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

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Before he even opened his eyes, Hogan knew he was going to throw up. It was his rebelling stomach that had woken him, and now without having the time to consider anything else, he frantically pulled himself up and looked for a bucket. Just in time he found one a few feet away from him, and he grabbed it desperately, immediately emptying the meager contents of his stomach. Then he coughed weakly and exhaustedly discarded the bucket as he sank back fully onto the floor and let his memory return.

For a few minutes, all he could do was discover all the parts of his body that were currently suffering. His head took the top spot on the list; it was pounding so hard he thought it would have to be visible to anyone who looked at him. He moaned miserably, knowing that vomiting had intensified the hurt, and that it wouldn't be the last time that happened. His stomach came in a close second. He could feel it pulsating, churning, waiting for another chance to send him panicking toward that bucket. Everything else seemed to pale in comparison to those two areas, though as he recovered from his frenzied moves upon awakening, he could feel the sharp pain radiating from his ribs that had been plaguing him since the last time he'd had a more physical encounter with his interrogators, and a few other sore spots that he had been able to ignore before now.

Memories began to trickle back into Hogan's muddled mind. Too much death… The words filtered through the discordant symphony screeching in his brain. In his mind's bloodshot eye he saw Major Golz handing him a glass full of brandy. Then another one, and another. And he remembered himself trying desperately to get to the point of oblivion that would take him out of the danger zone of loose-lipped drunkenness that might betray his real identity or his operation. In that, he was sure he succeeded, though right now he was ruing the method he'd had to resort to in order to protect everyone involved.

Finally, he reluctantly considered his current location. Still sicker than he'd felt in a long, long time, at first he didn't move or even open his eyes to see what surrounded him. In the brief seconds of respite from being physically ill when he woke up, he couldn't have cared less about where he was as long as that bucket was there for him to cling to, and so he had taken no notice. Now, still not up to caring but knowing he had to, Hogan tried to force his brain, dehydrated and shrunken due to his heavy drinking, to think logically. The attempt made him nauseous, and with a despairing groan he again reached for the bucket, empty of anything to offer it but gagging nonetheless.

In time he released his white-knuckled grip on the metal pail and slumped beside it, wishing he could move away from the foul-smelling thing but unable to make himself do so. His head was throbbing so badly now he thought it would split in two, the pain radiating from his skull all the way down his face. Even the sound of his own moaning was too much for him to bear, and so he let his body down as slowly and gently as he could onto the cold cement floor, curling into a fragile ball of pain.

Cold. Cement. Floor. Hogan was back in his cell. He had no memory of getting here, nor any idea how long he'd been unconscious. But he was grateful for the almost complete darkness; even a tiny shard of light would make this horrendous pain even more unbearable, if that was possible. It was better just to lie here with his eyes closed than to try and face anything right now.

He should have known it wasn't going to happen. Footsteps in the hallway grew closer and closer until he heard a key in the lock of his door. No. No…

Crrreeeeak! screamed the door. Hogan whimpered in pain and squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, clutching his head to try and stop his skull from exploding as the noise drilled through his brain like a railroad spike and light flooded the room. Either he had been being checked on regularly, or the sound of him vomiting had alerted the guards that he was awake. Either way, it wasn't looking very good.

"You are too early," he gasped, gritting his teeth at the pain those four words caused. Think like you're one of them. "Bringen Sie mir Wasser, bitte."

"Nein," came the voice of a guard. Hogan flinched as the word reverberated in the tiny room. "Kommen."

Breathing heavily with the exertion of every small step, Hogan made it to his feet, immediately swaying as though he would pitch back to the floor. The guard grabbed his arm, and Hogan's stomach rolled. He curled forward into himself as the nausea rose with terrible speed within him, and the guard was smart enough to let him go as he practically fell back toward the bucket.

It was the longest thirty seconds of his life. The pounding in his skull felt like it would push his eyeballs out from the inside, while his brain was replaced with a violent explosion of white-hot agony. His hands were shaking enough to rattle the bucket in his grip, he was sweating profusely, and his mouth was desert-dry and tasted disgusting. His heart felt like it was beating a mile a minute. And if he opened his eyes, he knew the room would be spinning in a circle that made everything a blur before them.

But the order came again, calmly, evenly. "Kommen."

Hogan held his head tightly, not ready to trust it to stay together without being clamped in place. "Please…" was all he could manage, and that sounded pathetic even as it roared past his temples.

The guard came and hauled Hogan up by the arm himself. "Kommen."

This time Hogan managed to keep his stomach out of his throat, but that was his only success. If the guard hadn't had a grip on him, he would have sunk back to the floor once more and happily dropped back into unconsciousness. Instead, he was pulled toward the door, where the torturous light from the hall made him groan unwillingly, and he winced considerably as he lowered his head to try and shield himself from it.

He didn't watch or take any notice as the guard led him down the corridor. Maybe they had gone up some stairs, he couldn't tell—but he ended up in a room where he was blessedly deposited in a hard chair, and he sat limply in it, gripping the arm as he tried to breathe the hurt that was now officially everywhere down to a manageable level.

Hogan heard the door open and close—too loudly, he thought painfully. He didn't dare open his eyes; the light getting through his eyelids was already sending hot pokers through his brain. It was all he could do at the moment to stop from being sick all over the desk in front of him. He had to concentrate. Concentrate. But, God, it was hard right now.

"We meet again, sir!"

Hogan shrank into himself as the voice boomed through his head. Golz would have to know how he was feeling; this was going to be the price he had to pay for getting out of his interrogation earlier—however long ago that was.

"Oh, dear, we're not looking very well right now!" the Major's voice came again, only closer, more piercing. Hogan gripped the chair a little harder. The German clicked his tongue in what Hogan knew was mock sympathy. "I thought you boys from the Russian Front could handle your alcohol." He laughed loudly and slapped Hogan on the shoulder. Hogan let out a weak cry and swallowed, determined keep his stomach where it belonged. "It appears that I was wrong."

Hogan didn't answer. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth… Please… Oh, dear God, please…

"I took the liberty of bringing you something to eat," Golz said cheerfully.

Both the sound of Golz's voice and the thought of food had a physical impact on Hogan. The words pierced his head sharply; the thought of eating forced bile up from his stomach and into his throat. He tried hard to swallow it. He gagged, spreading agony through his skull, down his face, across his jaw. He felt lightheaded, as though he was going to pitch forward. But he gripped the chair's arm again as he greedily gulped in fresh air, and forced his head up as he leaned back to regain his balance. He had never had such a ferocious hangover before; but then he had never had so much to drink in such a short time, after such bad treatment, and so little food, or water, or sleep.

"'m not hungry," he said feebly.

"You are so weak; you must have something. I insist," Golz answered, the very cordiality of his voice telling Hogan that this encounter was about to be anything but friendly. He reached across to the side of his desk, where he picked up a plate covered with a towel.

"No, please," Hogan whispered. "I couldn't eat right now. Really."

"No?" asked Golz, surprised. "But this has been prepared especially for you, and good food is hard to come by these days, you know." He whipped back the cloth to reveal a plate brimming with scrambled eggs, mushrooms and, to Hogan's complete horror, sardines. "You must not let it go to waste."

Hogan felt his stomach flip not once, but twice. He turned his head away, swallowing reflexively, trying to contain himself. "N-no," he gasped, closing his eyes. "Just—take it away."

"Don't be ridiculous," Golz said. His warm words were betrayed by the absolute ice in his tone. "It would be most remiss of me not to provide you with food. So you will eat." A pause. "Unless we talk."

"Talk?" Hogan automatically turned to look across the desk, but was repulsed to find the Major contentedly holding a fork full of sardine only inches from his face. He gagged again and swallowed almost obsessively in an attempt to stop himself from vomiting. He lowered his head.

"You can talk… or you can eat."

So that was it, Hogan realized. Eating as a punishment for silence. God, how ironic it was, he thought briefly. There was a period where he would have done almost anything for food. But now, he could think of nothing he wanted less. "Talk?" he repeated in a whisper.

"Yes, of course!" Golz answered. "We should talk. There is still much we need to discuss." He chuckled. "You got a little beyond speech when we last met."

"Scheiße," Hogan cursed, making the German laugh again. German… show him you're letting down your guard by being German…. He turned red, tired eyes toward the Major. "Können Sie nicht sehen, dass ich krank bin?" he asked crossly, his voice hoarse.

Golz smiled and lowered the fork. "Of course," he said in perfect, accented English. "You're right. You are ill. Too much indulging, mein Freund. Now that you are not so… off-balance, shall we say, we might have a chance to speak properly."

"I told you everything I had to say."

Golz sighed. "This grows tedious."

"Call my superiors in Berlin," Hogan insisted again.

Golz shook his head. "We need answers first, sir. And I am quite certain that you can provide them."

"I already told you: I'm not authorized to do that. I've given you everything I can. Call Berlin."

Golz's words turned venomous as his eyes bored into Hogan. "Then you have nothing else to tell me. Nothing about Tiger. Or why you were in Hofberg. Or who you were meeting at that hofbräu. Or who you are when you are working undercover for the Abwehr, Captain Erich Stark."

Hogan closed his eyes and did not answer. His right eye was paining him terribly, throbbing with every pulse that punched his skull. His stomach ached, spreading fingers of suffering through the rest of his body. The light in the room was unbearable, and the smell of the food nearby. God, the food…

Something touched Hogan's lips and he was startled into opening his eyes. He regretted the sudden move, and in spite of his best efforts, he heaved when he inhaled the very close, distinct aroma of the fish. Don't do this… Don't.

But Golz persisted. "You talk… or you eat. Which do you choose?"

Knowing he had nothing left to say, Hogan lowered his head and closed his eyes.

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"Do you think Tiger will be okay, Pierre?" asked Le Beau.

Newkirk pursed his lips. "She's a strong lady, Louis," he answered. "But I don't like her chances, goin' into Gestapo Headquarters like that."

"Iron Hans is probably right. If les Boches think they already have Tiger, they will not be looking for her as a member of the Red Cross."

"What worries me is what she'll do if she gets to see the Colonel," the Englishman admitted. "She could give herself away—" Newkirk snapped his fingers. "—like that."

Le Beau shook his head. "She is strong," he repeated. "She will not do anything to put Colonel Hogan at risk."

"Who sold her out, mate? Who?"

"That is the next piece of the puzzle. And we must start working on it soon. Iron Hans says after he brings Tiger to the Underground, he will bring all the information he can gather about the people she met in Hofberg. There has to be something there. There has to."

"And we'd better find it, quick. Otherwise it'll be more than the gov'nor in trouble."

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Colonel Klink stood waving his fist at Corporal Newkirk. His voice was going up in pitch as well as volume as he ranted and raved. "You promised me you would fix the electrical problems we are having, Corporal, and do you know what has happened instead?"

Newkirk stood on the opposite side of the Kommandant's desk, trying to look meek and apologetic. "What, sir?" he asked in a mumble.

"I have had explosions, Corporal. Explosions!"

"I can explain, sir—"

But Klink was on a roll. "I put on the reading lamp next to my bed—and the bulb popped with such a noise, I thought someone had tried to shoot me! I made toast—and the toaster made such odd sounds and popped the bread out with such force that I thought it would impale me! My own radio made such a racket, it sounded like a fireworks display—complete with sparking lights that I thought would burn me!"

Newkirk did his best to hide a satisfied smile. Nice work, Carter. Beautiful. Harmless. Terrifying. He cleared his throat. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked timidly.

"Of course I'm not all right!" Klink replied hotly. "My heart is beating a mile a minute; my blood pressure is sky high! Every time I go to do something as simple as turning on a light, I'm afraid it may be my last moment on earth! I want this stopped, Corporal Newkirk! I want it stopped now!"

Newkirk drew himself up a little straighter. "I'm sorry, Kommandant. I did warn Schultz that your German electrical works might be a little different from what I was used to back home. I'm still working the kinks out; I think I almost have it right. Just give me another dayor two, sir. I promise I'll get it soon."

All the fire went out of Klink's tirade. "Oh, I know," he admitted, dismissing the whole matter with a wave of his hand. He sat down at his desk, deflated. "I'm just so tired, Corporal. Things seem to be going on and off of their own accord at all hours—do you know, last night I was woken up by my radio playing at its top volume—at one o'clock in the morning? I nearly hit the ceiling, I was so startled…. And then it turned itself off—just like that!" Klink shook his head. "I was trembling for half an hour. How was I supposed to go back to sleep after that?" A sigh. "Just do what you have to do—and be as quick as you can. I don't think my heart can take the excitement."

Newkirk nodded and made himself look as ingratiating as possible. "I—I will do, sir. You won't be disappointed in me. You'll see. I've never let my side down, sir."

Klink looked up from his self-indulgence. "But we're not on the same side!" he said.

"Oh. Well. I've never let that stop me either, sir." The Englishman started saluting his way out of the office and backed into Schultz, who was on his way in. "Oh—sorry, Schultzie. I'll get right on that, Kommandant. You'll see. Just like Alexander Graham Bell, sir—I'll have it running perfectly again in no time." One more salute. "Thank you, sir. Thank you."

And he was gone. Klink sat in silence for a moment while Schultz regarded him with something akin to pity. Finally, Klink shook his head in disbelief. "With that man on the job, Schultz, I'm going to be dead within a week."

Schultz frowned, then asked, "Why is that, Kommandant?"

"Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone."