I do not own any of the Hogan's Heroes characters. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Colonel Robert Hogan stood blinking in the white-hot light. Resisting the urge to raise a hand up to shade his face, he turned his head away from the source. As his eyes adjusted, he tried for what seemed like the tenth time to distinguish any objects or people in the room. Frustration mixed with fear when he could not. Where was he?
The question came at him again, turning his insides to ice. "How do you defend yourself, Robert Edward Hogan?" He had no answer to give, and felt himself trembling. "You have killed. And you have failed to stop killing. Lives have been put at risk because of your actions, and your inaction. How do you respond to these accusations?"
Hogan felt adrenalin rush all the way to his fingertips as he broke out in a cold sweat. His heart was pumping so hard he was surprised no one but him could hear it. His chest heaved as his breathing sped up, and he felt dizzy, but nothing in the room was spinning. He peered back into the brightness, fighting to keep his emotions in check. He couldn't remember ever being this frightened of anything before. And making it worse was his complete lack of control: he didn't know where he was, how he had gotten there, or who was questioning him.
The light got hotter, and closer, and if possible, brighter. So bright that he could no longer see any darkness around it, and he suddenly found himself being dangled over a precipice, with the light burning into him from behind. His eyes unable to focus, he could only see a black, seemingly bottomless abyss yawning below. Terrified of struggling in case the invisible grip on him came loose, he spread his arms and legs as though skydiving, an instinctive move to try to control a fall.
"Have you no answer, Robert Hogan?" came the booming voice.
"I—I—" was all Hogan could manage. He looked down against his will and saw faces, fading in, fading out. People who had passed through his life at LuftStalag 13. People who he had tried to help get away from the Germans, while remaining a prisoner of war himself. People who had sacrificed everything to help the Allies triumph during this terrible, ungodly world war. People whom Hogan would never see again because, for one reason or another, they had not survived. Hogan watched a bead of sweat from his brow plunge into the darkness, as the faces flashed before him.
"It was my job," he gasped. "I was following orders!"
"You will answer to a higher power," the voice said evenly. And then Hogan was falling.
"No!" he screamed, terrified. "No! I'm Papa Bear! I'm Papa Bear!" And he continued screaming as he tumbled through to the blackness below.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Hogan woke up with a start, a shriek still strangled in his throat. He sat up, breathing heavily, sweating profusely, looking around him wildly to be sure it was only a dream.
That dream. That same damned dream he'd been having for weeks. It never changed. The light, the faces, the fall. The question: how do you defend yourself? He put a hand up to wipe his face and cursed when he realised he was still shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them fiercely, trying to settle himself down. Again. Not again.
Forcing himself to breathe calmly, he stood up and walked unsteadily to the small, dirty window in his private quarters inside Barracks Two. Dawn was just starting to creep into the sky, breaking up the darkness with small brushstrokes of light. The guards would be bellowing for roll call soon. Just as well, he thought; he wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight anyway.
An uncharacteristic frown crossed Hogan's face as he tried to shake his foul mood before meeting his men. As the senior Prisoner of War officer at this German camp, he had to put on a cool exterior. Especially to his team: being in charge of the most intense sabotage operation of the war, right in the midst of the enemy, required the control and skill of a master craftsman—and sometimes an award-winning actor. Fear was not allowed; it would only undermine the confidence of his subordinates, who needed constant and unwavering support to do the dangerous work they were assigned by Allied headquarters in London. Hogan himself had had his fair share of scrapes with the enemy, including a rather brutal encounter with the Gestapo a few months back. He considered: perhaps he was still suffering the mental effects of his capture. He wanted to think he had fully recovered, but an occasional unbearable headache or breath-taking stab of pain in his ankle made it clear that he was wrong. Maybe his mind was telling him the same thing.
He sighed and moved quietly into the main room of the barracks. He felt his way through the dim light to the stove, where a pot was holding coffee left over from last night. Pouring the tepid liquid into a cup, he realised he'd been depending more and more recently on the caffeine to get him through the days. He had slept little with the advent of this nightmare a couple of weeks ago, combined with a relentless schedule of Underground activity that scraped his nerves raw. Too often lately, he had found his mind wandering, unfocused, far from his reality.
"Want a fork?" came an English accent out of the darkness.
Hogan jumped and nearly dropped his cup. He turned quickly and made out the figure of RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk. "What was that?" he asked quietly.
"I asked if you wanted a fork," Newkirk repeated. "That coffee's too solid to use a spoon."
Hogan lifted the corner of his lips in a very brief half smile. "Didn't think anyone would be up this early."
"You know me, sir, I'm an early riser. Don't like missing the morning sunshine reflecting off the barbed wire." Newkirk came forward and took a cup, motioning for Hogan to pour. "I'm just not the same without my daily tar intake," he quipped.
Hogan remained silent. "Having trouble sleeping, sir?" Newkirk ventured carefully.
"What makes you say that?" Hogan answered tersely.
"Well, sir, I don't mean to be nosy, but this is the third time this week you'll be ready for assembly before we're called. Schultzie isn't going to know what to do with himself."
"Hey, doesn't anyone believe in sleeping at night around here?" Another voice pierced the dimness.
"Just greeting the best part of the day, Le Beau," Hogan replied.
Corporal Louis Le Beau stumbled bleary-eyed to the stove. "How can you drink that concoction now?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. "It is an insult to the palate."
"You should know, Louis; you made it," Newkirk retorted.
"We French have impeccable taste," Le Beau protested. "You English cannot appreciate fine cuisine with your bland idea of gourmet food. What you do to food should be against the Geneva Convention. Café is meant to be drunk fresh and hot, not old and lumpy."
"More like stew now," Newkirk pronounced, swallowing hard and replacing his half-full cup. "Tastes the same as when it was fresh, though."
Le Beau was about to respond when another voice piped up. "Hey, what's going on? Did I sleep through something?"
Sergeant Andrew Carter rolled out of his bunk and came to the others. "Join the party, Andrew," said Newkirk. "We're just discussing how many times to chew Louis' coffee before swallowing."
Le Beau started swearing in French. "Okay, fellas, knock it off," Hogan ordered listlessly. He turned and walked away from them.
The others immediately ceased their banter and looked at each other questioningly. It was going to be a long day.