No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

xx-xx-xx

"Unph." Hogan grunted from the exertion as he lifted and lowered the barbells in the camp's erholungshalle, or recovery area, a hut fitted out for prisoners and camp personnel who needed rehabilitation after an illness or injury. He had put more weight on the barbells than he could normally handle with ease, but he wanted to have to concentrate on something unimportant, hoping the work would help disperse some of the almost electric energy flowing through his veins, and clear his mind so he could think logically in the coming hours. But it wasn't working; his tank tee shirt was nearly soaked through, and his face was glistening with sweat, but all he could think about was one thing: he was marked for death, and he was scared.

He knew that if he did nothing, he would simply be shot. If he escaped, then the Germans would be out looking for him, and if he was caught he would be shot. If he waited in the tunnel for a chance to wend his way through the Underground, then anyone he was caught with outside the camp would be shot with him. If he just plain hid, then he might not be shot, but he would still die—inside, while he watched the men under his command struggle with the takeover of the camp by Gestapo men already disinclined to be less than kind or humane to the enemy. The choices were less than heartening.

And then there was the question of the assignment from London. Allied High Command obviously knew there were problems; they didn't want anyone to go out—anyone but Hogan and his men. And while the order to leave no prison space for downed flyers only applied to officers at the moment, Hogan was not confident that all enemy soldiers would abide by that distinction—something made all too obvious to him the other night.

His first instinct was self-preservation: get out, forget the mission, and take his chances, carefully. But every time he concocted a plan that got him as far as a safe passage to England, he thought of all the times they had beaten the odds before, pulling off what was touted to be the impossible, in order to shorten the war a bit, to tip the odds in favor of the good guys, to help save God knew how many innocent lives. If they let that oil refinery go, and let those trucks bring fuel to the Russian front, then Hogan might live, but thousands of others would die. And since his chance of escaping unscathed seemed slim at best anyway, the least he could do was bring down a few Krauts with him.

But it's not fair! his mind protested, screaming desperately. I could almost accept being shot for being a spy and a saboteur—but not for this! Nor for simply being what they made me in the first place: a prisoner of war! Hogan drew the barbells up till they were even with his shoulders. He felt himself sweating more heavily as his muscles strained to support the weight. Staring only at the opposite wall, he felt his arms trembling, and when he felt as though he could take no more, he held for another fifteen seconds, before finally dropping the barbells on the floor mat with a loud exhalation of air.

He stood for a moment to catch his breath, hands on his knees, eyes closed, head almost spinning, and when he opened his eyes he saw a pair of boots waiting beside him. Following the path up the legs, his eyes finally alit on Newkirk, who was simply watching him, eyes troubled, hands in pockets. Hogan straightened and headed for a bucket of water nearby. He picked up the ladle and took in a long drink, then used the towel he had placed next to the bucket to wipe his face before speaking. "What can I do for you?" Hogan asked, not really wanting to talk, but thinking wryly he might not get many more chances. He rubbed his hair briefly and hung the towel around his neck. He didn't look at the Corporal.

"We have an idea, Colonel 'Ogan, sir," Newkirk started.

Hogan sighed. It was going to be twenty four hours of plans. Plans that were all well-meaning, but which he was not in a frame of mind to dissect, or even to comprehend. "I've thought of a few plans, too," Hogan said, staring at the water. "But they all end the same way," he added almost bitterly. Snap out of it! he chastised himself. You don't need to scare them to death, too.

Newkirk looked around the room, then decided to trust their regular checks for hidden listening devices and said, "We want to hide you in the tunnel for awhile, sir. Just till things settle down."

Hogan paused. Newkirk's voice had been uncharacteristically gentle when he made the proposal. Soothing and calming. Hogan grimaced as he realized he had not been able to hide his feelings from his men as this crisis faced them—the one time when they would need him to be calmer than he had ever been before. Now, they were trying to pacify him, instead of the other way around. "And how long do you think that would be?" Hogan asked quietly.

"Well, like Burkhalter said, ol' Scramble Brains has made this kind of decision before, but he's always been convinced to change 'is mind," Newkirk offered.

"And in the meantime, the Gestapo tear this place apart looking for any sign of me, trek through the woods to find any saboteurs they can—and probably come up with a nice handful of Underground agents—and then take over the camp when they consider Klink's failure, because the timing of my getaway would seem just a trifle too suspicious, no matter how safe he thinks he is." Hogan looked at Newkirk. The Corporal could see only weariness in his commanding officer, and a look that was all too close to resignation, which distressed him. Hogan never gave up. Never!

Hogan understood Newkirk's hesitation. "Sorry, Newkirk," he said. "I know you fellas are trying to help. I'm sure the tunnel will come in handy. I just need to be careful about when. If I use it too soon, I get everyone in the dog house, or worse. If I use it too late... well, same trouble." He shook his head. "And then there's London."

"Ruddy London," Newkirk spat out. "Kinch called them, you know, gov'nor. Gave them the specifics of that shake up they were worried about." Hogan listened. "They told us we had to protect Papa Bear at all costs." Hogan nearly smiled, but something in Newkirk's tone told him that wasn't all London wanted. "Then they said they wanted to make sure we got to the oil refinery before the trucks headed out tonight."

Hogan nodded and nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all. "Now for my next magic trick—!" Hogan announced sarcastically. He held out his arms. "Nothing up my sleeves—hey, look at that, no sleeves at all!" He let his arms drop by his sides.

Newkirk looked on, helpless. If all the magic he had learned growing up on the streets of London could have helped now, he would have done every trick in the book. But as it was, nothing he had learned could help him face the almost certain loss of his commanding officer, and, if he admitted it to himself, a man he considered a close friend.

"Newkirk," Hogan declared, "I have a lot to do tonight, and precious little time to do it. Go back and get Carter to prepare some of his finest for me, will you? Something nice to go in those trucks. And some hand grenades. And ask Le Beau to make me up something special for dinner; I'm starting to feel peckish. Nothing like a good Last Supper to tide you over till..." He let his sentence trail off.

Newkirk answered softly, "Yes, Colonel."

Hogan cleared his throat. "Come on; I'm not going down without a fight. Let's just make sure that if I do have to go that it's in a blaze of glory."

"Right, gov'nor," Newkirk said, his voice oddly strangled and his eyes unusually wet.

"And right now, I'd better have a shower. Otherwise, you'll put me in the tunnel before I'm due."

xx-xx-xx

"Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant would like to see you in his office." Bulky Sergeant of the Guard Hans Schultz eyed the meal being consumed at the common room table. Usually, dinner in the barracks was a lively affair, even for men held prisoner by the enemy. But tonight, something was different, and Schultz could sense it—but his first instinct was to check and make sure it didn't have anything to do with the quality of the food before them.

"Not now, Schultz." Hogan waved him away without looking at him. "I need to be with my men." He looked at his almost untouched meal, so carefully prepared by Corporal Le Beau, and wished with all his heart he could eat it so the Frenchman would feel comforted. But he couldn't.

"Please, Colonel Hogan—the Kommandant, he is very anxious. He had a big meeting with General Burkhalter today, and you know how the big shots always make him nervous."

Hogan's men exchanged glances. Hogan avoided their eyes. "Well, Burkhalter has that effect on everybody, not just Klink. What did they talk about, Schultz?" Hogan asked, trying to gauge how much the guard knew.

"The Kommandant and the General did not take me into their confidence," Schultz said, sounding relieved. Hogan interpreted the tone of voice as portraying genuine ignorance of the situation.

"So where did ol' Kraut-face go?" asked Newkirk irreverently.

Schultz cringed at the lack of respect but did not reprimand the Englishman. "The General had said he had some important business to attend to at the camp and was going to stay the night—" Hogan raised his eyebrows. "But Kommandant Klink convinced him that he would be more comfortable staying at a hotel in Hammelburg, since our VIP quarters are being refurbished, and he should come back next week."

"Renovations, eh, Schultz?" Kinch asked.

Schultz gave a confused look. "I do not understand why he said such a thing, Sergeant Kinchloe. There is no work being done in the VIP quarters. That was done two weeks ago." He turned to Hogan. "But, Colonel Klink asked me to tell him when the General left the camp, and when I did, he sent me to get you. So please, Colonel Hogan. Come nicely, please don't make me go back to the Kommandant's office without you."

Hogan sighed and stood up. "Okay, Schultz, okay. Just for you, though." He looked at his plate. "I suppose you haven't eaten yet," he surmised.

Schultz gazed lovingly at the food left to go cold. "Nein," he said breathlessly.

Le Beau was skeptical. "You? Miss evening mess? I don't think so, Schultzie," he scoffed.

Schultz twitched his moustache. "Well, strictly speaking, I did not miss dinner, Cockroach... it's just that they never seem to give us enough, and I stay hungry."

"Here," said Hogan, picking up his plate and pushing it at the guard. "Have mine." He looked apologetically at Le Beau. "No sense in having it go to waste."

Le Beau nodded, disheartened. "Oui. I understand, Colonel."

Picking at the delights on the plate, Schultz gallantly held the barracks door open for Hogan, who zipped up his coat, grabbed his crush cap, and walked out, with as little confidence as he had when he first arrived at Stalag 13 three years ago.

xx-xx-xx

"Colonel Hogan, why are you still here?"

Klink's words came out more as a plea than as a question. When Hogan entered the office, Klink had immediately shut the door and ushered the POW to a chair very close to his desk. Then he had sat down and nervously tapped the blotter on his desk before finally stating the reason for this evening summons.

Hogan crossed his arms, angry. "Where do you expect me to go?" he asked.

"Anywhere, Hogan, anywhere! I told you what was going to happen here. General Burkhalter has already been here today—"

"Thought I noticed a distinct odor in the air," Hogan sneered.

"Hogan," Klink nearly hissed, "this is no time for flippancy. General Burkhalter was going to stay but I convinced him to stay in Hammelburg for the night so you have a chance to get out. The Gestapo is coming in tomorrow. They will take over this camp and do as they please."

"Then it's business as usual," Hogan said. Klink started trembling but didn't speak. "Look, Kommandant," Hogan said, leaning forward, "Let's face it. You and I both know that the Gestapo has always done whatever it wants here. They run roughshod over you any time they like. And what's ol' Iron Eagle do? Nothing—more like lead than iron." Hogan sat back, still tense. "Whether I'm here or ten miles outside the wire, they're going to find me."

"Then don't be there," Klink said, too upset to hear the accusations Hogan had made. Why was Hogan hanging around?

"What?"

"Don't be ten miles outside the wire. Be farther away than that. Go away, go far, far away, so when they come they have no hope of finding you at all!"

"And what happens to my men, Kommandant? I go, the Gestapo gets cranky, they take over the camp, push you out, and start interrogating my men, and there goes the neighborhood! Never mind that they don't know anything."

"Hogan, you cannot stay here. The Fuhrer is showing no indication of changing his mind! He was so angry after the mass escape at Stalag 3 in March that he wanted to shoot everyone! Reichsmarshal Goering had to convince him that shooting all those men was unwise. I don't know if he will be able to do the same again."

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure if the head of the Luftwaffe is trying to stop a massacre, it's not because it's the humane thing to do," he snorted. Hogan stood up. "Look, Kommandant, I have work to do tonight. I'll be happy to take you up on your offer tomorrow after roll call. It'll be safer for my men, and a good alibi for you."

"But you don't understand, Hogan; Major Hochstetter will be here at noon—tomorrow will be too late!"

Hogan thought of the refinery and the trucks that were probably loading up to travel as they spoke. "You're right, Kommandant. Tomorrow will be too late. See you in the morning. And don't you worry; I'm not planning on volunteering to be put in front of a firing squad. I'll think of something to suit everyone." I hope.