turned toward the barracks. "Gentlemen," he murmured, "if you will excuse me." There were no Red Cross packages to discuss. Klink was giving him an excuse to leave, and warning him to get out before he got himself into trouble. Thanks, Klink. I owe you. Again.

Halfway across the compound, Hogan stopped and took several deep breaths in an effort to regain his composure. He was off his game and he knew it. Not very smart, Robert ol' boy. You shouldn't have let him goad you, he chided himself. If Klink hadn't intervened, you'd probably have taken a swing at the bastard.

Chapter 6: Oops

Hogan returned to his office in Barracks Two and plugged in the coffee pot. Kinch joined him and together they listened to the "top secret" meeting. Unfortunately, what they overheard wasn't very informative.

"…You and your staff have been most thorough…."

"…Here are the north coast batteries…".

"…Are you satisfied with the number of troops available?…."

"…And the Panzers? There and there. Good. Good…."

"…Personally approved by the Fuhrer…."

Hogan whistled. This was even bigger than anticipated, and it was practically dropped in his lap!

"…Yes, yes, I can see that..."

"…No, the mobile rocket launchers will be moved—ah, yes—right there…."

"…Excellent. Do we know the enemy's positions?…."

"…Of course…Show me which squadrons you plan to use first…."

Hogan drummed his fingers in frustration. "There's no way around it. We need to see those plans." he grumbled. Only "we" doesn't include "me". Before, he would have simply found an pretense to crash the meeting and finagle a look for himself. As the only officer among the prisoners, he was the only one with enough cachet—and chutzpah—to even contemplate such a stunt. Now it's pointless, unless the goddamn thing's in Braille, he thought. He was learning to delegate, but it wasn't an easy lesson.

"What are we going to do?"

Hogan's face lit up as he suddenly had an idea. If von Saal wants a buffoon, that's what he'll get.

"Have Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk get their mops and buckets ready. Position them within earshot of Klink's office. Tell them to look busy—and very innocent."

Kinch knew that look. "What do you have in mind?"

Gunther, AKA Merlin, was waiting in the outer office when Hogan, minus his dog, entered. Hogan had been warned of the other operative's presence, but it wasn't expedient to communicate directly with him. I hope you catch on quick, buddy, he thought.

Hogan shoved the door open and practically fell into the room. "Colonel Klink? Are you there, sir?" he called out tentatively as he careened into a something very large and very angry.

"Hogan! What is the meaning of this?" spluttered Burkhalter and he tried to disentangle himself from the American officer.

"General Burkhalter? Is that you, sir?" Hogan feigned confusion. "I'm so very sorry, sir. I was looking for the kommandant. He's not here, is he?" Hogan managed to put a pitiful whine into his voice. He then stumbled and fell against the desk, knocking over glassware and Klink's humidor. Hmm, he thought as something splashed on the floor, schnapps. He tried to right the objects, thus succeeding in sending something heavy crashing down. A sharp cry proclaimed that the object had landed on someone's foot. Must be the ashtray; that'll hurt. He continued to fumble, and was gratified to hear a swish and an "Ooof!" as someone slipped and fell. See how you like it, bub.

"Oh, dear! I'm so sorry! Let me help you." Even if he could have seen what he was doing, Hogan couldn't have done a better job of breaking up the place. At one point, he even managed to rip someone's uniform.

Hogan made a show of feeling for the window, opening it and calling out: "Is anyone there? Come quickly! I've had a terrible accident. We need to clean up the kommandant's office immediately!"

At once his men came running, armed with a broom, a mop and a bucket, to do their commander's bidding. Gunther took the opportunity to follow them in. The prisoners bustled around, sweeping papers and other debris into a pile in the middle of the room. Gunther and Hogan added to the confusion by "helping" with the clean up effort, their combined hubbub further diverting attention as Newkirk surrepticiously handed documents to LeBeau, who under the guise of crawling beneath the desk to "clean up" snapped photographs right under the noses of the assembled brass. Meanwhile, Carter bustled around with his broom, pushing everything he could find into a nice, flammable heap.

Hogan, who had zeroed in on a lit cigar by its odor, made sure the stogie ended up in the pile on the floor. A brief blaze and a shot of extinguisher later, the prisoners were forcibly ejected. The four men hurried back to their barracks. Hogan was grinning ear to ear, delighted with the carnage. Maybe I haven't lost my touch after all!

Chapter 7: Who Are You?

Klink was still disgusted by von Saal's efforts to humiliate Hogan. It also hadn't escaped his notice that the major seemed embarrassed, too. When Schultz reported how Hogan and crew had broken up the meeting, even though it resulted in the trashing of his office, Klink nearly burst out laughing. Touché, Hogan!

On impulse, he sent Schultz off to invite both Hogan and Gunther to his private sitting room for a drink while the meeting resumed in his office. Once they arrived, Klink said, rather casually, "Hogan, there's an excellent bottle of wine and some glasses on the sideboard. Do you mind pouring?"

"My pleasure," Hogan let go of the dog's harness and stood up, then added "Major, stay." Gunther realized Hogan was speaking not to himself, but the dog.

Gunther was now intensely curious about the relationship between the POW and the kommandant. Klink clearly wasn't at all angry about the chaos in the office. If anything, he seems delighted.

His astonishment grew as he watched Hogan cross the room, uncork the bottle and fill three glasses with ease. The major noticed the way Hogan handled each glass, his left index finger bent over the rim. Of course, he's measuring the level. Leaving one glass behind, he carried back the other two and placed them on the coffee table, then returned to retrieve the remaining glass.

"Colonel Hogan, were you by chance a sommelier before the war?" asked Gunther. Ten minutes ago, you were a bumbling klutz. Now you're a headwaiter. C'mon, Rob, tell me what's going on.

"Nope, just working off the price of a coffee table and a cigar." Hogan explained. What's with this guy? There's something familiar about his voice….

"Excuse me?" Gunther sounded puzzled.

Instead of answering immediately, Hogan ran his hand along the surface of the table until he located the spot where the polished wood was marred by a deep, scorched indentation. "Yeah, right there. Found the lighter, missed the ashtray," he said, then added ruefully, "Perhaps after the war I should set up shop as an arsonist.". Gunther's lips twitched.

"Beats selling insurance." Gunther remarked. Hogan snorted appreciatively.

The three men were silent for a few moments, sipping the wine and engaging in their private thoughts.

Klink was thinking, Hogan wanted to know what that meeting was about. I don't even want to guess what he found out, but I don't doubt for a minute that he succeeded.

Hogan's mind was on the recent escapade and the mysterious Merlin. We did it. I only hope e got enough to do some good. I don't like the way this guy so conveniently appeared, but I gotta admit he fell in nicely.

Gunther was repeating over and over in his head, Robert Hogan is Papa Bear. He's sitting here talking to me and he doesn't even know who I am. What happened to you Rob? What's going on?

Chapter 8: We Need to Talk

Von Saal insisted that Hogan join them for lunch. He was very angry about the interruption of his meeting and seemed to want another opportunity to bait the prisoner. Amazingly, he appeared to have bought Hogan's earlier performance in the office. He knew Hogan was curious about the subject of their meeting, but simply couldn't imagine that a blind man could get the better of him.

The food, at least, was excellent. Although, reflected Hogan, it's too bad the same can't be said of the company­. Usually, Hogan would have been the life of the party, keeping everyone amused with his sardonic wit. This time his comments were few and his manner subdued.

At last, Burkhalter pushed his chair back and groaned happily. "Wunderbar. What did I tell you, Field Marshal? Klink's chef is a marvel. An artist! A genius!"

"I'll pass on your compliments to Corporal LeBeau," offered Hogan.

"Please do," purred the general.

Von Saal tossed down a glass of schnapps. "Jah, jah. Not bad, I suppose, for French food." What a charming guy, Hogan thought. A rustle in the vicinity of the kitchen door proclaimed that LeBeau have been eavesdropping. I'll bet Schultz gets an earful. Of course Hogan knew the portly sergeant was personally guarding the prisoners—and the leftovers—in the kitchen.

"Tell me, Hogan, how do you find Stalag 13 these days?" inquired Burkhalter. He had noticed the American wasn't his usual flippant self. He wasn't surprised by the change, but he was surprised that he found that change rather saddening.

"Same as always, turn left at Dusseldorf." Hogan shot back, a bit too quickly. He knew what was really on the general's mind, but wasn't about to make it easy. He was a very private man, and now, more than, ever, preferred to avoid the subject of himself and his unfortunate situation. Let's talk about you, instead. Why don't we discuss squadron strengths and bases?

"It must seem very bleak for you, under the circumstances." It was a surprisingly sympathetic comment from the usually bullying general.

"Oh, it doesn't look so bad right now," Hogan replied, then added with a forced attempt at humor, "I may get shot, but at least I won't get run over by a bus." Can't you talk about something else? Wouldn't you rather tell me about North coast defenses?

"Kommandant, I have been most curious about your Colonel Hogan," von Saal remarked. Uh oh, thought Hogan, here it comes. Hogan didn't enjoy rehashing how he had been injured. He was over the initial wave of self-pity and paralyzing despair, but the pain was still very fresh. Talking about it just reopened the wound. He steeled himself for the inevitable.

"You were a pilot, no?" The simple question cut like a knife, as intended.

"You know very well that I was a pilot, yes!" Hogan snapped.

Von Saal swirled the liquor in his glass reflectively. "That may explain some aspects of Allied strategy that have mystified me. Exactly how long have the Americans been recruiting blind men to drop their bombs?" Hogan clenched his teeth.

This time Gunther intervened. "I'd like to get some fresh air. May I be excused?" he asked his superior deferentially.

"Of course, you're not needed here, " replied von Saal. He clearly had little use for his subordinate.

Gunther immediately took hold of Hogan's arm. "Perhaps Colonel Hogan will accompany me. I, too, am very interested in studying the mind of the enemy."

Von Saal grunted his approval. Perhaps this popinjay of a major had a brain after all

Hogan allowed himself to be hauled out, but shook himself free of Gunther as soon as they were outside. "I'm quite capable of finding my own way, thank you," he hissed.

The major looked searchingly into his face What the hell happened to you? If you're acting, it's the greatest performance in history. Nothing. Not a hint of recognition. "I would like to apologize for the Field Marshal's manners. He's a pig—but you probably already know that."

"Yeah, I had noticed."

"I need to talk to you--privately. It's important."

Hogan was a bit apprehensive. Something about this fellow didn't ring true. There was also something familiar about the voice. Have we met? Where? When? Is this a trap? There were too many coincidences. I don't like coincidences. Coincidences get people killed.

"Okay, I'll bite. Follow me."

Hogan led the major silently through the barracks and into his private office. "Make yourself at home," Hogan offered as he sat down on the bunk. Gunther carefully shut the door, then pulled up a stool directly in front of Hogan.

"What do you want?"

"First of all, thanks. I haven't been able to get the information by myself. And I didn't know Papa Bear would be here," he began. Hogan noticed he had dropped his German accent "I really came here on a personal errand. I was hoping to run into an old friend." He paused and took a deep breath. "I sure as hell didn't expect to find 'Hotshot Hogan' serving the drinks."

Hogan sat up bolt straight. Only one person ever called him that. "Geoff?" he whispered.

"Of course, Geoff! Who'd you think it was?" Geoffrey Wallace wrapped his old friend in a bear hug. Hogan was still stunned. Wallace and Hogan had known each other since flight school where they had shared more than a few escapades. Hogan had even been best man at Wallace's wedding. Geoff Wallace? Erich Gunther? It can't be!

"What happened to you?"

Hogan flopped back on his bunk and sighed deeply. "I fell and hit my head. About two months ago."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. The lights went out—permanently." Damn. Hogan rubbed his hand over his face. He realized Geoff probably wanted to know about the scars, but he didn't feel up to elaborating.

"What do you do around here, besides setting fires?"

"Oh, the usual things a model prisoner should—aid downed airmen, blow up bridges. pass military secrets." Get blown up by land mines. "What are you doing here in Germany? Last I heard you were in the Pacific."

"That's old news. Now I'm with the OSS. I infiltrated von Saal's staff about seven months ago. Since I've been here, I kept hearing horror stories about this place. I only came along to find you." He paused, then continued quietly, "I was, well, worried. I didn't know a thing about your, uh, accident."

Hogan gulped, then forced a smile. "As you can guess from meeting our fearless kommandant, you shouldn't believe every rumor you hear."

"I guess not. I'm not nuts, am I? You are Papa Bear?"

"Yeah."

"I gotta hand it to you. That was the sweetest bit of chicanery I've had the privilege to witness. Once again, I doff my cap to the master!" He made an exaggerated bow, his hair brushing against Hogan's knees.

Hogan fidgeted. He was a bit embarrassed by his friend's accolades. Before he could respond someone knocked on the door.

Schultz stuck his head inside. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Colonel. The big shots are getting ready to leave." He gave Wallace/Gunther a speculative look. "The Field Marshal is looking for the major."

"Okay. Thanks, Schultz." The sergeant left.

Geoff started to rise, then felt around for something in his pocket. "Here's a little parting gift."

"Huh?"

"A bonus. I haven't had time to pass along this little tidbit, so perhaps you can take care of it for me." He placed a cylindrical object in Hogan's hand.

The Colonel rolled the object around in his fingers. "Film?"

"Uh huh."

"Good stuff?"

"Not as good as what you guys nipped, but not bad. Just the stuff the Wehrmacht is good for: lousy food, sore feet, the latest thing in well-dressed shore batteries…."

Hogan practically whooped with glee. "Hey Kinch!"

"Yeah?" Hogan followed the sound and tossed something at his second-in-command. The black sergeant caught it reflexively.

"What is it?"

Hogan smiled. "A surprise package. Why don't you open it and see what's inside?"

Kinch whistled thoughtfully. "Right away."

Geoff Wallace, alias Major Gunther, stood up. "I'd better get out of here before von Saal decides to come in after me personally. He's a lovely one. I hope I have the pleasure of shooting him someday." He grabbed Hogan's hand, then gave him a quick embrace. "For God's sake, take care of yourself."

"You too!"

Wallace once more assumed the persona of a Wehrmacht officer. "Very interesting, indeed," he murmured as he exited the barracks, "Very interesting." He turned back briefly to Hogan's men, grinned and winked, then turned toward the waiting staff car.

"Just where have you been?" demanded his superior.

"You seemed to be very interested in the American prisoner. I hoped to learn some useful information from him. I also thought I might learn more about Stalag 13's success."

"Bah! The Luftwaffe is soft—and so are you. This place is a boys' summer camp, and you have no more chance of getting information out of Hogan than I have of being crowned Kaiser. Return to headquarters immediately. I will be along shortly."

Major Gunther said mildly, "Jawohl," as he saluted and left.

Chapter 9: Lost and Found

January 19th. Hogan's birthday.

Hogan had been esconced in his bunk, re-reading his latest letter from Vicky in the space of a month, when his men invaded and practically dragged him off to the rec hall for cake and to present him with the a very special surprise.

Unbeknownst to Hogan, his friends—German and Allied—had been hard at work making a modified chess set just for him. Kinch had drawn up the plans. Klink requisitioned the necessary tools (possession of which by POWs was generally frowned upon). Newkirk and Schultz assembled the game board, with spaces slightly recessed so the Colonel identify each by feel. LeBeau, Carter and several other prisoners carved the pieces, with pegs extending from the bottom of each to fit into corresponding holes in the board, allowing the Colonel to move a man without upsetting the others. One set was made of wood, the other of stone, so he could differentiate them by feel. One of the guards had even volunteered to make the fine lidded case.

Hogan was speechless as he ran his hands over the board. Despite everything he had lost—he had found so much more. Unbelievably, in this wretched time in his life, in this most dismal place, he was surrounded by the finest group of men anywhere for having the nicest birthday he could ever remember.

A few nights later, Colonel Robert Hogan reached out and ran his hand over the magnificent chessboard on the coffee table. He had just trounced Kinch while Klink watched with interest. It was a very good feeling to be back in the game.

He leaned back, arms crossed in his characteristic manner. The warmth of the crackling fire in the hearth, aroma of cigar smoke and sense of companionship combined to wrap a cocoon of contentment around him, lulling him to sleep. He left hand slipped down to rest lightly on the back of the dog napping beside him. The dog looked up, licked his fingers, then settled back with a sigh of his own.

Klink and Kinch looked at each other and exchanged a smile.

THE END