No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater. Thanks.

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Morning came too soon to Stalag 13. As the whistles for roll call shrilled through the camp, Hogan rubbed his throbbing temples. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep all night, and had spent the hours after talking with London pacing his quarters and feeling his headache build to a pulsing crescendo. He had dressed before going down to the radio, and now he just glanced at his uniform before grabbing his hat and heading outside.

Schultz was there, mumbling his early-morning-tempered orders to the prisoners to line up quickly and quietly. He walked down the row, pointing and counting, and he frowned when he got to Hogan sooner than he expected. Hogan, for his part, wasn't volunteering anything. He just stood staring straight ahead, his mind still at the tree stump, his heart still in pieces.

"Repoooooort!" came the call from Klink as he came bustling across the compound. Before Schultz had a chance to question the American Colonel, Klink was upon them. "Schultz!" the Kommandant greeted expectantly.

Schultz was about to—once again—report the unacceptable, when Klink's expression changed and he moved in closer to Hogan. "You look positively gray this morning, Colonel Hogan," he said with more than a touch of superiority. "Are you ill?"

Hogan didn't bother to put on an act. "I've got a headache," he muttered, the words ricocheting in his skull. He swallowed to counteract his nausea.

"Perhaps that will teach you not to drink so much of my good wine," Klink lectured, still not happy with how cheerfully Hogan seemed to be taking advantage of the Kommandant's need to stay on Gertrude Linkmeyer's good side.

"I had one glass, and it wasn't that good," Hogan murmured, more out of habit than a need to defend himself.

Klink turned to Schultz, who was swaying beside him. "Schultz, make your report!" he demanded, making Hogan wince visibly.

"Herr Kommandant, I beg to report…" Schultz shot a fast look in Hogan's direction. The American did not look back. "I beg to report…" His voice got even lower as he dropped his eyes. "There is a prisoner missing."

The righteous look in Klink's eyes disappeared at once. "There is a what?" he asked through his teeth, looking from Schultz to Hogan.

"The Englander, Newkirk. He is not here, Kommandant," Schultz said.

Klink's eyes pierced into Hogan, who did not react. "Hogan, what do you have to say about this?" the Kommandant demanded angrily.

"Nothing, Colonel," Hogan said softly.

"Nothing?" Klink practically shouted, making Hogan's head pound even harder. "Colonel Hogan, your barracks is turning into a hotel, and you have nothing to say?" Hogan squeezed his eyes shut and put a soothing hand to his temple. "Schultz, send out the dogs—and get a search party working outside the fence immediately."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!"

"Colonel Hogan, I will see you in my office," Klink said through his teeth. Then he turned his back on the prisoners and walked away.

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"I don't want to hear any of your excuses, Hogan," Klink began, even before Hogan was fully in the office. "Another man has gotten out of this camp, and I want an explanation."

"Kommandant, I don't have an—"

"Then you had better get one!" Klink cut him off, as Hogan, clearly suffering, rubbed his forehead. "Hogan, I don't think you understand how serious this is. Your plan for me to stay in General Burkhalter's good graces by spending time with Frau Linkmeyer has worked well so far. But this is going to go beyond even that. And not just for me, Hogan—but for you, as well!"

Hogan dropped his hand. "For me?" he asked.

"Absolutely. Don't think it has escaped the General's notice, Hogan, that every man who has gone missing is from your barracks. He will suspect that you had some hand in this, Colonel. And quite frankly, I already do."

Hogan let out a breath. "Look, Colonel, I promise you, I had nothing to do with this."

But Klink was already shaking his head. "Your promises mean nothing now, Colonel Hogan. For both of our sakes, I hope your Corporal Newkirk comes back to camp before General Burkhalter arrives. Otherwise I doubt anything you say to him or to Frau Linkmeyer will prevent either of our heads from rolling."

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When Hogan returned to the barracks that night, the men were in their bunks, tossing and turning in that period between wakefulness and slumber. Without putting the light on in the common room, he made his way to his quarters, turning on his own light and closing the door before wearily sitting down on his lower bunk and letting everything possible drain out of his body.

It had been a difficult evening at best. Burkhalter had arrived with Gertrude, as expected. Also as expected, he had reacted badly to the news that another prisoner had escaped. All of Klink's attention to Frau Linkmeyer and his fawning at her brother could not distract the General this time; a prisoner was gone. Another nail in the coffin of Klink's perfect record. Another failure for Burkhalter to report to the Führer. Another step closer to the Russian Front for Burkhalter himself.

And the General's interrogation of Hogan had been relentless. He questioned the American again and again, sweetly, softly, loudly, accusingly, violently. At one point, Hogan lost his temper and snapped, "General, you must be hanging out with Major Hochstetter; you're picking up an awful lot of really attractive Gestapo tricks. Next time, why don't you ask him about the too-tight handcuffs technique? He's quite fond of it."

The conversation had degenerated from there, until Klink himself became the peacemaker and ordered Hogan back to his barracks before the encounter came to blows. The senior POW had stormed out, taking long, angry strides across the compound, cooling down only when he stepped back inside Barracks Two and got a visual reminder of his responsibility in camp.

These remaining men—all the prisoners in Stalag 13—were depending on him to look after them, to protect them from the enemy among whom they lived, and upon whom they counted for their daily bread. Bitterly, Hogan admitted that he'd failed, and now, as extreme tiredness descended upon him, he wondered how he'd ever carry on.

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"London's on the line, Colonel. They'd like to talk to you."

Hogan came out of his thoughts and looked toward the voice, for the briefest second fully expecting to see Kinch standing beside him in the yard. But just as quickly, he registered Sergeant Richard Baker in front of him, his face concerned.

"Sir? London's on the radio."

Hogan looked at Baker for a moment without answering, then he uncrossed his arms and pulled away from the barracks wall. "Right," he said through a sigh. "Let's go."

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Hogan switched off the radio and replaced the headsets on the desk, then simply sat with his hands in his lap, thinking. Baker, though he would normally have taken over the radio for Hogan, had caught a glimmer of something in the Colonel's eyes that prompted him to leave his commanding officer alone and head back up to the barracks, a decision that Hogan did not protest.

Now, Hogan found himself forced to face a situation he had always prayed to avoid. Apparently some of the brass had finally had a talk about Hogan's current situation and decided to find out where he thought the operation was going from here. His four closest operatives were gone; those with whom Hogan had begun this intelligence unit just over a year ago had disappeared without a trace. And so London wanted a direct response: could Hogan carry on without them?

That's a question I never wanted to have to answer, Hogan thought ruefully. There were other men, of course. People like Baker, Scotty, Thomas, Foster and Olsen, and others in the camp who had some talents that Hogan had used upon occasion. These men had, when needed, stepped in and taken a part. Could they continue to do so? Hogan had no doubt. He knew that was the question London was asking. But the one he was asking himself was totally different: did he have the heart to go on without Le Beau, Carter, Kinch and Newkirk? Had the loss of his most trusted comrades finished him?

Hogan had told London that he was already pondering the future of the operation and would contact them again that night. He knew they would never suspect the truth if he simply decided to close up shop and get out. They would never know that there were men, in all probability, capable of continuing the operation with him. They would never know that he had simply not had the spirit to go on with his work without his closest, most experienced men by his side. They would never know that a piece of Hogan had died with each disappearance, and that an empty shell would be returning to London, feeling like the biggest failure that ever was.

He let out a heavy breath and covered his eyes with his hands. He'd lost men before; that was the nature of war. As far back as test piloting he'd encountered the death of comrades, and he'd always picked himself back up and carried on. He'd lost his own plane—his precious Goldilocks—and with it, some men to whom he'd become as close as brothers. He'd felt the absolute agony of grief, and still, he'd found a way to keep going—Hell, that was how this operation came about in the first place, Hogan thought meaningfully, his mind unwillingly going back to that horrible summer day in the skies over Hamburg, and the men whom he was fated never to see again. It was how I kept my promise that you wouldn't have died in vain.

So what would happen if Hogan went back to London now? Would that mean the disappearance of his men from Stalag 13 had been in vain? Would leaving mean being a traitor to their memories? To the cause that they so firmly believed in?

He took in and let out another long breath through his nose. Everything was in such a mess now. Klink was precariously close to losing his nice warm post so far west. Burkhalter was convinced that Hogan was part of all these disappearances, regardless of how much he argued otherwise. And Hogan himself? He dropped his hands. He knew in his heart what he had to do.

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"All right, everyone's clear on what we're doing tonight?" Hogan let his eyes come to rest on each of the men in front of him.

"Yes, sir," they murmured, acutely aware of the awkwardness that their commanding officer was trying very hard to disguise.

Hogan ignored the solitary bead of sweat running down the back of his neck. "We go out together, and not a single one of you ever leaves the others alone, not for a second. Understand?"

Olsen, Scotty and Foster looked at each other and nodded fervently at Hogan. They very much wanted to reassure him, and, truth be told, each other. They weren't interested in becoming the next men to go missing from Stalag 13, since no one knew what had become of the ones who went before them, though they were certain it wasn't good.

Hogan pulled his fragile self together and nodded decisively at the trio. "Good," he said curtly. "This should be the last of the information London needs to get their little party going. We know there are troops moving through the area, about four miles outside camp. We'll go there, do a count, see what we can work out, and come back. Together."

"Absolutely, sir," Olsen said firmly. He paused. "When do we leave?"

Hogan swallowed. This is your job. Just do it. "Thirty minutes after lights out."

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Hogan grew anxious as the foursome came closer to camp. He had kept the three men in plain sight for the entire outing, and now, as they were coming to the end of their work, he was even more worried. Hadn't it been at the very end of the mission, when he had actually dropped his guard in relief, that Newkirk had vanished?

His shoulders ached with tension as he continued to shepherd his men back toward Stalag 13. He nodded Olsen and Scotty ahead through a narrow clearing, keeping Corporal Foster protectively by his side as his eyes scanned the area around them non-stop. He resisted the almost ridiculous urge to actually grab hold of Foster's arm and instead concentrated on Olsen's back as he and Foster followed the pair in front of them.

Unexpectedly, Scotty and Olsen froze and ducked low; Hogan and Foster immediately followed suit. Hogan held his breath and listened, waiting for any sound that might indicate someone was nearby. Nothing. He looked around, listened again, waited. All quiet.

He met Olsen's eye, and with a nod signaled that it was okay to proceed. They all stood up, moving with even greater stealth now, and when they had to walk single file through a dense part of the woods, Hogan had to remind himself to breathe. He shook his head as he once again counted the bobbing figures in front of him: one, two, three. They were all there. They were all fine. You've done all right this time, he told himself firmly. We're nearly there. Hold it together.

This time when they got to the tree stump, Hogan ordered the others down first, physically feeling his tension slip away as one man, then the next, dropped below the surface. He held the third, Olsen, back when the camp searchlights swept past, then patted his arm to indicate he could move in. Hogan watched intently as the Sergeant lifted the hatch, then climbed into the stump and disappeared down the ladder.

Finally able to breathe a sigh of relief, Hogan began to stand up so he could zip toward the tree stump in sync with the arcing searchlights. But he suddenly felt a heavy hand pressing down on his shoulder, followed by a harsh, painful sting near the base of his neck, and before he knew what was happening, the world was spinning around him, and everything went black.