Seated at his radio, Sergeant James Kinchloe watched as his commanding officer and two of his fellow prisoners did their last checks. The three men were dressed in black, armed with pistols, and carrying enough explosives to take down a bridge which, he supposed, was convenient since that was exactly what they were planning to do.

"Another day, another dollar," Colonel Hogan sighed.

"Another bridge falling down," Carter said cheerfully as he readjusted his pack. "Boy, Colonel, you sure sound glum about it."

Hogan just shrugged. "Just doesn't have the same thrill that it use to," he admitted.

"What?!" Carter cried. "How can you say that?"

Newkirk clapped Carter on the shoulder. "Not everyone can share your enthusiasm for explosions, mate. If it were up to me, I'd just as well stay home. You sure you don't want to go instead, Louis?"

Corporal LeBeau shook his head. "Oh no. I went on the last mission. I am looking forward to having an early night. Perhaps I will get a full night's sleep."

Kinch snorted. That would be the day. He wasn't sure any of them had had a full night's sleep since the war started. Certainly not since they took up residence at Stalag 13 and started their sabotage, espionage and traveler's aid operation.

Suddenly, his radio crackled as a message in Morse code started clicking through the air. Surprised, Kinch grabbed his headset, a notepad and a pencil and began copying down the message. The others stopped what they were doing and watched him expectantly. When the message stopped, Kinch tore off the sheet of paper from his pad and handed it to Colonel Hogan. Hogan looked it over and raised an eyebrow.

"That time again?" he said.

"What time? What is it, Colonel?" LeBeau asked, standing on his tiptoes as he tried to peer at the message.

"The Papa Bear Awards," Hogan said as he handed the message to LeBeau. LeBeau refused to take it, and instead scowled.

"Oh, those."

Carter brightened even more. "The Papa Bear Awards? Oh boy! What's the matter LeBeau? They're great!"

"Oh oui, they are great. For le colonel and Newkirk. The rest of us? Pah. We never get the good stories."

"Aw c'mon, that's not true," Carter said, although he didn't sound as sure this time.

Kinch just shrugged. LeBeau's complaint wasn't altogether unfounded.

Every few weeks, London sent them a whole bunch of stories to read. These stories were written by authors in another future dimension- a dimension where their escapades were part of a television serial- whatever that was. Kinch wasn't really sure how London obtained the stories- some sort of science fiction mumbo-jumbo. Honestly, he didn't like thinking about it too much; it made his head spin.

Time moved differently in that future dimension. While it was only a few weeks for them, for those authors the Papa Bear Awards had been going on for seventeen years now. They must've read hundreds and hundreds of stories over the "years", and most of them were centered on the charismatic colonel and the dodgy Englishman. Not that Kinch minded too much- he wasn't all that sure he liked the thought of people in the future, in another dimension, writing about him- about his life, his thoughts, his desires.

Colonel Hogan didn't seem to mind too much. In fact, he took an inordinate amount of pleasure in them- strutting like a peacock every time the stories made him out to be the hero he knew he was. He tried to hide it, but there was no fooling his men. The colonel was a genius, and sometimes had an ego to match, and who wouldn't be flattered by a bunch of authors- most of whom were women- fawning all over them?

Of course, there were always a few that cropped up that put him in the worst sort of mood, but thankfully they were few and far between. Kinch had to hand it to those authors- they sure knew what made them tick. It was almost scary.

Anyway, since the stories were about them, London figured the prisoners of Stalag 13 were the best judges, and so the stories were air-dropped to them. It was their job to read them, nominate their favourites, and then vote on the best. This time they would be picking stories from those completed in the author's year 2018.

"When are they arriving?" Newkirk asked the colonel.

"Tonight," Hogan replied. "In about an hour."

"How many?" Carter asked.

"Over two hundred. Too many for Kinch and LeBeau to bring in by themselves."

"I hereby volunteer to help!" Newkirk said as he stepped forward, puffing out his chest and stamping his foot.

Hogan cast a glance at Carter. "We can manage on our own," the sergeant said in answer to Hogan's unspoken question.

"Fine. Newkirk, you, Kinch, and LeBeau go outside the wire and get the packages. Should be at drop point X-17."

"But you're going to miss out on a great explosion, Newkirk," Carter warned.

"I'll bear it best I can," Newkirk sniffed.

"All right, Carter, let's move out. You boys get those stories squared away." Hogan held up a finger. "And no peeking until I get back."

"Scout's honour," Kinch assured him. Hogan seemed satisfied with that and turned to leave. "Good luck!" Kinch called after him and Carter. Carter turned a little and waved before disappearing down the tunnel.

"Blimey, it's a good lot this year if you can go by this," Newkirk said, giving the papers in his hand a little shake. He was sitting at Kinch's radio, his feet propped up on the desk.

"Hey! Le colonel said no peeking!" LeBeau cried as he tried to reach across the desk to grab the papers from Newkirk.

Newkirk held them up and away from LeBeau. "I'm not peeking, mate- I'm reading. There's a bit of a difference."

Kinch dropped his crowbar, abandoning his task of prying open his small crate of stories, and grabbed the papers from Newkirk. "Come on, Newkirk. No peeking means no reading."

Newkirk shrugged and dropped his feet off the desk. "Just getting a jump on them. Blimey, we do have over two hundred."

Kinch clicked his tongue. "Well, I guess when you only read at a fourth grade level," he said with a little smirk, "it takes a while."

"Sod off!" Newkirk growled. "I'll have you know I finished the sixth grade!"

"I was just teasing, Newkirk," Kinch said, holding up his hands in surrender.

"Oh! Here is one about me!" LeBeau said as he grabbed a few papers from the crate at his feet.

"Hey! What did I just say!" Kinch said. "Come on, the colonel and Carter should be back soon, we won't have to wait long."

LeBeau sighed and dropped the papers. "Oh all right. We did hear an explosion not too long ago."

"You two go find something useful to do," Kinch ordered. "Or don't, but go somewhere other than here. I'll come for you when they get back." Though they grumbled a bit, Newkirk and LeBeau did as they were told, climbing up the ladder and up to the barracks.

Kinch looked up at the ceiling and heaved a sigh. Then he took a seat at his radio. Looking around to make sure the coast was clear, he grabbed the pages he had confiscated from Newkirk and started reading.

He was so engrossed in the story that he nearly didn't hear footsteps coming up the tunnel. Quickly hiding the story, Kinch leaned forward and strained his ears. Whoever it was, they were moving slowly, almost shuffling, and Kinch's heart leapt into his throat. He knew what that meant. He jumped to his feet and started running down the tunnel. He stopped short when he saw Carter approach, carrying Colonel Hogan on his shoulders.

"Carter!" Kinch cried as he raced forward.

Carter puffed out a breath and grabbed the wall to steady himself. "Kinch! The colonel's hurt."

"Come on, let's get him to a cot." Kinch wasn't sure if he should grab the colonel from Carter, or if he was too hurt to move. So instead he grabbed Carter's arm to help him down the tunnel.

"I'm all right, Kinch," Carter said, waving Kinch off. "Just took a little more energy to get down the ladder." He took a breath. "Okay." Carter gingerly shifted the colonel's weight and straightened, following Kinch back to the radio room. There was a cot up against the wall where he gently laid the colonel. "Is he all right?" he asked, biting his lip with worry. "I mean, he was alive before I started back, but I didn't stop to check on the way."

Kinch knelt beside the colonel and looked him over. Colonel Hogan was breathing, but as to the state of his health, he couldn't tell just by looking. "What happened?"

"Bit of debris from the bridge hit him," Carter explained. "I thought we were far enough away, but it was a big explosion. Boy, that new batch I whipped up was the strongest yet! I bet it could take out-"

"Never mind, Carter. Go get Wilson, huh?"

"Oh, yeah, right." Carter hurried away.

Kinch hovered over Hogan and gave him another look. He didn't look hurt. Not a scratch on his body. But upon closer inspection he saw a bit of blood on his shoulder and moved his hand under Hogan's head. When he pulled it away, there was a bit of blood on his fingers. A head injury. Those were always nasty and unpredictable. But Wilson would be a better judge of how bad it was, although the fact that the colonel was out cold and had been for the entire trip back to camp was not a good sign.

The camp medic didn't keep him waiting, and was soon climbing down the ladder, followed closely by Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter.

"It wasn't my fault," Carter was saying indignantly. "Besides, what does it matter? The colonel's hurt, that's what we should be worried about."

"Blimey, I knew I should have gone with you."

"All right, pipe down," Wilson growled as he approached the cot where Colonel Hogan laid. "Give me some room there. Shoo."

Kinch stepped back and let Wilson do his job. The four prisoners waited with bated breath as the medic worked. Finally, Wilson stood and snorted, putting his hands on his hips.

"You boys think you're indestructible, don't you," he grumbled.

"Is he okay, Wilson?" Carter asked tentatively.

"Concussion. He's going to have a nasty headache when he wakes up, and we'll have to keep an eye on him, but I think he'll be all right."

"When do you think he'll wake up?" Newkirk asked.

"Not-"

From the cot, Hogan let out a little groan.

"Not long, apparently," Wilson knelt down beside the cot again and pulled at Hogan's eyelid, shining a little flashlight over him. Hogan winced and tried to bat Wilson's hand away.

"Someone get the name of that truck?" Hogan groaned weakly. He tried to sit up, but Wilson held him down.

"Easy there," the medic said gruffly.

"How you feeling, Colonel?" Carter asked anxiously, leaning over Wilson's shoulder to look down at the colonel.

"Colonel?" Hogan repeated. "Where?" He pried open his eyes and looked around uneasily. Then he let out a little breath. "I guess he doesn't even want to talk to me right now."

Kinch and the other exchanged confused looks.

"Who you talking about, guv?" Newkirk asked.

Hogan squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Dad. The Colonel. He's gonna kill me!"

The confused looks were replaced with ones of alarm. "Colonel?"

"Colonel, do you know where you are?" Wilson asked.

"Hmm?" Hogan opened his eyes again and blinked. "Camp infirmary? Oh geez! Liesl! Is she all right?"

"Who's Liesl?" Newkirk asked, but Wilson held up his hand to quiet him.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Wilson said to Colonel Hogan.

"I was driving Liesl home. We had a date. Went to go see The Gold Rush. I… I think we must've had an accident."

Wilson let out a long breath and scratched his head. "Boys, I think we have a problem."

Author's Note: It's that time of the year again! This is not just the PBA Mission Briefing, this is an answer to a challenge too! (Because that's how I roll!) Challenge #75 The "Where Am I?" Challenge by AnotherJounin: One of our heroes has amnesia and doesn't remember anything that happened after his sixteenth birthday. You must NOT use the phrase "where am I?" in the fic.

Note: Because this is the 17th annual PBA, the challenge has been slightly altered.