A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.
Connections are being made…
Oskar Schnitzer stepped out of his house into the warmth of the late spring morning, and grumbled as he took the shopping list from his wife. "Am I some sort of Hausfrau, to be buying yeast and flour? I have patients to see, Maria!"
She smiled at him but said firmly, "Your patients are on the other side of Hammelburg, Oskar. This will be on your way, it will take but a few minutes—we don't wish to waste gasoline on a separate trip, do we?"
"I suppose not." He bent to kiss her cheek, and climbed into his truck.
Twenty minutes later he was at Max Schumann's shop, and he went up to the counter, uncomfortable as he always was with the role of shopper. Fortunately, at the moment there were no other customers in the shop to embarrass him.
The shopkeeper eyed him with some amusement. "How may I help you?"
"Flour, sugar, and yeast, bitte," Oskar mumbled.
Max chuckled. "So you have taken up baking, I see." He went to the flour barrel, and said over his shoulder, "Another occupation for you, hmm? I hear that you supply guard dogs for the Luftstalag as well."
Oskar went still, hardly daring to breathe. "Ja."
Max came back to the counter with a sack of flour. He plopped it on the counter and looked Oskar in the eye. "It's been a long time, Oskar. I am thinking perhaps we should have a beer together, ja?"
Oskar was well acquainted with Max, and he knew the shopkeeper was no more in the habit of frequenting the Hofbräu than he was. Could it be...
He cleared his throat, and said casually, "Why don't you come to my house this evening? Maria would be delighted to see you."
"Wunderbar! I will see you at seven?"
"Seven it is."
That evening, Kurt and Heidi came to Oskar's cottage in anticipation of Max's visit. Maria had them sit at the kitchen table where Emil was already seated. Frieda, who was home for a few days on leave from the camp, sat quietly beside Kurt's chair, ears alert and eyes watchful.
Maria bustled over to the woodstove, checking the teakettle anxiously to see why it had not yet boiled.
Oskar looked at her with exasperated affection. "Sit down, Maria! We don't even know yet if Max is with the Resistance. I honestly can't think of anyone less likely to be involved; I've known him for years, and a more timid fellow I never met."
Emil shook his head. "Times have changed, and people change, boy. Look at you!"
Heidi nodded. "Look at all of us. We do what we must, Onkel."
"That is true, Oskar." Maria took the now-bubbling teakettle off the stove and poured hot water into the teapot. "Timid Max may have been, but he has always been one to do what is right."
Oskar turned his head as a knock fell on the door. He opened it and ushered Max into the kitchen.
Max checked on the threshold; the number of people gathered in the kitchen obviously took him by surprise and he glanced at Oskar.
Oskar said gruffly, "My family is involved in everything I do, Max."
Max looked at each of them, and nodded. "Sehr gut." He smiled as Maria hovered with the teapot. "Yes, I would love a cup of tea, Maria."
Flustered, Maria returned his smile. "Of course. Please, sit."
Max accepted a cup of tea and waved away the offer of sugar. "I have heard things about you, Oskar."
"So you said," Oskar said noncommittally.
Max nodded. "Most people say you are just trying to earn a few extra marks in these hard times. But I know you, Oskar. I believe you have a special reason for providing guard dogs to a prisoner of war camp."
"And if I do?"
"Then perhaps you can be of use to us," Max said.
"Us?"
Max took a deep breath and looked around the table. "The Resistance."
There was a collective sigh, and Frieda thumped her tail. Oskar said carefully, "What can I do for you?"
Max said, "We are a fledgling group in Hammelburg, but we are all determined to oppose Hitler in any way we can. And at some point we hope to establish contact with the British and ask for their assistance." He leaned forward and added, "Since you have been visiting the camp, you have observed things, ja?"
"Ja."
"And since you are a familiar and trusted figure at the camp, you will continue to observe things. Perhaps gather information that might be of use to the Resistance, and to the Allies."
Oskar smiled wryly. "That was my intention from the start. That, and to provide the prisoners with some measure of protection."
Max smiled in return. "Just as I hoped." He raised his cup to the assembled group. "To the Resistance!"
"To the Resistance!"
Frieda woofed.
Meanwhile, back at the camp….
The worst part was not knowing.
But Peter had no regrets. In his relatively short life, he had done many things, some of them dodgy, to be sure, but he was proud to have served his King and country. And he had done his bit. After the last Hurricane was sent off from the temporary air base at Lille, Peter and his mates were left behind to take part in the desperate rearguard action intended to save Britain's army from destruction at Dunkirk.
He could see them now, the thousands of stunned and defeated soldiers, line after line of them, headed for the beaches and the hope of salvation.
All Peter could do, and all any of the Allied soldiers left behind could do, was try to prevent the Germans from reaching Dunkirk for as long as possible. But in the confusion of trying to evade the shelling and the strafing, there was no way for Peter to know how many of the BEF actually made it to the beaches.
Or if there were any boats to take them off the beaches. Or if those boats ever made it to England.
And after he was captured and sent to Dulag Luft, he knew nothing at all of the fate of his country. Several agonizing weeks later, he was shipped out, a shorter trip this time, to a brand-new prisoner of war camp: Luftstalag 13.
At Luftstalag 13, nobody else knew anything either. Except the Germans, and you couldn't bloody well believe a thing they said anyway.
But he needed to know. Had their sacrifice been worth it? Or was the British Army destroyed, and Britain totally at the mercy of the filthy Huns?
Peter just didn't know. And he had to find out.
His first attempt at escape could hardly be described as such. Just wandered a wee bit too close to the wire one day, a guard spotted him, and quick as a wink he was in the cooler for ten days.
Peter might have done some dodgy things in his past but he'd never spent time in nick before, and he was an unhappy POW while in the cooler. To make matters worse, after his release he found that his fellow prisoners took a dim view of his transgression.
"You've kangaroos loose in the top paddock, mate," was MacLaughlin's considered opinion.
"Zinzin," was how Rocheleau put it.
"Ruddy blighter made it worse for the lot of us," was the general consensus.
Peter had a hazy idea that it was the duty of every British officer to escape, but apparently that didn't apply to the other ranks, at least not according to his fellow prisoners. Still, he had to do something.
Not doing was as bad as not knowing.
And even though he was terrified of the guard dogs—enormous, vicious beasts they were, with fangs that could tear a man's throat out—and of the machine guns wielded by the guards in the watchtowers, he knew what he had to do.
So after weeks of planning and closely observing the comings and goings of the service vehicles that regularly visited the stalag, he made his move. One early spring day he managed to hide himself in the lorry that transported the dustbins from the camp every week.
But with his usual British luck, some overzealous guard searched the lorry before it ever left the gates.
Thirty days in solitary! And Peter despaired of ever leaving the bloody camp.
By the time he emerged from the cooler the air was warm and spring had fully blossomed, evident even in the bleak surroundings of Luftstalag 13. As Peter stumbled to Barracks 2, filthy, unshaven, and blinking from the unaccustomed sunlight, he found a new resident waiting for him.
A diminutive Frenchman with intense dark eyes met him at the door and handed him a precious sliver of soap.
"First you wash, then we talk, d'accord?"
In a daze, Peter did as he was told. And shortly he found himself sitting at the common room table with mug of coffee in hand, facing his new acquaintance.
He cleared his throat. "Sorry, chum, but I don't believe we've been properly introduced. Peter Newkirk, Corporal, His Majesty's Royal Air Force, at your service."
"Louis LeBeau," the little Frenchman replied. "Corporal, Free French Air Force."
Peter lit a cigarette—his first in a month—and squinted at LeBeau through the smoke. "Free French?"
LeBeau touched an insignia on his left sleeve, visible through a tear in his sweater. "We wear la croix de Lorraine, and we fight to free France from the Germans and the Vichy collaborators." He sighed. "At least I did, until now."
Peter shook his head; none of this made sense to him. "Forgive me, mate, but I've been a bit out of touch, you might say. Free French? Vichy? When did all this 'appen?"
"After the rescue at Dunkirk, some of us fled to England and some to the south of France and North Africa, to gather our forces. Pétain may have surrendered, but we shall never do so!"
Peter stared; the word "rescue" caught his attention to the exclusion of all else, and the first glimmer of hope in many months stirred in him.
"Then…then the evacuation was successful….we bloody well did it? Britain's army got away?"
"Hundreds of thousands escaped. British, and French as well," replied LeBeau, and he watched with silent sympathy as the British airman put his head down on the table and wept.
After a few moments, LeBeau reached across the table and touched Peter lightly on the arm. "I reached this camp ten days ago and I have let the other prisoners know the truth. We of course have not let the filthy Boches know that we know. But since we know, there is hope, hein?"
"And the RAF?" Newkirk looked up. "Not destroyed?"
"Non! They have fought gallantly to stave off a German invasion. Which did not happen; the Battle of Britain has been won." He hesitated. "But the Boches continue to bomb England."
"They would, the bloody twisters." Newkirk thought of his sister in Stepney, and resolutely pushed the thought away. "But you, mate; 'ow did you end up in their 'ands?"
LeBeau gave a shrug. "A few of us managed to liberate some planes from the air base at Salon-de-Provence." His expression closed down and he added coldly, "But the Vichy traitors captured me and turned me over to the Gestapo. Only my uniform saved me from the firing squad, or worse. But my time with them was not...pleasant."
Peter forbore questioning the Frenchman further, and decided to change the subject. "I reckon you think I'm as barmy as the other blokes 'ere do."
"Quoi?"
"You must think I'm crazy for trying to escape."
The dark eyes glittered. "You did what I would have done, mon pote."
Peter looked at him in some surprise. "You would, eh, mate?"
"Oui. And be assured I shall do so at the first opportunity!" LeBeau nodded once, and added mysteriously, "I bide my time."
Peter smiled. "Then we should join forces, eh, Louis? We're bound to come up with a plan." He sobered then, and said, "But those dogs…what do we do about the dogs?"
The next day, the dogs were wondering what to do about the prisoners.
"They don't seem to like us much," Friedrich observed. He spotted a guard passing by and curled his lip, baring his teeth. The guard glanced nervously at Friedrich and suddenly found urgent business to do on the other side of the compound.
Noticing this, Gerda shook her head. "No wonder. We have to get all growly every time there's a guard around. How are the prisoners to know that we can be trusted not to hurt them?"
"That's a good question," said Wolfgang. "We must find a way to connect with them without the guards noticing."
"We should do it soon," said Fritzi. "I was listening outside Barracks 2 last night, and—"
Wolfgang looked at him in surprise. "When did you do that? You weren't on patrol last night."
"Well, I wasn't exactly on patrol. I mean, I didn't have a guard on leash. I was by myself."
"By yourself? Out in the compound?" Bismarck's ears pricked up.
Wolfgang said sternly, "How did you get out of the pen, Fritzi?"
"Oh, it was easy," Fritzi said airily. He looked around the compound to make sure no guards were near, and then trotted over to the gate of the dog pen. "See? I just slide my paw in here, give a little jiggle, and the bar pops free. Of course, lowering the bar again once I came back inside was a little trickier."
"Good grief." Wolfgang shook his head. "But nice work, Fritzi. What did you hear outside Barracks 2?"
"Newkirk and LeBeau were talking, very quietly. They plan to escape."
"Soon?"
"I don't think so. They said something about a lot of preparation that needs to be done."
Wolfgang pondered this for a moment. "It's to be expected. These humans will not be content to be penned up here forever. Their job is to take down the Third Reich, and they will try to return to their own kind so they can do this. Newkirk has tried on his own, and didn't make it out of camp. The next time they might make it past the wire."
Bismarck regarded him with a quizzical expression. "Well, then. Might I suggest that we allow them to do so?"
"It depends." Wolfgang narrowed his eyes. "Right now, it's too soon. Humans do not have the home-finding instincts that dogs possess, you know. Any one of us could go unerringly to our homes over many kilometers. Humans cannot do this; they require maps, and the ability to speak the language of the country they are crossing. Not to mention their lack of foraging ability—they will need food, and money too."
"Poor things," Gerda sighed. "So what can we do?"
"Keep them safe," said Wolfgang. "Safe until they have the tools to successfully escape back to their own people."
Franz scratched his ear thoughtfully. "That could take some time."
"Ja," Wolfgang said sadly. "But remember, a dead prisoner will not help get rid of Hitler. And these humans are our flock: it is our duty to protect them. Whether they like it or not."
