During dinner at the mess hall, Hogan fielded complaints from some of the non-accordion-playing inhabitants of Barracks 13 about what they were being forced to listen to now that Schultz had dropped off the instrument for McIntosh to practice with. After listening to a barrage of increasingly insulting descriptive similes, most of which could not have been said in the presence of the ladies' gymnastics team for decency's sake, Hogan held up his hands.

"Fellas, everything you're saying just makes it clearer that Corporal McIntosh needs the practice. I'll see if I can find him some private space for it tomorrow, but you're just going to have to put up with it for a while. With some luck, he'll get better with practice quickly. He certainly seems motivated."

The reminder of McIntosh's upcoming good fortune didn't help matters, if the jealous expressions on the men's faces were anything to go by; the fact he was practicing to play for girl athletes just added insult to injury, at least as far as his barracks mates were concerned.

"Colonel," barracks chief Burkhardt said grimly, "you're asking for a mass escape if we have to listen to much more of this."

"Escape anywhere you want, as long as it's inside camp," the colonel retorted. "There's a war on; we all have to make sacrifices."

Burkhardt huffed in resigned exasperation. "Well, I guess if it's for an important mission. . . ." he trailed off, noting an uneasy look pass quickly across Hogan's face. "It is for an important mission, right? Sir?!"

"I'm sure it's going to be important," Hogan said, attempting to pacify them. "At some point."

The silent consternation on the faces of the Barracks 13 men suggested that Hogan's reassurances were soothing them about as much as McIntosh's "music."

As the delegation headed away, grumbling, Hogan and Kinch both overheard one of them say, "Will we get a purple heart if we lose our hearing from this?"

His buddy groused in return, "At least if we go deaf we won't have to listen anymore."

Hogan rolled his eyes; Kinch just grinned and shook his head.

ooOoo

Roll call finally over, Hogan headed back down to the tunnels. He found the Lucky Strike crew all awake, sitting around in the sleeping alcove; apparently they'd been talking together. Ted wouldn't have gotten much sleep, if any, Hogan mused, but sometimes other things were more important—like spending time with people when you didn't know quite when you'd see them again. Hogan was sure the impending separation of the crew weighed on all of them. With luck, though—and Hogan smiled to himself, because after all they were a lucky crew—they'd see each other back in London in a week to ten days.

They all started to rise on seeing him, but Hogan gestured for them to keep their seats. Ted, sitting next to Captain Luck, welcomed him with a smile, and while the others didn't look all that enthusiastic to see him, particularly Smoot, they were all at least reasonably polite. LeBeau and Carter, climbing down behind him with dinner supplies, got a more eager reception.

"We've been talking about the trip back, sir," Luck said, digging into the turnip soup that LeBeau had stretched with a few boiled potatoes that he'd managed to scrounge, "and plans for after we all get there."

Hogan nodded, guessing that part of the conversation had involved a debate over the merits of Italy versus the Pacific. But he had told Ted to choose for himself; it wouldn't be fair to interfere at this point by asking about their conversation, tempting as that was. Instead he said, "We'll be leaving here in about four hours for the rendezvous point with the plane. It'll be me and my men, and the two of you for the plane. I'm sorry, but the rest of you will have to stay here."

Watts smirked at Luck, Smoot, Toft and Burgin. "That's a good plan, sir, given how much noise these guys made in those woods after we got shot down. I mean, it made it easy for a Tennessee woodsman like me to find them and gather us all together, though Lord knows what they'd have done without me. But it's a wonder we didn't have half the Kraut army after us. Burgin here, he tramples like an elephant for all he doesn't say much, and Toft sounds like a herd of buffalo in the bushes. Lieutenant Smoot's so tall he hits every tree branch. And Cap'n Luck hits the lower half of them. Colonel," the diminutive sergeant spoke very earnestly, only his twinkling eyes giving him away, "you relieve my mind greatly for our getaway tonight."

Captain Luck rolled his eyes at Watts, while adding a "We understand that, Colonel," for Hogan.

As they finished their dinner, Hogan was casting about for a tactful way to extract Ted without being too obvious about it when Ted saved him the trouble. "Got some more time?" he asked with a grin.

Hogan grinned back. "Yep. For a bit."

Ted nodded and, with a brief wave at his crewmates, rose to follow Hogan. This time Hogan led him just a short way away, to the antechamber where they stored their counterfeit German uniforms, stocked also with a couple of lidded wooden crates full of hats and boots that they could use for seats.

Ted looked faintly puzzled. "Why not where we were before?" he asked.

Hogan indicated the boxes and sat down on one. "I've been advised that we're better off not sitting on explosives."

Ted turned faintly green. "Uh, really?"

Hogan nodded.

"I don't want to know why you have those down here, do I?"

This time Hogan shook his head. "The less you know, the better."

"Yeah. I'm beginning to get that." Ted hesitated a moment, then said, "We only talked about me earlier, what I've been doing since you left. We didn't get around to you much, what your life's been like. I was thinking that there are a lot of questions I'd like to ask, but I'm not sure if I should, or if you can answer them if I do."

Hogan rubbed his face tiredly. "You're right. There's a lot I can't tell you, partly because a lot of it's classified. But go ahead and ask; I'll answer what I can, and just tell you flat out if I can't."

"Can you tell me about London, when you got there in '40? Not your duties—I mean, just how did you like it? That sort of stuff. Whatever you've put in the letters you've written me. And maybe some of what your life is like up there?" He pointed to the tunnel ceiling to indicate the barracks above it.

"Sure," Hogan smiled. "I can do that."

ooOoo

Hogan glanced at his watch; it was almost twenty-two hundred and he was going to have to call a halt so that they could all get ready to move out in the next hour. Ted caught the movement.

"Time to quit and get ready?" he asked quietly.

"I'm afraid so," Hogan answered, regret plainly evident on his face.

"Just one more thing," Ted said quickly. "I . . . I think I'm going to ask for that transfer to the Pacific. Captain Luck thought it would be better for my career, and he thinks I might even get a couple weeks' leave at home on the way. I thought that if I do . . . well, I was thinking I'd try to visit Bridgeport as well as Augusta."

"No," Hogan said flatly, shaking his head.

"I thought you'd be pleased," Ted faltered, obviously surprised. "That . . . you weren't happy I hadn't seen Grandma and Grandpa in so long . . . that it'd make them happy."

Hogan sighed. "I'm sure it would. I know they'd love to see you. But do you really think you could see them, sit in their living room for a day or two and listen to them worry about me, have them ask you if you've heard or know anything about me—and not tell them about this? Hide it so well that they'd never guess? Are you that good an actor? And cold hearted enough not to respond to any distress from them?"

Ted looked taken aback. "I . . . I don't know."

Hogan's face softened. "It's too much security risk, Ted. They can't know. It might leak somehow into their letters to me. And it's a lot to try to hide from them in a face-to-face visit. So it'd probably be better if you didn't see them. The same goes for the Mahoneys: you can't let them know you've been here, seen me."

Ted's face turned mulish. "They've kept your letters from me. I want those—all of them."

Hogan sighed. "Then you'll have to figure out a way of 'knowing' they have the letters to ask for them without revealing the real way that you found out." He didn't add that he privately wondered whether the letters still existed, or if they'd been burned or thrown out as they arrived. But mentioning that possibility to Ted could add fuel to the fire of his son's indignation, and he needed to avoid that. While he was grateful Ted wanted his letters, wanted to read what he'd written to him, he couldn't let that desire compromise his operation in any way. Ted would have to figure out how to manage the Mahoneys without giving it away.

"You'll have to be very careful in how you ask for them," he warned. "It might be better to wait till after the war."

Ted considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "I can tell them I wrote and heard from your parents, who mentioned that you'd been writing me. I can even write Grandma and Grandpa and ask about you to make that true. So then I can ask Mama and Pops for your letters without letting anything slip."

Hogan nodded slowly. "That could work. Just remember that you cannot let your temper get the better of you on this, Ted, even if they hold out on you in some way over this. They won't like admitting to you that they've done this. I'm pretty sure they'll say they did it for your own good—and probably they genuinely believe that," he admitted reluctantly. "But if you can't control your temper on this, then don't see them in person. There are too many lives at stake here that depend on this operation staying secret."

Ted nodded his understanding, his expression sober. "I won't reveal a word about it, I promise."

Hogan reached out and squeezed his shoulder gently. "I trust you," he said, his voice slightly husky. "Please believe that I'm not trying to keep you from seeing them and the rest of the family you've got there, just needing you to be discreet about having seen me. And it should be a lot easier to do that with the Mahoneys than with my folks, since they won't ask after me like my parents would."

He swallowed against the ache in his throat that arose from knowing how much he was denying both his son and his parents by forbidding that particular visit.

"Professional responsibilities over personal concerns again?" Ted queried, biting at his lower lip. At his father's nod, he added gravely, "It costs a lot, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Colonel Hogan admitted heavily. "Sometimes it feels like it costs the earth."

They were silent a moment, then Hogan rose to his feet.

"Does all this also mean I can't write you?" Ted asked, following suit. "I mean, the Krauts know you've been writing me, but they don't know I haven't gotten your letters. Officially from their point of view, I know where you are. Can't I start answering them? Once I did that, you could write me directly. There's not much point in you sending your letters to me at home any more."

Hogan looked at him consideringly. "Once you're reassigned, write my parents about that. They'll be very glad to hear from you, and I know they'll pass that on to me along with your address. I'll write you when I think it's safe. Just . . . be very careful about what you put in the letters to them and me. Only day-to-day personal stuff. Between that and the censors on your end . . . maybe it'll be safe."

"I'll be careful," Ted promised.

"I know," Hogan smiled, clapping him lightly on the shoulder.

ooOoo

Half an hour later, Hogan and his men were outfitted in their usual black camouflage, faces darkened against the moonlight, flashlights and guns secured to their belts. Hogan insisted that Ted and Watts similarly darken their faces, though of course they were staying in uniform, then explained the procedures for leaving the tunnel and slipping through the woods to avoid any patrols.

Hogan turned to Ted once they finished adjusting their gear. "One more thing," he said seriously. "I need your dog tags."

The others stilled at this. Ted slowly reached for the chain around his neck and wordlessly removed it, gathering the tags and chain into his right hand and gripping them tightly for a moment before handing them over to his father. Hogan held them for a couple of seconds, then turned to Captain Luck.

"Do me a favor and hold on to these till I get back?" he asked.

Luck tucked them carefully into his shirt pocket. "I'll keep them safe," he promised.

Then it was time for the Lucky Strike crew to make its final goodbyes, in a flurry of handshakes, gripped shoulders, and promises to be careful. "We'll see you in London not too long from now," Luck promised the two who were leaving, to answering nods all around.

Finally, they were all standing below the tunnel exit, as Newkirk, on point, climbed the ladder to check on leaving. Hogan rested his hand on Ted's shoulder till the signal came, then he gave a gentle push and up the young lieutenant climbed, into the night woods.

ooOoo

The journey through the forest and across fields went without incident. Hogan noted that Watts could indeed move as silently as he'd claimed as they stole through the trees. Everyone worked at keeping quiet, till they finally reached the rendezvous field. Hogan deployed Carter and LeBeau at the far end of the field on opposite sides, with Kinch and Newkirk at the near end, also on opposite sides, and himself with the two Lucky Strike crew in the middle, Watts across the field, also equipped with an extra flashlight.

They waited silently for the most part, shoulder to shoulder, ears straining for the sound of a motor. Finally Ted spoke very softly, just above a whisper.

"So, one other thing." Hogan glanced briefly sideways at him, interrogatively, but didn't tell him to stop. Ted went on, even more quietly, "Sergeant Kinchloe." He felt his father tense and look back at him sharply. "He seems like a good man," Ted said quickly.

Hogan's shoulders relaxed. "I'm lucky to have him. As well as the rest of my team."

Ted's teeth shone as the moon lighted his smile. "Ask him about his sister sometime."

Hogan looked at him, puzzled. "His sister?"

Ted just nodded. "He'll understand."

Hogan nodded back, letting it go for the moment. After a moment he realized he also had a final point to make. "By the way, you do realize that Ted isn't just a nickname for Theodore. It's used for Edward too, right?"

He felt Ted start next to him, then give a small laugh, immediately suppressed. "So it is," the younger man murmured. "A nickname that honors both of the most important men in my life, then."

Hogan grinned, keeping his eyes on the skies.

ooOoo

Finally they heard it—the low dull roar of a small plane, a Lysander Mk III, though it remained hard to see, its underbelly painted gray, its topside a dull matte black for night camouflage. As it passed over, Kinch signaled the code with his flashlight. The plane banked, turned, and came in low, using the lights from Hogan's team to line up for the landing, and bounced down to a textbook stop. Everyone converged on the plane, as a first lieutenant hopped out.

"Papa Bear?" he asked, glancing from face to face.

"Right," Hogan answered. "And you're . . . ?"

"Seven League Boots," the lieutenant answered with a grin.

Hogan relaxed on hearing the code name—not that anyone else was likely to have landed here without directions—but not taking chances meant always observing the formalities. "You got here without trouble?" he checked.

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied. "Some clouds over Antwerp with light flashes in them; could've been lightning, could've been flak, so I detoured a bit north, in case there was trouble there. Nothing else, though."

Somewhat reassured, Hogan asked next, "I take it you have our supplies?"

The lieutenant grimaced. "Yep. In five packs, as requested. They're here in the back seat."

Carter helped the lieutenant haul the substantial packs out of the plane, and the others carried them off to the side, where they wouldn't be in the way of the take-off, Newkirk swearing under his breath about the weight of them. "I'll weigh another four stone at least carrying this," he grumbled.

"I don't think they sent us rocks," Carter frowned, puzzled. "I mean, why would they do that? It's not like rocks would do us any good. We could find plenty of them around here if we needed them."

This prompted Newkirk to stare disbelievingly at him and mutter, "At some point you Yanks ought to learn to speak English."

"You need to get back in the air," Hogan announced reluctantly once the cargo was safely unloaded. As his men hiked back across the field to take up their flashlight positions for the takeoff, he shook hands briefly with Watts, then turned to Ted as the sergeant and the pilot began to get into the plane.

His heart in his mouth, Hogan stepped forward and wrapped Ted in his arms tightly, feeling the pressure from Ted's arms equally firmly around him. He swallowed hard, then whispered hoarsely, "Fly safe, son."

"You too, Dad," Ted murmured in his ear.

Then they both pushed away from each other simultaneously. They looked hard at each other, each trying to fix the other's features in his mind.

For a moment, looking at nineteen-year-old Ted in the moonlight, Hogan could see the fifteen-year-old Bobby he'd left behind four years earlier, as well as the twelve-year-old boy he'd been before that, and looking farther back, in his mind's eye he beheld the one-year-old toddler who'd reawakened his dead heart, and even the day-old baby from the two happy days he'd had as father and husband, long ago when he'd been only nineteen himself. He hoped to God that they'd both survive and he'd have the chance to see the twenty-one- or twenty-two-year-old Ted of the future when the war was over.

Ted tore himself away, climbed the port-side ladder into the rear cockpit, fitting himself in behind Watts, and slammed and latched the entrance tightly as Hogan backed away to a safe distance, his eyes never leaving the plane. He thought he saw a wave from within as the motor roared, and lifted his own hand in farewell, dropping it as the plane moved forward past him.

The plane taxied off across the field, down the runway created by the lights Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter held, gathering speed, then it lifted off, clearing the field and the trees beyond. Hogan kept his eyes on it as it faded into a silent speck in the moon-lit sky and disappeared from sight altogether as his men hiked back across the field to join him, forming a loose circle and wordlessly eying him, unsure what to say.

Hogan reached down for his pack, picked it up, and shouldered his burden. "Let's get this stuff back to camp," he said roughly, and headed out, as his men silently followed suit.

ooOoo

Author's Notes:

1) A "stone" is a common British weight measurement, equivalent to 14 pounds, or 6.34 kilograms. It is most commonly used in the United Kingdom and some other Commonwealth countries to describe body weight.

2) I don't know if the RAF ever actually landed courier planes in Germany, but they certainly did in Occupied France to supply the French Resistance, to insert and retrieve agents, and to pick up downed Allied airmen who had evaded capture. Squadron 138 (Special Duties) was formed in August 1941 to work for the Special Operations Executive (SOE). They often used Lysander Mk IIIs, chosen because of their exceptional performance in landing on make-shift airstrips behind enemy lines. They were modified with a ladder to ease their passengers' quick access to the cockpit and with a large drop tank to carry extra fuel and extend their range. They were unfortunately easy targets for the Luftwaffe if spotted, but they had a good track record for sneaking in and out of Vichy France, landing in fields in the fashion I've described. For the sake of the story (and following the general Hogan's Heroes fictional premise of strong networked underground resistance in Germany itself), I've extended their reach to western Germany as support for Hogan's operation. See Hugh Verity's We Landed by Moonlight: Secret RAF Landings in France 1940-1944 for a real-life account, or the gripping historical novel Code Name Verity by Elizabeth Wein, which is based on Squadron 138's duties as well as on the experiences of women pilots who flew planes for Britain's Air Transport Auxiliary, to free up male pilots for combat. You can see a Lysander Mk III painted matte black with the passenger ladder in the illustration on Wikipedia's page on the Lysander.

3) Apologies to any accordion players out there who feel miffed about McIntosh's poor playing: remember that he is, after all, just a beginner. I actually have a friend who plays accordion, and I enjoy her music. But one played badly by a beginner is a different matter from one played well!