No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

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"Any trouble getting back in?" Kinch asked, as he met Newkirk at the foot of the ladder form the outside.

"No worries, mate," the Englishman said dismissively, stripping quickly out of his own jacket and handing it to the Sergeant. "Out with the Underground, in through the tunnel. They won't expect me at Stalag 6 for over two hours; then the Underground guards will say I've just escaped from them. Piece of cake. I'll have plenty of time to get changed and be back out there to collect Tris. I don't know how the gov'nor managed it, but he has the magic touch with Klink, doesn't he?" He grinned in spite of himself. "Must have told him something pretty fierce about me—the old Bald Eagle couldn't wait to show me the ruddy door!"

The Englishman sat down at his costuming table in the tunnel, carefully applying makeup to his face. He'd decided to go a little heavier on the disguise than he usually did, not wanting the guards to make a connection between him and his brother. Tristan was starting to grow fond of the beard he'd been growing since he'd been shot down, so Peter stayed with the clean-shaven look, but was adding a long "dueling scar" down one side of his face. When the makeup was finally finished, he added a pair of glasses with smoked lenses to help hide the green eyes that he and his brother shared.

Peter stood and picked up the jacket of an Oberst in the Abwehr. He normally didn't go out as a high-ranking officer; he preferred to leave that to Carter, who was so good at playing Kraut Generals that it was almost frightening. This time, however, he wasn't taking any chances with one of the guards being brave enough to argue about turning Tristan over after the truck carrying his brother had been stopped by the Underground. There were very few people in Nazi Germany today that would argue with a Colonel in any case, and when said officer was a member of Military Intelligence, the odds of getting into an argument were pretty much non-existent.

Carter watched with fascination. "I'm sure gonna miss your talent with disguises, Newkirk," he said wistfully. "You could always make me up better than anyone else could." He grinned awkwardly. "I guess Le Beau'll do it for me now. He's pretty good, you know, but I mean he's a bit heavy on the rouge." Carter let out a small, nervous laugh. "Must be a French thing. You know, all those girls."

"You'll be fine, Andrew; just remind him once in awhile that you're going out as a Nazi big-shot and not as a chorus girl at the Follies Bergere. And if that don't work, you can always hide the rouge pot in your lab somewhere." Peter grinned for a second. "He'd never go after it in there, as he'd never know if he was gettin' that or something that was gonna blow up in his face."

"What is this about Les Follies Bergere?" Le Beau approached from further up the tunnel, rubbing his hands together. "Everything is all set upstairs. You should be able to go whenever you're ready."

Peter picked up the rouge pot and smiled. "Oh, nothing, Louis. Just saying that less can be more." He nodded slightly toward Carter. "Our boy here gets that lovely red apoplectic look all on his own when he starts shouting and waving his hands around that he don't need quite so much help from the makeup department, if you know what I mean."

"Oui, I know. I will take your advice, Pierre." Le Beau stopped and smiled at the Englishman. "On this, I will trust you. With food—you are on your own." He came up to the table. "You are almost ready?"

"I've packed me toothbrush and got these ruddy play clothes on." Peter returned the makeup to the table and finished buttoning up the German jacket. "That's about as ready as I can get."

"The Colonel says it will be time to go in a few minutes." Le Beau made sure he had Newkirk's eye. "You will be going home to London. Look after it for me, oui?"

Peter nodded slowly and took the glasses off to be able to look into his friend's eyes without interference. "You bet I will, little mate," he said quietly. "And I'll do what I can for Paris as well."

Kinch came downstairs then, and handed Newkirk a small parcel. "You forgot these," he said. "The Colonel said you might want them."

Opening the package, Peter looked at the contents as the memories they invoked came rushing into his mind. The deck of cards represented many long hours and literally hundreds of rounds of poker and gin, played by men trying to stave off boredom as much as possible. When they'd finally become so worn that they were useless for playing games, the cards, and the silver dollar tucked into the package with them, had taken on a new role: as tools for teaching Colonel Hogan the "tricks of the trade."

Peter thought about how all that began. They'd had a mission where one unfortunate event after another had resulted in not only the loss to the Germans of a valuable code book, but also an injury to the Englishman's hand that rendered him unable to crack the new combination on Klink's safe. During that time, Hogan had come to realize that while each of the men in his command had their own unique talents, the loss of a single man could result in disaster if someone else didn't have the necessary skills to complete the mission. After the mission, the Colonel had chosen to learn safecracking, and Peter had used these cards, and the coin, to help Hogan's hands develop the flexibility and fine muscle control necessary for that particular skill. The American's aptitude for the work had surprised Peter, and he smiled as he remembered the night he and his star pupil had sneaked out of the barracks for a graduation exercise of fiddling the lock on the Kommandant's safe. The memory of the boyish grin on Hogan's face as he got the final number was enough to make the master cracksman laugh softly as he tucked the cards and coin into his pocket.

"He's right; I would like to have them." Peter looked up at the quiet man, who from the day he had arrived in camp had been someone the hot-tempered Englishman could turn to for guidance. "Thanks, Kinch. I... don't know how I would have survived this place without you keeping me straight." He paused, thought about that and smiled. "Well, I didn't always listen, but at least you tried."

Kinch smiled and let out a soft laugh. "Well, you made sure my blood pressure was high enough to keep me moving, too," he said. He put out his hand. "Thanks, Newkirk. It's been as close as anyone could get to fun in a lousy place like this."

Peter took the offered hand, then pulled Kinch into a tight embrace, taking the opportunity to whisper into the man's ear. "Make sure you find something to laugh about each day, mate, as I expect to hear all about it when you get to London, too."

Kinch smiled, then offered Newkirk his worst English accent, on purpose. "Will do, old boy, will do."

As he stepped back, Peter rolled his eyes and grinned. "Blimey! I've told you before, leave the ruddy English accents to me, then. Your English is as bad as my French, and that's sayin' something there."

"You can say that again," Le Beau piped up.

"Who asked you anyway?" Peter turned to the Frenchman with a fond smile. "I guess this is it, little mate. Remember that you have to take care of yourself, because you've promised to show me Paris in the spring, right?"

"Oui," Le Beau replied, with a smile that barely concealed his emotions. "But if you do not behave yourself I will never make you a nice Béarnaise sauce again. So you do as you are told, compris?"

"Oui, Monsieur Le Beau. Je compris." The words were correct, but the accent left a lot to be desired, and Peter's smile told his oldest friend that he was all too aware of that fact. The Frenchman reached up and pulled Newkirk's head down for the traditional Gallic embrace and a kiss on each cheek, but the Englishman surprised him by returning the favor. When the friends moved apart, Newkirk grinned and pushed Le Beau's beret down over his eyes as he had done so many times in the past before turning to Carter.

"Um—don't kiss me, okay?" Carter said. "I—I'll hug ya, but I don't do the kissing thing. I guess it's cuz I'm not French."

Peter shook his head and gave Carter a gentle smile. "Andrew," he said softly. "Go to your room." The Englishman took the American in a tight hug, but kept an arm around the young man's shoulder as they moved apart. "Now you listen up, mate. Just because ol' Newkirk's not gonna be here to keep an eye on you don't mean you can go around gettin' yourself in trouble. I'm counting on Le Beau and Kinch to keep watch on you for me, and if I hear one word out of them that you're not behaving yourself, I'll have to come back and set you straight myself. You got that, then?"

Carter nodded. "I got it," he answered. "But if I mess up, will you really come back?"

"Like a shot, mate. Like a shot."

Carter grinned. "'Course, the Colonel might not like that. I mean, you know if you came back you might be disobeying orders—" He stopped when he saw the small grin lifting Newkirk's lips. "Well... I mean, that never really bothered you, did it." He smiled. "Thanks, buddy."

"Anytime, Andrew." Peter stepped back, and looked around at his friends. There was one man missing, and the Englishman sighed softly as he headed for the ladder. Kinch started to say something, but Peter waved him off. "I know it's getting on to time, but there's one more thing I have to do first."

Tristan nearly had heart failure on seeing a man in a Nazi uniform climbing through the framework of the bunk bed and stepping into the barracks until he took a second look and realized it was his brother. "Cor, Peter. You gave me quite a turn there, all kitted up that way." He glanced at his watch and frowned. "Is there a problem, then?"

The younger man shook his head as he went to the door of Hogan's office, and Tristan nodded to himself sadly. He'd stayed up in the barracks while Peter was getting ready to leave so that his brother could have some time to say his farewells in private. These were Peter's last moments with his friends, and in any case, Tristan would be meeting up with his brother in a few hours when the truck carrying him to the new prison camp was intercepted. The older Newkirk watched as Peter went into the office to say his final farewell, and sighed, knowing how hard it was going to be for both his brother and for Hogan.

Hogan gave a cursory glance up from his desk, where he was shuffling papers and doing God knew what else as he prepared for the mission at hand. "So you're ready to go? Tristan will be leaving in about an hour," he said almost offhandedly. He busied himself with another sheaf of papers, straightened a book, turned an upside down pencil in its tin can holder straight up. "You know the plan—you meet the truck and take him yourself. Make sure you have a change of clothes with you."

"I'm all set. Got my papers in case we're stopped and everything." He paused. "Nothing we haven't done a hundred times before." Except that this is going to be the last time.

"That's right. Make sure you treat it that way," Hogan ordered tersely. "And..." Hogan paused, then looked at his English Corporal, his Devil's Advocate, his final holdout. "Make sure you let us know when you arrive safely in London. You know the code."

"I will, sir. The moment I reach London. I'll tell them I'm under orders if they give me any problems." Peter tried to smile at his Colonel, but couldn't quite bring it off. "And you know that those of us in the other ranks have to obey orders, even if they come from an officer in someone else's bloody Army."

"That'd be a first," Hogan said trying to force a smile. Finally, he stood up. "Listen, Peter, I..." He swallowed and took in and let out a breath. "I know you don't understand this. But it's what has to happen. It's your turn. Men on regular assignments aren't gone as long as you've been. And now with your brother going ahead of you..." Hogan blinked and let his eyes fall away from the Englishman. "Well, I want you to know that I'm proud of you. You've really come through—from Day One through to now—and that's..." Another shuddering breath. "It's been an honor, Newkirk. Thanks."

Peter nodded slowly and took a deep breath of his own. "We may not have seen eye to eye on everything, Colonel, but all in all, it's been a rare privilege to have served with you." The Englishman held out his hand. "I'd like to say that you're as fine a mate as one could ever hope for. You made this place bearable, and I can't thank you enough for that."

Hogan accepted the hand Newkirk offered, and gripped it tightly as the words he wanted to say got caught in his throat. "Thank you for..." His mind flew back months and years. "...for breaking me in when I got here," he finished, remembering standing in this very room, lost, still hurting, and scared, so very, very scared. His left hand came up to cover their still-tight handshake. "I think I'd forgotten what humanity sounded like, until you..." Hogan got lost in the past and stopped speaking, almost choking on the memory and what Newkirk's off-handed welcome did for him that terrible, terrible day.

"You'd have done the same for me, mate, had it been the other way around," Peter said softly as he put his free hand over their joined ones. The Englishman was silent for a long moment, then he looked up at Hogan and smiled gently. "It's been grand, gov'nor, and if you ever need my help for anything, just remember I'm only a coded message away." He released his hold on Hogan's hand and stepped back. "Take care of yourself, Papa Bear. My Nan's looking forward to meeting you after all this is over, and you don't want to disappoint her."

"I won't," Hogan said hoarsely. Taking a chance on looking deep into the Corporal's eyes, he added, "You get going now. And take care."

After a final searching look, Peter turned and left the office. He went straight across the room and put Hogan's watch on the table in front of his brother. "The gov'nor will be missing this in a couple of minutes, Tris. See that he gets it back, will you?" Resting a hand on Tristan's shoulder, he looked his brother in the eyes. "Remember, we've got an appointment on the Hammelburg Road. Just try to relax, and in a couple of hours, we'll be heading home." Then Peter smiled at Tristan, and disappeared into the tunnel.

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It shouldn't be long before Newkirk meets the Underground. Hogan pushed back his jacket cuff to look at his watch, and realized it wasn't there. "Newkirk!" he burst softly, almost like a curse. He shook his head, then frowned slightly as he felt something loose in his sleeve. He reached in and pulled out a shilling. Hogan could only stare at it for a moment as it flashed so many memories before him—Newkirk, trying to tell Hogan that the Colonel couldn't learn safecracking; Hogan, flicking it back with surprising dexterity at the Corporal; the two of them, hunched over a safe, while Hogan tried desperately to get it open before his time limit was up, or Klink came back to his office. That will all be my job now. Hogan's fingers closed over the coin, and for the first time since this whole mess started, he didn't think he had the strength to stop the tears from falling. He put his hand over his face, and tried to breathe in deeply to control himself. You're doing the right thing. He deserves to go.