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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"Jolly good work, getting hold of those formulas," Crittendon said approvingly to Newkirk. "Awfully sorry I wasn't there to help; I was working on getting some of those guards into shape and missed it, what? Terribly flabby, some of them; don't know how they manage to stay on their feet! Now all we have to do is get the information to London. Who are we meeting?"

"We?" Newkirk nearly choked on the word.

"Of course!" Crittendon declared. "You don't think we can afford to just sit back and hold onto this information for the rest of the war? Where's your head, man?"

"I didn't mean that; I meant—"

"Forget it, Newkirk," Kinch interrupted, laying a hand across the Englishman's arm. "You're never gonna get through."

Newkirk covered his eyes with his hand. "Give me strength," he muttered.

"I suggest we get hold of the Underground and see if we can't get them to pass on the information for us. There's too much of it to pass on by radio, don't you think?" Crittendon proposed.

"Yes, sir, we do think," Kinch agreed. "We've already been in touch with the Underground. We're planning to hand it over tomorrow night." He ignored the glare from Newkirk about giving away their plans.

"Excellent, Sergeant. Excellent! We'll head out after lights-out, all right?"

"No, sir. Much later." Kinch glanced reluctantly toward Newkirk. "Twenty-three hundred thirty hours, tomorrow night."

Newkirk crossed his arms in disgust.

"Very good. I'll be ready at midnight."

Newkirk almost exploded in frustration. "But that's not—"

Kinch put his arm out toward the Englishman to silence him. "That'll be fine, Colonel," the American said.

Newkirk smiled.

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Hogan came out of his quarters, rubbing his eyes with his fingers as he made his way stiffly toward the kettle on the stove. The light pouring out from his quarters created a shaft of light that served as a dim path into the darkened room. "How's it going, sir?" a voice from behind him asked.

Mildly surprised to find anyone still up, Hogan turned around to see Grizone sitting on his bunk, watching the Colonel. Hogan shrugged. "Let's just say it's gonna be a long night."

Grizone stood up and grabbed two cups, gesturing for Hogan to pour. "You sure are determined," the Sergeant said.

"That's one way of putting it," Hogan said with a nod. He sighed. "The other way is stupid."

Grizone let out a short laugh. "I don't think so, sir."

"No?" Hogan asked. He put down the kettle and took a sip of the coffee. Grimacing at its bitterness, he braced himself and then took another drink. "What would you call it when you spend hours trying to figure out something that might not even be there?"

"Hmm… thorough?" Grizone sat at the common room table, glancing around at the deeply sleeping men around them. Leaning in as Hogan sat across from him, he whispered, "Who else could organize it so the Kommandant of the camp would let us into his office unsupervised—and then get us back in there again to return a bit of what we stole in the first place?"

"We don't steal; we borrow," Hogan corrected. "And I have no idea yet if we've even really accomplished anything by doing it."

"I'll have to disagree with you there, Colonel," Grizone remarked.

"How's that?" Hogan asked.

"I've never seen the fellas so happy before—well, unless you count the time that we had a really heavy rainstorm and Meyer fell on his backside in the mud. You should have seen him trying to maintain his dignity as he tried to scramble back up and kept slipping back into it! The Marx Brothers could have used that routine and come out on top." Grizone grinned as memories filled his mind.

"I'm sorry I missed it," Hogan said into his coffee.

"You sure are a sneaky fella for someone who comes out of a camp with such a tough Kommandant."

Hogan arched an eyebrow. "What, Klink?"

"Yeah."

"You've heard of him?"

Grizone shrugged. "Only that he runs the most escape-proof prisoner of war camp in Germany."

"That's what it says in the ads," Hogan quipped quietly.

Grizone leaned in closer and lowered his voice even more. "Then how did you—" He faltered when Hogan met his eye and seemed to wordlessly warn him not to probe further. "I mean, you said you've escaped from camp. But there's never been a successful escape from Stalag 13."

"That's right."

"Were you at other camps before 13?" Grizone asked.

Hogan shrugged. "Dulag, Wetzlar."

"Don't tell me you got out of there."

"I'm not telling you anything," Hogan answered pointedly. He drained the cup of coffee and stood up. "Look, I've got a lot of work to do. If you want to help me, get me a magnifying glass or a microscope or something like that. My eyes are burning from trying to see things that are way too small in a room that's supposed to be in lights-out. We've gotta get those stamps back before Meyer decides he has to check on them."

Grizone nodded, still not able to understand the officer standing before him. "Right, Colonel. I think the medic has a microscope. I'm pretty good at sneaking out after lights-out. I'll go get it for you."

Hogan nodded briefly. "Thanks." Then he headed back into the solitude of his room, where he could avoid Grizone's unanswerable questions.

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"Colonel Crittendon, I must tell you, that while I appreciate your interest in the physical well-being of my men, I cannot allow you to tie up my guards with push-ups and sit-ups when they are supposed to be watching the prisoners! Both yesterday and today, you have been distracting my men with exercise programs and… calisthenics."

Klink rounded his desk, watching as the English officer didn't even try to explain his behavior, or make excuses for it. Oh, how the German missed Hogan. Good heavens! Klink thought. How desperate must I be?

"Just doing a good deed, Kommandant," Crittendon said confidently. "Some of those men would do well to make the rounds of the camp several times with full pack—before starting on a regular exercise routine!"

A knock on the door interrupted the Englishman. "Come in!" Klink called, relieved.

Schultz came in. "Excuse me, Herr Kommandant."

"You see?" Crittendon said, seizing the moment as he looked at the portly Sergeant. "Take a look at Schultz, here; he's completely out of shape!"

"Out of shape?" Schultz repeated, bewildered. "Round is a shape."

"I'm sure you can see why I think it's imperative that your men be involved in some routine exercise each morning, Colonel Klink. The prisoners themselves are going to be out doing calisthenics half an hour each morning before roll call. Your guards would do well to join them!" Crittendon insisted, tapping Schultz's considerable girth with the back of his hand.

"You'd have to wake most of them up first," Klink said through his teeth. Louder, he asked, "What do you want, Schultz?"

"Herr Kommandant, Major Baumann is here to see you."

"Show him in, Schultz. If you will excuse me, Colonel Crittendon, I have work to do," Klink said, sounding as authoritative as he could manage. He stood up as Schultz allowed Major Baumann inside the office. "Major Baumann, how are you?" he greeted the man pleasantly, ingratiatingly.

Baumann stopped in front of the desk and offered Klink a raised hand in salute to the Fuhrer. "Colonel Klink, Herr Doktor Wurfel is in need of some special supplies. I have brought them with me for him today."

Klink dropped the hand he had raised in a limp gesture of loyalty to Hitler. "Supplies?" he asked. "The doctor has not asked me for any supplies."

Baumann took in and let out an impatient breath. "That is why I have brought them with me. They are special things he needs to test out his theories. He will need your men to cut some trees so he can design them as he wishes."

Klink frowned. "Trees?"

Schultz spoke up hesitantly. "Maybe the doctor is a tree surgeon, Herr Kommandant," he suggested.

Klink and Baumann both glared at the Sergeant, who shrugged his shoulders and wiggled his moustache. "Schultz, please escort Colonel Crittendon back to his barracks," Klink ordered.

"Very well, Kommandant; we shall continue our conversation later," Crittendon said, offering Klink a smart salute.

Klink returned it, his heart sinking at the thought. I was afraid you'd say something like that, he thought.

"Come along, Sergeant," Crittendon said to Schultz, patting the guard on the stomach with a little more gusto than the German liked; "we'll take the long way back to the barracks, what? A bit of a run won't do you any harm at all! You'll have to keep up with me, now! And we're off!" And Crittendon exited the office at a fast clip and then broke into a jog, leaving Schultz to offer hasty salutes to the two officers in the room before bolting after his charge.

Klink watched them leave with both relief and trepidation. "So, you say Doktor Wurfel needs trees cut down? Whatever for?"

Baumann sighed and looked at the ceiling, as though frustrated at dealing with an imbecile child. "Because a shortage of metal means that anything we work on will need to be made of wood in order to be successful, Colonel Klink," he said, practically spitting out the name.

Klink couldn't help but feel offended by the tone of voice the Major was using. "I think I would like to know more about what Doktor Wurfel is doing, Major Baumann, before I commit any more of my resources to this project."

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"I think that's a fair request, don't you, Carter?" Kinch asked, as Hogan's men stood huddled around the coffee pot listening device in the Colonel's quarters.

"Oh, sure, I think that's fair," Carter agreed. "What about you, Newkirk?"

"The Kommandant's never made a more reasonable request," the Englishman said with a nod. "What do you think, Louis?"

"I think if we are not quiet, we will miss the answer!" Le Beau said, too worried about something going wrong to enjoy the banter.

The foursome turned back to the coffee pot to hear the rest of what was happening in Klink's office.

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"If that is what it will take to get you to do what I ask, Colonel, then I will tell you. Doktor Wurfel is working on a new ground-to-air flak weapon, using cutting edge technology that will ensure maximum damage to Allied planes without any possibility of casualties on our side." Baumann paused and looked directly at the Kommandant.

Hogan's men looked at each other with concern. Sure, they had the theories on film—they hoped—but there could be a lot more to this than they thought. They leaned more heavily toward the coffee pot as the Major continued. "Do I need to continue, Colonel Klink, or do you feel you have enough information from me now to feel confident in what the Abwehr is asking of you?"

The emphasis on the military branch demanding his cooperation and the condescension in the Major's tone was enough to cow Klink into gulping, "That's more than sufficient, thank you." He still didn't understand why Wurfel would need to test things here, from his camp, but he wasn't about to ask.

"Very well, then. Perhaps you will stop merely standing there nodding like a marionette and get one of your men to start unloading the car."

Klink abruptly stopped bobbing his head and snapped back to his unfortunate reality. "Of course, Major. Always glad to be of help," he said in that singsong voice that he hated whenever he heard it, but could not help using when things were tense.

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"Hey, I bet we could help unload that car," Carter said.

"Could we?" asked Le Beau.

"Well, why not? The guards have other things to do."

"They don't," Newkirk mused. "But they will."

The four of them smiled in mutual understanding. Kinch nodded as he hurriedly put away the coffee pot. "Let's go."

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Bleary-eyed, Hogan straightened from his hunched-over position at the desk and drew out his arms for a stretch. It had been a long night, and with Grizone not as successful as he'd hoped at sneaking out last night, thanks to the guards prowling the compound, Hogan was left with a magnifying glass that Lovett had scrounged at some point from a guard during a forbidden poker game. It was hardly enough, but knowing that there was precious little time left in which the prisoners could safely hold onto those stamps, Hogan had had to make do.

Except that he hadn't "made do"—he had found nothing. Hogan winced as he felt muscles protesting their shabby treatment, and he yawned and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, hoping to clear some of his blurred vision. Only sleep will do that now, he thought as he saw a crack of morning light peer through the shutters. And there's no chance of that.

A light knock on the door and Grizone came inside, carefully carrying a steaming cup of coffee. "Thought you'd need this if you were still up," he said, handing it to Hogan, who took it gratefully. "I thought you might have finally given up and gone to bed."

"Never say die," Hogan said, taking a sip. His thoughts suddenly drifted to Le Beau, who was always bringing him something to eat or drink. A mother hen in every camp, he thought fondly. He shook his head. "There's gotta be something to this. Something isn't right." Another yawn. Hogan ran his hand along an unshaven cheek, then along the back of his stiff neck. "That microscope still on for today?" he asked.

Grizone's eyes widened. "You still want to try? I mean, isn't it dangerous having the stamps away from the safe much longer?"

"Just a few more hours," Hogan said. "But we'll need a diversion for Meyer. Are you up to it?"

The Sergeant just blinked.

"Something wrong, Grizone?" Hogan asked.

"Oh—no, sir," the young man answered, shaking his head quickly. "I'm just trying to figure out how you come up with all this stuff."

Hogan smiled through his tiredness. "I read a lot."

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Carter looked over to where Corporal Karl Langenscheidt was unloading a box from the trunk of Baumann's car and yawned, taking off his cap and scratching his head before putting it back on. Two buildings away, Le Beau rubbed his face harshly and then threw his dangling red scarf around his neck. Kinch carefully fingered the baseball he had been casually tossing from hand to hand and looked across at where Newkirk was standing near the Kommandant's office. He tossed the ball hard and long, then watched as the Englishman jumped up high to catch it.

Newkirk looked over at Monroe over by the Recreation Hall and threw the ball hard. The young Corporal looked like he had caught it, but suddenly fell over as though struck. He held his hand to the side of his head and struggled up from the ground cursing. "Hey, you did that on purpose, you jerk!" he accused.

"I did not," retorted Newkirk, approaching the American and putting out a hand to help him up.

Monroe yanked his arm away and moved his hand across his hair to brush the dirt out. "You looked right at me and then threw it!" he insisted. "I oughta lay you out right here."

Newkirk straightened. "Don't start anything you can't finish, mate," he warned the smaller-framed prisoner.

"Don't you worry," Monroe replied, tensing his muscles for a fight; "I can finish this right here, right now."

"All right, mate; you asked for it." Newkirk kneaded his hands and then barreled into Monroe.

Kinch came running, while Le Beau shouted "Fight! Fight!" and ran toward the action. Almost immediately a few other prisoners joined in, until the noise was impossible to ignore and Langenscheidt looked over toward the ruckus.

Carter moved in toward the guard, craning his neck to see what was happening, noticing subtly that the German was doing the same. "Hey, it's really getting out of hand over there," Carter suggested. He stole a quick look into the open box Langenscheidt was no longer paying any attention to. "Don't you think you ought to do something about it?"

Langenscheidt nodded but still hesitated. More prisoners joined in the fray. More guards were heading toward the commotion. Still the German waited. He looked at the box in his hands; the Major standing several feet away, watching everything; the prisoners, getting worked up into what looked like the beginnings of a riot. He hesitated again.

"I can look after your box for you, Langenscheidt," Carter offered, shrugging one shoulder and offering a lopsided smile. "I'd rather you make sure my friends don't kill each other."

That was all it took. Langenscheidt thrust the box into Carter's open arms. "Danke schoen, Sergeant," he said with a nod, and he ran toward the melee.

Carter glanced into the box for just a second, then smiled broadly at Major Baumann. "Don't you worry, Major. I'll get these things right inside, okay?"

Baumann shook his head impatiently. "Ja, ja. Just be careful, and don't be nosy—or I can make sure you have nothing to be nosy about for the rest of your very short life."

Carter gulped and almost pretended to feel threatened by the German's words. "I'll mind my own business, Major. You can count on it," he said hastily. It was only to himself that he added, My business just happens to be finding out what's in this box!