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

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Hogan whispered through the pain-filled haze. "Can't-- think," he gasped. Breathing heavily, he was trying to force his eyes open, but he couldn't get them to do more than part mere millimeters, hardly enough to take in what was going on around him. And he couldn't hear past the pounding in his skull, or think past the wild throbbing of his body.

"You don't have to, Colonel," Wilson answered, tenderly touching a cloth to Hogan's hot forehead. "I'm happy just having you awake for a few minutes. Do you know where you are?"

Thoughts were racing in random patterns through Hogan's brain. He could barely remember his own name, much less where he happened to be. And he couldn't grasp any one concept long enough to focus. An unexpectedly strong jolt of pain pulled at him. "God," he pleaded through gritted teeth. Then a shocking knife of agony sliced through him, ripping through his right hand and nearly lifting him off the bunk. He cried out, tears starting to squeeze out of his now tightly closed eyes. "God, please!"

Hogan trembled violently, arcing on the cot and gasping for relief in desperate, jagged breaths. Instinctively, he reached to clutch the blanket covering him. But with his hands so wounded it only caused more agony, and he found himself in a helpless cycle, causing pain as he tried to conquer pain. "Help me," he begged, breathless, and unable to control what was happening to him.

Wilson gently and deliberately moved Hogan's hands away, then settled him onto the cot, speaking in soothing tones as he worked. "We'll get you through this, Colonel, we'll get you through," he said, reaching for a syringe. "Try to take slow, even breaths," he said softly. He prepared the needle and started to inject the merciful fluid, knowing that when Hogan did become peaceful, there would be no conversation for quite awhile. "Try to focus on what I'm saying. You're safe now. It will get better. Do you know where you are?"

Hogan tried to bring his rapid breathing under control. He groaned but didn't answer. Finally he let out a loud breath as his rigid body went limp, and Wilson knew he was out. The medic checked the splint on Hogan's broken fingers, then shook his head and stood up, wiping his own face, damp with the exertion of looking after Hogan. "Maybe you should've left your mind where it was when they found you," he sighed aloud, "at least for awhile." Then he called for one of the others to keep watch over Hogan, as he went up to make sure he was visible in the camp for part of the day.

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"So what's going on with Klink?" Carter asked. Kinch made his way down into the tunnel, where Carter had been holding vigil beside Hogan's bedside. The Colonel had not stirred since Wilson had given him the painkiller about four hours earlier, something that Carter had been quietly grateful for, since he had been unfortunate enough to hear a bit of Hogan's earlier struggle when he was sitting on the bunk above the tunnel. He had been sorely tempted to burst downstairs at the time, but something inside him hadn't wanted to see Hogan in such an agonized state. To him, Hogan was eternally well and eternally strong. Sitting beside him now, Carter knew that wasn't exactly true, but he was still hoping that in the end, Hogan would come back to that strength. And sooner, rather than later, was his wish.

"He's still in the cooler. Going stir crazy, I would think. Poor fella—Hochstetter's really bearing down hard." Kinch shook his head. "And Burkhalter's no better—but at least he's stepping on Hochstetter's toes." He glanced toward Hogan. "That's the least of what I'd be doing."

"What did Berlin say?"

"Nothing yet. It's like they don't want to know what's going on."

"What about London?"

"They just say to keep low and keep them informed. And now that the radio detection truck is here, we can't even do that." He laughed, a short, humorless laugh. "After all the Colonel's done for them, you'd think they'd jump to do more."

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Schultz shook his head as he sat down wearily outside Barracks Two. "I do not understand what is happening," he said simply.

"What's there to understand, Schultz?" asked Newkirk.

Schultz didn't try to hide his bewilderment. "First, Major Hochstetter comes to camp and says Colonel Hogan is to be shot—but he does not shoot him. Then, Colonel Hogan disappears." His eyes widened and he shot a pleading look at the Englishman. "But I do not want to know how that happened. Then, Major Hochstetter puts the Kommandant in the cooler." He shook his head regretfully. "Poor Kommandant, he is so frightened. I tell him, everything will work out fine. But he does not trust the Major." In a low voice he added, "And neither do I."

"What's going on, Schultzie?"

"That I cannot tell you, Newkirk." Newkirk started to protest. "That is because I do not know."

Newkirk gestured toward the cooler, where Burkhalter was suddenly seen heading with Hochstetter at a brisk, determined pace. "Someone knows, Schultzie. And I have to go find out." He patted the Sergeant on the shoulder. "Finish up your lunch, mate. I'll let you know when I'm finished spying." And he turned and disappeared into the barracks, leaving Schultz pleading not to be told any more than he already knew, which was much more than he wanted.

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"Klink, I have good news and I have bad news."

Klink stopped pacing in his cell as the voice of General Burkhalter came to him from down the hall. He grabbed the bars stopping him from running out of there and looked hopefully at his superior officer, trying hard to ignore the man beside him. "Yes, Herr General?" he asked hopefully, a stupid smile pasting itself on his face, against his wishes.

"The good news is that we have heard from Berlin." Hochstetter didn't look like he thought that this was good news, Klink noticed. "Berlin is of the opinion that any Gestapo interrogation of Colonel Hogan is to be ceased immediately."

Thank God for that, Klink thought compassionately.

"Normally, it would be considered the duty of the camp Kommandant to control any problems that Gestapo activity would create in the Stalags, but in this particular situation it is not considered possible."

Klink was aghast—that meant that Berlin knew he was under suspicion. That meant someone even higher up than Burkhalter was aware that his loyalty was being questioned! He was stunned, and at the same time ashamed, since he knew in his heart that he had wished for Hogan to escape. "Not possible?" is all he said now.

"That's right, Klink. When briefed on the circumstances, Berlin agreed that you are to be held." Burkhalter shrugged. "That for you is the bad news. In the meantime, the running of this camp will be taken over by me, and then by someone else being sent in from Hammelburg, until your trial is held. As for Hogan, if he is found, he will simply be shot. Which is what should have happened in the first place," he added, looking in Hochstetter's direction.

Hochstetter fumed but did not take the bait. "Colonel Klink," he said now, "I hope you are thinking about what you have done. What a shame that the man who got you into this mess, cannot get you out of it." He glanced briefly inside the cooler. "Perhaps when he is found we can shoot you both together. A traitor to his country is no better than an American anyway."

Klink felt a shudder run through him.

Le Beau had heard all he wanted to hear, and ran back down the tunnel to tell the others.

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Colonel Hogan blinked slowly as he became aware of his surroundings. Oh, how he hurt. From sore muscles in his legs and at his shoulder blades, to sharper, deeper pains in his chest, hands, and head, Hogan was coming to have a very deep and personal understanding of agony. But it was all muddled and dull, as though he was under a heavy, wet blanket that stopped him from moving or feeling anything fully. He somehow sensed that he should be grateful for that, and carefully turned his head, resisting the urge to close his eyes again as even that small move caused nearly unbearable pain.

Where was he? The last thing he could remember clearly was Hochstetter shouting in his ear. He had been lying on the cot in solitary, being painfully aware of every inch of skin and every muscle that had been abused by the Gestapo goons, when Hochstetter had added insult to injury by spitting on him and reminding him that when the interrogation was over came only death. And then reminding Hogan that death wouldn't come before Hochstetter had had his fill.

Everything after that was a slide show of indistinct and confused images and sounds. Hogan had known that if he was not to go insane while waiting for the death that was to come—if he was not to beg for it and collapse in a crying, aching heap—that he would have to be somewhere else psychologically. And so he had removed himself mentally from the torture, and had planted himself firmly in Connecticut, near his home in a field that he loved.

And it had worked. When his abdomen was being pierced slowly and deliberately, he concentrated on the brilliant yellow of the buttercups that were sprinkled across the field as far as the eye could see. And when he saw his blood dripping down onto the flowers and the petals became tinged with red, he remembered the crimson poppies that bloomed near the farthest tree. When his little finger was being forced back farther than he could endure, he made himself dizzy with the sound of buzzing bees that drowned out his own agonized cries, so that by the time the Germans targeted his ring finger he barely responded, aside from the tears that rolled freely down his cheeks as it snapped sickeningly. When shouts of abuse assaulted his senses and his head pounded, he heard the clanking of the horseshoes as they hit their targets during the many family picnics in the field. The smell of sweat and fear was replaced by the tantalizing perfume of the apples in the tree he used to read under. The heat of fever as his body fought the onslaught was tempered by the cool meadow breezes that whispered across his brow.

And when he was lying flat on his back with his arms pinned down by heavy boots and a pair of hands tightening around his neck, he looked up and saw stars. Not just any stars: the stars he saw the night he and his first true love waltzed, without music, in the field after a friend's wedding earlier in the day. The stars that shone down on Donna Marie when she whispered, "I love you, Rob," in his ear, in that breathless tone that left him woozy with desire and happiness. The stars that made so many promises to them as innocents, before hard times swept through the country and took her away from him.

And in the middle of those images came the reality: voices—some shouting, insistent screams; other more soothing, coaxing, pleading words. None of it clear. None of it with faces to match. Just flashes. And for the moment, Hogan was grateful for that as well.

So now, having taken a moment to return his psyche to Germany, Hogan tried to focus. Do you know where you are? The words came to him as though someone had spoken them, but he could not remember it for certain. He looked directly across from him and saw a desk, and some equipment, and an uneven wall. A tunnel. The tunnel? he asked himself, not quite sure whether to believe his stinging, aching eyes. He let out a low moan, weary within himself, and ready to sleep again.

"Colonel," he heard. Hogan wanted to turn his head toward the voice but could not will himself to do so. "Colonel Hogan, I am here."

Hogan tried to speak, but found his throat dry and razor sharp. "Le Beau?" he croaked. God, that hurt.

"Oui, Colonel." Hogan heard the creak of a chair and soon saw Le Beau's small, worried face come into view. Holding a glass of water, Le Beau asked gently, "Can you lift your head?"

Hogan didn't even try. He just let out a breath and closed his eyes.

"It's okay; Wilson showed us what to do," Le Beau said efficiently, as though Hogan had answered. Hogan opened his eyes slightly as he felt water touching his lips, and he saw Le Beau very gently squeezing a dripping washcloth over him. He opened his mouth a little bit and thanked God for the cool water that worked its way past his lips and onto his tongue. "Not too much at once, Colonel," Le Beau said, stopping. He smiled at Hogan benignly. "I will not ask how you are feeling."

Hogan nearly smiled but found the effort too great at the moment. Instead he let out a sound that was a cross between a sigh and a moan, letting his eyes drift shut.

Le Beau nodded. "You are in the tunnel, Colonel," Le Beau confirmed. "Kinch and Newkirk got you out of solitary. You probably do not remember," he said kindly, as Hogan certainly did not. "You have been here for three days, and you are getting better," he said deliberately.

Hogan wanted to slip away again, but he had one overriding concern. He opened his eyes. "Operation—?" he managed, before a cough riddled him with instant pain.

Le Beau let Hogan ride out the wave of hurt before he answered. "On hold, mon Colonel. Too much Bosche activity. Hochstetter and Burkhalter are still here, and the radio detection truck is parked outside." Le Beau decided that was enough to say for now. Hogan did not need to worry about Klink and everything else going on.

"Louis—did I say—I can't remember anything—" Hogan asked, barely audibly.

"No, mon ami, you did not say anything to that pig Hochstetter," Le Beau said proudly. "We would not be here now if you had."

Hogan groaned agreement and closed his eyes, going back to a sky blanketed with stars, with a woman he loved in his arms.