Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything whatsoever of Hogan's Heroes. I do own all of the new characters that appear or that are described in this story.

Author's Note: Sorry for the extended delay, everyone. I've been working a lot of extra hours at my job, and my life has been absolutely crazy. Anyway, please remember to leave me a review or send me an email at adalanta14@yahoo.com. I love getting feedback!

Chapter Six – Nothing Lasts Forever

"Roll call! Everybody outside! Raus! Raus!" The booming voice of Sgt. Schultz echoed through the barracks, covering up the various moans and muttered curses that sounded rebelliously from the sleepy men angry at the abrupt awakening.

Lt. Danny O'Shea slid from his upper bunk and landed with a light thump on the wooden floor, narrowly missing his best friend and lower bunkmate, Capt. Campbell Wilson. Normally this unintentional attack would have earned him a muffled, "Geez, Danny, watch what you're doing!" This morning, however, no angry words were spoken. Things were not as they normally were – as they had been for the past year or so. Everything was different.

Today was their first full day as prisoners at Stalag 13.

All Wilson did today was throw O'Shea a glance that was hard to read so early in the morning. Side by side, they joined the crowd of men streaming from Barracks 2 out into the predawn light of the compound and assembled there just as they had for so long at Stalag 8, their previous prisoner of war camp.

During the lengthy time it took the Germans to meticulously count the Allied airmen, O'Shea did what nearly all of the other fliers did – he let his mind wander. Think of something far away, something to take their mind off of the early morning chill and the thought of the start of another long, boring day stuck behind enemy lines.

But instead of thinking of home, he thought of the strange door at the other end of his barracks.

Barracks 2 was almost exactly the same as his previous barracks at Stalag 8 – the same rickety double bunks, the same wood-burning stove that never seemed to heat the room enough. But that door…there hadn't been one of them before.

He shuffled his feet as he peered around at the other prisoners. Wilson was, of course, right next to him in formation. My wingman. He smirked at the thought. There was Sgt. Carter standing to the left of Cpl. LeBeau and Cpl. Newkirk. From what he had seen since his arrival yesterday, these three men appeared to be quite close friends, even thought they seemed to have absolutely nothing in common except their current place of residence. Their attitudes seemed to vary as widely as their countries of birth.

To the right of Carter stood a tall, thin black man. O'Shea cocked his head slightly to see the man's jacket and find out his rank. It took a few moments for him to get a good view of his upper arm. Ah, a Sergeant. American, too. Strange, though, he blinked as a thought struck him, I don't remember seeing him yesterday in the barracks. Not even last night before lights out. He shook his head when he realized that he had been too preoccupied at that time with his own fears to really notice anything.

He was still puzzling over the mysterious door, so deep in thought that he was oblivious to everything around him, when his preoccupied mind finally registered that someone was talking to him. Turning his head to the right, he saw Wilson standing beside him in the otherwise empty exercise yard. He blinked in confusion. I didn't even hear the dismissal! The Captain examined him intently. "Hmm? Sorry, Will, did you say something?"

"I said, Danny, that we need to get that lip of your taken care of before it gets infected."

O'Shea stared at his friend. "My lip? What's wrong with my lip? What are you talking about?" Without realizing it, he stuck out his tongue and involuntarily licked his lips. He muttered an oath at the sharp stinging pain the simple action brought. "What the heck happened to my lip?" He lifted a hand to his mouth, trying to feel the extent of the damage. Only after tenderly feeling the large slit did he realize that Wilson had not answered his question, seemingly mesmerized by the men milling about the compound, calling to each other in a relaxed fashion. "Will?"

"Oh, I don't know. You probably just licked it too much yesterday on the ride here. It must have cracked last night when you were asleep." The young Captain smirked. "How many times have I told you to stop licking your lips? Well, now you've done it." He leaned closer to have a better look at the offending lip and whistled. "And it is a beauty, my friend. Why do you have to be the best at everything you do? I would have thought in this instance, at least, you would try to be a little less of a perfectionist, huh, Danny?"

O'Shea narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Wilson's lengthy answer. Whenever Will truly did not know something, he was usually succinct in his response. But whenever he was trying to hide information, he tended to ramble on. Just like yesterday when Sgt. Carter asked how long we'd been prisoners. He was trying to cover for me so I wouldn't have to answer. He opened his mouth to confront his friend with this tiny important detail, when a strange movement caught his eye.

The unknown sergeant, instead of returning to the barracks or talking to some other prisoner, was striding toward the Kommandant. Danny watched, amazed, as the sergeant approached the Colonel without any problems and said something to the German officer, who nodded and motioned for him to wait there as he returned to the administration building. Moments later, an older gentlemen in a long, dark coat and carrying a black bag appeared beside the Kommandant and approached the sergeant. Together, the three men walked quickly towards Barracks 2 and entered it. Staring at the door, dumbfounded by the strange sight, he saw Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau go inside directly behind them.

More than a little curious, he hurried to the barracks' door, breaching the doorway just in time to see all of the men go inside the mysterious door at the other end of the building. He halted for a second, unsure whether or not to continue, when Newkirk stepped back outside the door and halted, seeing O'Shea looking in his direction.

They eyed each other silently for a moment. Then Newkirk leaned back against the door and crossed his arms in a manner that could not have been more clear than if the man had said aloud, "Forget it, mate. This ain't none of your business." It was clear to Danny that whatever was going on inside that other room, he was neither invited nor wanted.

He met the steely gray-blue eyes of Newkirk and nodded. All right then, he thought to himself, I'll hold off for now. But even though you may have won this round, that doesn't mean you've won the fight. He reached for the door and limped back out into the early morning light, filled with even more questions and an insatiable curiosity to know what was behind that door. He knew he'd eventually find out what was in that room. He'd just have to be patient.

**********************

Captain Campbell Wilson was on a mission.

He'd spent the few hours since morning roll call meeting the other prisoners, getting to know the many new faces, and asking ordinary questions. He had met several friendly souls who had been happy to show the "newbie" the ins and outs of Stalag 13. They talked about the Kommandant, the guards, their hobbies, their duties, themselves, and, of course, each other. It had been a fruitful time for Wilson. He'd gained information from not only what the prisoners had been willing to tell, but also from what they had pointedly NOT told him.

Now his mission, as he stalked across the compound, was to find Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea. He wanted to discuss his ideas and observations with his friend, who had a sharp mind. His steps slowed slightly as he remembered last night. I hope he's doing okay, especially after that nightmare last night. For that matter, I don't really know if I'm all right. He scared me half to death! Then he remembered the shocked look on Danny's face when he had discovered his cut lip hours before. It was strange how Danny could remember his nightmares vividly one time and then not at all the next.

His long strides had taken him to the end of Barracks 2, and rounding the corner, he spied O'Shea sitting in the exact same place that he had sat yesterday after they had first arrived. Typical, he thought with an inward smile, Danny is a creature of habit.

"Hey, Lieutenant. You have a minute?" He called cheerfully.

O'Shea looked up at Capt. Wilson with a smirk. "Well, I don't know, Captain. You see, I have so many pressing things to do right now, but I guess I can squeeze you in."

Wilson laughed as he sat down beside his friend. "Oh, thanks, Danny. That's so nice of you." He lowered his voice. "I've been talking to some of the others, and I need a sounding board for my ideas. You up to it?"

"Sure. The only thing wrong with me is a split lip, and that isn't going to interfere with anything."

"Okay." He paused, uncertain which subject to discuss first. "I talked to several men, officers and enlisted, to see what I could find out about our new home here. I heard quite a bit but it's what I didn't hear that puzzles me. I didn't hear a thing about any attempted escapes. Not a single word. What do you think about that?"

"Will, you've heard the rumors: no one has ever escaped from Stalag 13." Danny's green eyes narrowed in confusion at the simple explanation.

"Yeah, I know. But to never even try…surely someone has tried to escape. Some of these guys have been here for over two years." Wilson crossed his arms. "Are you going to tell me that during that entire time, no one has ever tried to get out? Geez, Danny! We've both known guys that have gone wire-happy and tried to blitz out of Stalag 8 after only a few months! And after two years…?" He shook his head. "I don't believe it. Somebody would have tried."

Wilson watched Danny as he wrestled with the information. The lieutenant's eyes took on a far away look as if his mind had left his body to go soaring about in the heavens, searching for the answer. He recalled with a slight shudder how frightened he had been the first time he had seen it; he'd thought that his friend had let go of reality again and had fallen back into a catatonic state. But now…well, he was still uncomfortable when it happened but he was used to seeing it.

Danny blinked and seemed to ground himself. "I don't know for sure, Will. All I can figure is that someone (1) has tried and is too embarrassed to admit it, (2) truly doesn't know, or (3) won't or can't tell you. Who knows, maybe he's under orders not to discuss it with any newbies. You know how suspicious people can be of new arrivals, even of transferred prisoners."

"Exactly. You just brought up my second idea." At O'Shea's confused look, he repeated his friend's words back to him. "You said 'under orders'. Well, my question is this – if he is under orders, then who's giving them?"

"Oh, that's simple enough. The SAO – Senior Allied Officer. Like Major Conner back in Stalag 8."

"Right, but where is he? Why haven't we seen him? Major Conner always interviewed new arrivals as soon as they were brought into camp. I once asked him why, and he said that it was his duty to meet all new prisoners and to try to discern if they were German plants. The major met each new flier that first day no matter how late or early it was. Always. He met me within the first twenty minutes, and I arrived about three or four in the morning. I'm sure he met you – " He cut himself off abruptly in mid sentence, appalled at what he'd nearly said.

Wilson cursed himself as he watched Danny's face pale and turn away from him. "I – I 'm sorry, Danny. I wasn't thinking." He began to reach out a hand to touch his friend's shoulder, but quickly pulled it back. He didn't want to make things worse.

A few moments passed as Wilson let O'Shea regain his composure. At last, Danny took a deep breath and said quietly, "It's okay, Will."

He scrutinized the young man before him, noting the freckles that still stood out so prominently on his white face and the way he'd clasped his hands tightly to keep them from shaking. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

He wavered briefly on whether he should continue, but then came to the conclusion that the discussion might take his mind off of his own problems. "All right. Where was I? Oh, yeah – the SAO. Why haven't we been interviewed by the SAO? From what Major Conner told me, all SAO's do the same thing. Heck, they've even been trained for it."

He leaned closer to O'Shea, so his voice would not carry to some of the others nearby. "And this is the weird thing, Danny. Not one of those prisoners mentioned the Senior POW – not by name or rank. Nothing!"

"But how can that be?" The young lieutenant frowned, narrowing his gaze in thought. "They have to have one here – it's regulation. Someone has to be in command. But who…and why…" He glanced over at the Captain. "Give me some time to think it over. Maybe I can come up with something."

"Okay. If you want time, you've got it." Wilson smiled. "What else have we got?"

*******************

That night, an hour after the evening count, a freezing northern wind began to blow, howling through the camp like a lioness in search of her young. The temperature dropped abruptly over forty degrees in the span of an hour, changing from the comfortable sixties it had been all day to the frigid twenties. The drastic weather change forced the prisoners inside to escape the bitter wind; they abandoned their baseball and volleyball games, gardening, and sunning, fleeing into the barracks in droves. The weather had been blown back a season, from spring to winter, with a vengeance. Not long after the wind started gusting, snow began to fall. Within a couple of hours, the ground was covered with five inches of wet, chilly snow.

Andrew Carter slipped out of the Colonel's room where he had been on watch, replaced by Kinch. He had finally been able to pry the black radioman from Hogan's side. It had been weeks since Kinch had been away from his friend for more than three or four hours in a row, during which he would grab a quick bit to eat and take a brief nap. The constant tension, lack of proper rest, and insufficient meals were taking their toll on him. Carter grimaced. If something didn't happen soon…if the Colonel didn't start getting better…I don't know how much longer Kinch can last. A person can only take so much before he collapses. He felt relieved that Kinch had finally gotten a good eight hours of sleep in a row and two decent (by POW standards) meals. However, he'd had to have Newkirk and LeBeau join him in convincing the Sergeant to take the much delayed break.

He glanced about the crowded room. Several men, including Newkirk and LeBeau, were playing cards at the table in the center. He smiled when a sudden heated outburst in French elicited a "Speak the King's good English, mate!" from Newkirk. This brought a round of laughter from the surrounding men, as well as another comment from LeBeau in his native language. Wow, Louis really sounds mad! He must be on a loosing streak.

As Carter moved towards his bunk at the other end of the room, he spotted Captain Wilson sprawled out on his bed, sound asleep. No wonder he's tired. He didn't get much sleep last night. The Captain shivered slightly in his sleep as a fierce gust of wind blew through the camp, stretching its long, freezing fingers into every crack in the building. Just as he was about to climb into his top bunk, he happened to glance in the bunk above Captain Wilson. He halted in surprise, right hand gripping the wooden frame, right foot placed on Newkirk's mattress ready to push himself up.

Lieutenant O'Shea's bunk was empty.

He stared at the mattress still neatly made from that morning. It was obvious that the Lieutenant had not been in his bunk all day. Carter tried to shove down the unease that filled him. He's probably just playing cards with the guys, he told himself. He turned towards the rather large gathering, searching for the red-head, but he couldn't spot him. Hmm, maybe he just stepped away from the game for a minute. Wandering over to the table, he sidled up to Newkirk and tapped his shoulder.

The British corporal looked up briefly, then glanced back down, distracted by his card hand. "Whot do you want, Carter? I'm kind o' busy 'ere."

"Oh…sorry. Um, was Lieutenant O'Shea playing cards with you all?"

"Naw. I 'aven't seen 'im all evenin', mate." Newkirk slapped down a queen of spades and grinned from ear to ear. "HA! Beat that, ya whiny Frenchman!"

Carter walked away as LeBeau muttered something in French and threw his cards down on the table. Now feeling quite concerned for the Lieutenant, he stepped up to the sleeping Captain, debating whether or not to disturb him. If I wake him up and nothing's wrong, I could get in trouble. But from what I saw last night, I think he'd want to know if something wasn't right. He and the Lieutenant seem to be close friends.

Still unsure of himself, he shook the Captain's khaki shoulder lightly and softly called his name. "Captain? Captain Wilson? Wake up, sir."

The sergeant jumped as the captain groaned and opened his eyes. He blinked, his blue eyes still clouded with sleep. "Carter?" he mumbled.

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you wake me up?" he asked, confused. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to wake up, and slowly sat up. "Do you need something?"

Carter took a deep breath. "I'm not sure, sir. I didn't know whether or not I should wake you up, but I thought you'd want to know. I'm probably just overreacting and all, but I haven't seen him since roll call, and I don't know where he is, and I hated to wake you up, but since it involves Lieutenant O'Shea, I just thought – "

"O'Shea?" Wilson interrupted. "What about Lieutenant O'Shea?" Carter opened his mouth to answer, but Wilson continued. "And, sergeant, and go slow. My brain isn't quite awake yet."

"All right, sir." Carter paused and started again, slower this time. "I can't find Lieutenant O'Shea, and I don't know where he is. I've asked around, and no one here has seen him since evening roll call."

"What time is it?" The captain looked at his watch, and his eyes widened in alarm. "Four hours?! I can't believe I – " He sat up straight in his bunk, barely missing the beam above his head. "You said that no one has seen O'Shea for four hours?"

Shaking his head, Carter replied, "No, sir. Could he have gone to another barracks to see someone?"

"No. If anything, he's probably still outside."

"Outside?! In this weather?"

"What do you mean?" Wilson frowned. "It must be in the sixties out there. He'll be fine. I'll go find him in a little while if he doesn't come back soon. It won't be long before lights out."

"Sir, don't you know? It's below freezing outside, and it's been snowing for the last couple of hours!"

Captain Wilson sat utterly still on his bunk, frozen in place for just a moment, and then jumped into action. Practically leaping from his bunk, he wrestled into his leather bomber jacket, grabbed his blanket from the bed, and bolted for the door. Carter stood still for a moment. Then he hurriedly pulled on his own jacket, and raced out after the Captain into the blinding snow.

TBC…