Hello all! I saw a November challenge on Tumblr posted by whatisthismandoinghere called Falling for Hogan's Heroes, and day 1's prompt was Holidays. So, with the beta help of the incredible abracadebra, this came to fruition! Thank you so much abracadebra, I appreciate you so much!

-HH-

Twas the night before Christmas and all through Barracks 2 not a creature was stirring except Felix the mouse.

Well, Carter was whistling cheery Christmas tunes, Newkirk was griping about the onslaught to his ears, LeBeau's spoon was clanking on the sides of his pot on the stove, Kinch was talking football with a few guys at the table, and Colonel Hogan was chatting up a pretty underground agent who'd just dropped them off some intel about troop movements. So not really all that quiet.

"Carter, would you stop that infernal whistling?" Newkirk finally slammed his darning down, hopped down off the top bunk, and pulled Carter's hat down over the young American's face.

"Aww, come on, I wasn't bothering anyone was I?" Carter fixed his hat and set down the letter he was writing and stood up to face off with the slightly taller Englishman.

"LeBeau, please tell Carter here that he's givin' us all a brain bleed!"

"Hm?" LeBeau looked up from the pot where his attention had been focused. His eyes gave off a deer in the headlights gleam.

"Tell Carter to stop whistling,"

"I wasn't bothering you, was I, LeBeau?" Carter crossed his arms over his chest.

"You need to settle this yourselves, I won't fight your battles for you. Grow up," the Frenchman snapped before turning his attention back to his pot.

"LeBeau, are you feeling OK, little mate?" Newkirk was suddenly concerned about LeBeau and Carter's whistling seemed inconsequential.

"Yeah, LeBeau, what's the matter?" Carter inquired.

LeBeau heaved out a heavy sigh and shook his head no. "I am fine, just thinking. I will be OK."

But he wasn't, really. Every Christmas was hard to get through. He tried to keep himself busy, but sometimes that wasn't enough.

"You've been real quiet lately, Louis. Are you sure you're OK, mate?" Newkirk nudged the Frenchman.

"40," Louis whispered.

Recognition registered in Newkirk's eyes and he squeezed the other man's shoulder and huffed out a sigh of his own. "I know," he nodded his head, gave LeBeau another squeeze and then nudged Carter back towards their bunks.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Andrew, just sit back down and finish writin' that letter, OK?"

"But what's wrong with LeBeau?"

"You wouldn't understand Carter, just give it a rest,"

"Fine," Carter huffed, plopping himself back down onto his bunk and grabbing his pencil to finish writing his letter to his grandma.

"And no whistling!" Newkirk grumbled as he saw the American's pursed lips, like he was about to start up again.

Carter huffed again, but he continued writing in silence.

As Newkirk started up his darning again, he, like LeBeau, got stuck thinking back to that terrible Christmas.

It was Christmas Eve 1940 and Newkirk had finally reached a destination. He'd been shot down and separated from the rest of his flight crew over a week prior. He had then been shuffled from train to train until he finally was stuffed into the back of a truck that brought him ultimately within the barbed wire of Stalag 13.

They were made to stand in a line, he and the other British flyers who had been in the truck with him, and wait for the Kommandant.

Two hours later, a tall, gangly German came out of the building they were facing. He had a malicious grin and an evil gleam in his eyes.

"Welcome to where you will die." His smile grew.

Newkirk felt a pit in his stomach that was already gnawing at his insides from lack of food. A feeling he knew all too well.

"For you, the war is over. If you try to escape, you will be shot. If you do not follow the rules, you will be shot. And that would be lucky for you, because otherwise, the cold, that is what will kill you. Now! I will assign you to your barracks. If there is so much of a hint of insolence that I hear about, you will be shot. Be aware, the walls have eyes and ears, so if you step a toe out of line, I will know, and you will be shot."

Newkirk quivered in his boots. His usual snarky self knew that he could get in trouble easily and he wasn't too fond of the idea of being shot. Therefore, he decided that he was just going to keep his mouth shut. Safer that way, just like it had been with his old man.

Newkirk was assigned to Barracks 2. When he was finally dismissed, he entered his new dwelling to find that all the other prisoners except one were sporting French uniforms. He couldn't control the grimace that took over his face.

Bloody Frogs.

"Right on, what's your name, old chap?" The other RAF prisoner, whose proper accent made Newkirk even more uncomfortable than all the frog eyes on him, stood up and walked over to Newkirk with an outstretched hand of friendship.

Newkirk shook it, and cleared his throat, "Newkirk," was all he said, but he could tell by the subtle changes in the other man's face that it had been enough.

"Right, well then," the other corporal was much less cheery now, "you can bunk there. The last bloke passed two nights ago."

Newkirk gulped, the Kommandant hadn't been joking. He nodded his head and made up his mind that he was going to do everything in his power to make it back to his sister alive.

Sitting down on his newly assigned bunk, he took in the rest of the barracks. Most of the men within were sporting cherry red noses and a haunted expression accentuated by deep dark bags under their eyes. A few had their arms in slings and there was much coughing.

Even though there were four walls and a roof, it was still very cold and everyone was trying their best to maintain their body heat.

Newkirk hadn't even realized that he had drifted off to sleep until he heard the yells summoning all the prisoners to a roll call and in less than three seconds, everyone was bolting for the door to make sure they were out in what the Kommandant and his goons would deem a respectable amount of time.

Though he tried, Newkirk was the last one out, and his heart was pounding. He didn't want to be shot within his first 24 hours of becoming a prisoner.

It was pitch black, the only light was from the guard towers and he could see the breath of everyone present in the dim lighting. The cloudy puffs wafting from the men's noses and mouths made him feel even colder than he already did.

The Kommandant's voice boomed out over the loudspeakers: "Merry Christmas. In honor of this day and that you are so far away from all of your loved ones, we will celebrate by standing in formation until I see fit!" He didn't even dignify them with his presence. Why would he leave his office? It was toasty warm, judging from the smoke billowing out of the chimney.

Newkirk had no idea what time it was and didn't have the guts to look at his watch, afraid that tiny movement might get him shot.

They stood, and stood, and stood. Newkirk was afraid his legs were going to fall off. The sky opened up, and soon snow was accumulating on the men, but no one moved. Their teeth clattered and their eyelashes started to frost.

The wet seeped through Newkirk's clothes and eventually even his shoes. His toes were numb, and his face was so cold that the smallest wince or twitch made his nose and cheeks sting.

Still, they stood.

They watched the sun rise, and it continued to climb. Still, they stood.

Men started falling to the ground, and if someone made a move to help them, a gun was trained in their direction. Still, they stood.

Finally, over the loudspeaker came the Kommandant's voice: "Surely I could let you stand out here all day, but it is Christmas, and I need to visit my mother, so I have mercy, all prisoners are dismissed and restricted to their barracks,"

With stiffened muscles and a burning sensation in his toes Newkirk trudged with the other prisoners back into the barracks. The guards didn't even have to corral them. No one wanted to be outside.

Entering the doors of the barracks, Newkirk let out a massive sigh of relief, his teeth were still chattering, but the shelter from the frigid stinging wind was enough.

There wasn't an inch of him that didn't feel the painful twinges of his body's heat trying to rewarm him.

Newkirk felt like he was shivering more than he had been outside, wrapping his body in the tattered blanket from his new bunk. It was better than nothing, but his lungs were still stinging from breathing in the harsh air and his brain was screaming at him for a smoke. He glanced at his watch and shuddered, it was 10 am.

Newkirk had his attention snatched away from his little pity party to one of the Frenchman growling: "Merry Christmas, dirty Boche!" The man was helping one of the men who had collapsed outside into a bunk, dusting snow off the man.

"Someday, I'll show him, make the filthy pig pay!" The man helped the taller of the two take off his frozen icy shoes.

"LeBeau, be quiet, or they will hear," the man he was helping whispered before letting out a horrendous cough.

"So what, let them shoot me! I don't care, I will die for France!"

Newkirk couldn't believe the words he was hearing, this LeBeau was going to get himself shot!

"France is in ruins, they have ruined our beautiful homeland," another Frenchman sighed with sadness.

"Shh, we will someday rescue her and rebuild, picture the day, the wine will flow, and the children will sing, it will be a beautiful day, and we will see it," LeBeau proclaimed passionately.

The other man was coughing violently and started convulsing.

The fiery one, LeBeau, started singing softly, a French carol and slowly the rest of the men started chiming in, just as softly.

It brought tears to Newkirk's eyes. He didn't understand the lyrics, but he understood the sentiment.

"They can steal our freedom, our land, and our lives even, but we can not let them steal our spirit, because that's when we lose," LeBeau hissed and his countrymen nodded in agreement and they started to sing what Newkirk recognized as the French national anthem.

Newkirk couldn't help but admire the short man who single handed raised the morale of 15 other men.

It helped him too, even though he was sure the speech hadn't been for him.

Unfortunately, LeBeau's rallying words were some of the last that 5 of the prisoners in the barracks ever heard.

"Newkirk! Newkirk, are you OK?!"

Newkirk blinked as he registered that Andrew Carter was trying to get his attention. "What is it now?" He grumbled, at the American.

"Colonel Hogan wants to see you in his office,"

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "OK Carter, no need to bloody yell," he started walking towards the Colonel's office and stopped suddenly in his tracks after putting eyes on LeBeau. He turned back toward Carter and scratched his head before saying: "Andrew, you can keep whistling if you'd like."