Continuing response to the Smartgroups challenge. Conditions were: to have the heroes work with, or at least appear to work with, Major Hochstetter; to mention Rumpelstiltskin; and to mention British or American chocolate.
No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
"I am sure you are curious about why I have had you brought here, Colonel Hogan."
Hogan stood still handcuffed in Hochstetter's office. The Gestapo man was pacing slowly in front of his desk, not looking at Hogan, concentrating on something neither of them could see. Hogan tried to stretch but found he was restricted, both by the handcuffs, and by the guard standing nearby with his rifle seemingly ready to fire on a second's notice.
"Not really," Hogan said, trying to sound bored. "I don't try to fathom the motivations of madmen."
Hochstetter looked up briefly, angrily boring his eyes into Hogan. "You would do well to keep your mouth shut," he snapped.
"It's polite to answer when spoken to," Hogan quipped. He regretted it, though, when he felt the side of the guard's rifle slap him square in the small of his back. Hogan bent double and drew in a sharp breath, unable to reach back to ease the pain. Breathe in, breathe out, he reminded himself, squeezing his eyes shut. Name. Rank. Serial number. Keep the wisecracks out of it or you'll die never even knowing what he wants.
Hochstetter ignored this interlude, and simply continued as Hogan painfully drew himself back up. "You know, Hogan, I would just as soon shoot you as look at you," he said, still pacing.
The feeling's mutual, Hogan thought. But this time he knew better than to voice his sarcasm. He shifted his weight from foot to foot to try to ease the soreness in his back, but said nothing.
"Your escapades have not gone unnoticed," Hochstetter continued. "You have been lucky, Colonel Hogan, very lucky, that none of the charges I have laid against you in the past have been able to stick. But I know the truth. And believe me, your day of reckoning is coming."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Major," Hogan said, straight-faced and emotionless.
"That point remains debatable," Hochstetter answered. "Nonetheless, Hogan, we have business to discuss." He stopped pacing and motioned for the guard behind Hogan to leave the room.
"You'll have to forgive me if I don't seem overwhelmed by the chance to have this little tête-à-tête with you at the moment; I'm not at my best when I've been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night."
Hochstetter smiled, and ice ran through Hogan's veins. "On the contrary, I would say that you operate best under cover of darkness."
Hogan felt a bead of sweat run down his temple, but he did not take the bait. "Enough fencing, Major: what do you want from me?" he asked evenly.
"I believe, Hogan, that you and I share an interest in the well-being of your camp Kommandant," said Hochstetter, sitting down at his desk.
"I'm not sure I agree with your choice of words," Hogan replied. But his mind was instantly even more on the alert. Anything that affected Klink, affected the running of the operation. And if the Gestapo had an interest in Klink, the results could be disastrous. Always work with your worst case scenario in mind, Hogan had learned. And in this case, that meant exposure of their whole operation, and death as spies to his loyal men.
"Let me put it another way," Hochstetter said. "I have, for the moment, turned my attention away from you, Hogan, and am studying the competency level of Colonel Klink."
"You're going to need a magnifying glass," Hogan commented without smiling.
"Ah, here is where we see eye to eye, Hogan," said Hochstetter, suddenly warming to the conversation. Hogan's internal warning bells started ringing. "You see it occurs to me that the reason you are allowed to get away with so much, Hogan, is because Klink is an ineffective, unintelligent boob."
Hogan eyes Hochstetter gravely. "I wouldn't go that far, Major. After all, no one has ever escaped from Stalag 13. Not while Klink's been in charge."
"Is that so?" queried Hochstetter. "I see Stalag 13 rather as a place where the inmates run the asylum—or in this case, the prison." Hochstetter paused. He seemed to be weighing up his next statement. Hogan could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. This tit-for-tat conversation was playing on his nerves. Was Hochstetter trying to trick him into saying something that would compromise his operation? If he was going to have Hogan interrogated and tortured, why start with this little heart to heart? "Some have told me I have been clutching at straws, Hogan. But you… you can be my Rumpelstiltskin. You can turn my straw into gold."
Hogan fought the foul taste that came into his mouth. Hochstetter making reference to nursery rhymes was to Hogan like Hitler running a child care center. "I'm afraid I don't want your firstborn, Major," Hogan replied. "If you're so convinced that I'm a spy, what makes you think I would help you discredit my cover?"
"Because I can have you shot if you don't." Hochstetter shrugged. "Or worse." Hogan understood the implication—long, slow torture until he was longing for the release of death. "I offer you your freedom—release to the Allies. A trip home."
"And what guarantee do I have that you'd keep your word?"
"You'll just have to trust me."
"That's hardly a great comfort to me," Hogan replied.
"I will make a gesture of goodwill, Hogan," Hochstetter offered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. Grabbing the handcuffs that were chaffing Hogan's wrists, he unlocked and then removed them. Hogan rubbed them tenderly, not taking his eyes off Hochstetter, then did the same to his lower back. "Believe me, I do not find the idea of working with you pleasant, Hogan. But war makes for strange bedfellows. And the Third Reich needs competent men at the helm, not inept cowards like Klink. I will do what I must in order to see that this happens."
"How long do I have to decide?"
"You will decide now."
"Am I really being given a choice here?" Hogan asked. "What makes you think I wouldn't just rather die for my country than to work with the likes of you?"
"Make no mistake about it, Hogan. I would rather you die for your country. But that is a personal wish. For the Fuhrer I would rather you choose to survive. Make your choice."
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Hogan found Le Beau asleep at the table in the common room of the barracks when he was returned to Stalag 13 nearly twenty four hours later. Exhausted, dirty, and sore, Hogan glanced around to see that all his men were strewn across their bunks in various states of sleep. He knew he should tell someone that he had returned, but there was a great temptation to bypass what he knew would be a commotion when his presence was known. He wanted nothing more now than quiet. Pulling himself away from the door he was using for support, Hogan hauled himself further into the room and shook Le Beau's shoulder.
"Louis. Louis, I'm home."
Corporal Le Beau's head shot up from the table at Hogan's voice. "Colonel!" he cried. "What time is it? Mon Dieu, what have they done to you?" He took in Hogan's bruised face, day-old beard, and filthy clothing.
His outburst woke the others, who were suddenly hopping off their bunks to greet their prodigal officer come home. Hogan, while grateful for the loyalty and care, needed to be alone. And so he smiled wearily, thanked the men who unthinkingly clapped him on his sore back, and made his way toward his room. "Tomorrow, fellas," he said as they pelted him with questions. "Tomorrow. I need to get some sleep."
Easing off his jacket and dropping his cap on the floor, Hogan sat on his bunk and pulled off his shoes. So much to think about. So much to do. He lay on his back to study the ceiling, as he often did when his mind was racing and he needed to rest. But soreness from the Gestapo's blows made him wince and he couldn't concentrate. Thus deprived of this familiar comfort, Hogan turned onto his side, and worried himself to sleep.