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

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan scraped at his jaw line for the fifth time in the last hour. "I can't wait till I can have a shave again," he complained. "This beard is itching like mad!"

"It has only been four days, Colonel," Le Beau said. "You will make your face bleed if you keep scratching it like that."

Hogan grimaced and continued clawing at his face and neck. "But it's driving me crazy!" he said. "Why can't I make it look like I've been with some nice family until just now, who liked me clean-shaven?"

Kinch grinned. "Now, come on, Colonel, you know you can't do that. You're the one who told us why in the first place."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," Hogan sighed, deliberately pulling his hand away from his cheeks. He looked across the tunnel to where Newkirk was supervising alterations to some of Hogan's clothing. "How are you going over there?" he asked.

Carter glanced up from what appeared to be very detailed work. "It's starting to look really good, Colonel," he answered. "We've pretty well ripped your shirt to shreds." Hogan was tempted to look away as Carter held up a shirt like the one he had been wearing the day Hochstetter had pulled him from the lineup, but his eyes were drawn to the slash marks and the dirty, red stains scattered across it. "We've even managed to make this look like real, dried sweat and blood."

Kinch noticed the temporary light in Hogan's eyes go out as he surveyed the men's handiwork. Hogan nodded numbly. "It looks right, I guess," he said.

"We didn't keep the real one, gov'nor," Newkirk said. He pulled the shirt back down to the table, realizing the impact that seeing the shirt was having on Hogan. "And I'm sorry you have to wear this one."

"It's okay," Hogan answered in a slightly shaky voice. "This time it's hopefully going to keep me alive." Hogan drew in a quick breath as Wilson continued to undo his expert wrapping of Hogan's left wrist. "Hey, that's a bit rough!" he declared, as one of the bandages pulled at his healing wounds.

"Sorry," Wilson apologized. He continued his work, but slowed down as he realized he was now on the last level of gauze. "I'm not happy about doing this, Colonel, but I think in this case you're right: if I don't, you could suffer in other ways."

Hogan agreed. "If it looks like I've had some expert job done, then the Krauts might guess I've had help. I need some sloppy-looking stuff that looks like I've done it myself."

"Well, you are not going to drag the ones we replace these with through the dirt, either, Colonel Hogan," Wilson insisted, "whether you outrank me or not." He picked up a new bandage and started wrapping it loosely and with an amateur look around Hogan's left wrist.

"Okay, okay," Hogan said, "I have no intention of doing that." He clenched his fist as fresh prickles of pain stabbed his wrist at Wilson's touch.

Wilson uncurled Hogan's fingers and glanced at his slightly whitening face. "I can't believe I'm even agreeing to this," Wilson muttered, as he reached carefully for Hogan's right hand. "Taking off perfectly good bandages, taking a chance on you getting these cuts infected. I can't believe I'm letting this happen."

"You don't have any choice," Hogan said, watching warily as Wilson very gently unwrapped his injured fingers and his wrist. "I only would have done it later without your supervision."

"That's no comfort to me, Colonel Hogan," Wilson said, taking hold of a broken-off stick that was to replace the splint that up to now had been supporting Hogan's hand. He looked at his patient's injuries and tried to hide his dissatisfaction. The knuckles were still badly swollen and bruised almost black, the fingers inflated to more than their normal size. The wrist itself was trying to heal, but retained a red, raw look that trumpeted a battle against infection. It didn't surprise him when Hogan's face contorted and he involuntarily tried to pull away as the medic held the fingers together again to rebind them in what looked like a less-than-professional manner. "Sorry," he said again, as he watched Hogan's face pale even further and start to shimmer with new beads of perspiration. "Sorry. But it's better if I do this than you. These fingers still need a lot of support, and whatever you'd do left-handed just wouldn't be good enough."

Hogan nodded, his breathing shaky. He said nothing but tensely watched Wilson do his work. When Wilson finished, he looked up at Hogan's drawn face and said, "I'm not sure you should be doing this, Colonel."

Hogan just shook his head slowly. "Have to," he managed.

"Then let me redo the bandages around your abdomen tomorrow. Hold off for a day, okay? Just one day. You don't have to go out tonight, do you?" Wilson looked to the others for support.

"It might be worth waiting, Colonel," Kinch said. "The Gestapo is still pulling out of the area. One more day couldn't hurt, just to be sure."

Hogan didn't answer, concentrating instead on keeping the room from spinning. "Colonel, I can't do any more tonight," Wilson persisted. "You aren't ready for this."

Hogan nodded lifelessly. "Okay, I'll wait."

Sorry, Colonel. Wilson gathered up the used bandages and turned to the others. "Make sure he gets some sleep tonight." He shook his head as he looked back at Hogan, leaning forward on the cot with his eyes half-closed but unwilling to lie down. "Tomorrow I'll take care of his other bandages. Don't let him try it himself." He went to Hogan's side. "Do you hear me, Colonel? I don't want you to do this yourself. I can make it look as bad as you need it to, okay?" He tried to look into Hogan's eyes, but they were closing rapidly. He took Hogan by the shoulders and lay him down on the thin mattress. Hogan submitted silently. "Okay, Colonel. That's enough for today. The war will still be there in the morning." Hogan sighed and closed his eyes. "Just a bit too much for him," Wilson explained, turning to the others. "I really don't like him doing all this; he's not recovered yet."

"We don't like it much either," Newkirk said. "But you can't get the Colonel to stop for long."

"And even if we don't like it, he's right," Kinch added ruefully. "This is the best way to see if we can get the operation up and running again. Otherwise we might as well close up this tunnel and get all of us out of here now."

Wilson looked around him, at the walls supported by beams, at the oil lamps positioned evenly till they were out of sight, at the radio equipment spread out over two tables, at the men standing almost protectively near their sleeping commanding officer. How it all began was only a distant memory. How it would end was anybody's guess. He shrugged his acceptance. "That would be a shame," he admitted. "You've all done a lot of good here so far. I guess we just have to let him do it his way."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"Schultz will be exactly where he is supposed to be, Colonel," Le Beau promised. "I will make sure he is there, even if I have to lead him there with a trail of strudel."

Hogan smiled briefly as he pictured the possibility. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind that at all." He gingerly pulled on the torn shirt Carter presented to him, trying hard not to look at it. "Too neat?" he asked, as he struggled with the buttons.

"Here, let me," Kinch offered, moving Hogan's sore hands away. He did up a couple of buttons, then left the others and pulled out Hogan's shirttails. Then he helped Hogan on with his jacket, draping the coat over his shoulder on the right instead of trying to get Hogan's arm through the sleeve.

"Don't forget your cap," Carter reminded him, handing it over. Hogan took it and placed it on his head.

"It is cold," Le Beau told Hogan. "Stay covered up. Wilson will kill us all if you die of pneumonia."

Newkirk approached with a handful of dirt and started smearing it on Hogan's jacket and pants, then very gently did the same on Hogan's face. "You be careful, gov'nor," he said, concentrating a little more than necessary, and therefore not having to look Hogan in the eye. "We did a lot of work to make you look this bad." He surveyed his work, only to find Hogan studying him intently. "Just make sure all the blood on here stays fake, okay?" he added quickly, examining a wet patch of dirt he had just put on Hogan's sleeve.

Hogan understood the message Newkirk was trying to give him and nodded. "That's my plan," he said quietly. Hogan straightened and looked at his jacket as Newkirk drew back. "You guys are going to owe me another jacket when I come back here," he said with forced lightness. "I don't like the way this one is looking!"

"We will make it like new, Colonel," Le Beau promised. There was no humor in his voice.

"Look after Klink while I'm gone. Don't let him get too nervous." Hogan thought of the Kommandant, who had, as of late, taken to retreating down the tunnel to the spot where he was first brought in. Hogan had decided it was best to let him find his own niche down here, where he could think about everything going on around him, and start to come to grips with how his life was changing. "Tell him I'll come visit him as soon as I'm back in the camp's good graces."

The others nodded. Wilson stood by quietly, watching Hogan for any signs of distress. But he knew he had delayed the inevitable for as long as possible, and could only depend now on Hogan's common sense. Changing the final bandages had not been easy, as they had become fused with the healing incisions on Hogan's abdomen, and fresh spots of blood had appeared on the white wrapping. Hogan had only nodded approval, saying it looked more realistic. But the change in his breathing had not escaped the medic's notice, and Wilson was praying that more harm than good wouldn't come out of this escapade. Still, there was nothing he could say now that would change Hogan's mind.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

"Better be," Wilson burst before he could stop himself.

Hogan turned to the medic, surprised. "Thanks, Joe," he said softly, acknowledging everything the Sergeant had done for him since his rescue. "I won't do anything stupid, I promise."

Wilson snorted. "That'd be a first," he jibed, smiling. Then, more serious, "Good luck, Colonel."

"Thanks. Let's hope I don't need it."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan paused for breath after climbing up the ladder through the tree stump opening at the end of the tunnel. Dodging the sweeping search lights from the guard tower, he grimaced as his injuries protested the unusual posture. When the light passed he stood up and moved to the shelter of a nearby tree and leaned against it, willing away the throbbing in his hand and abdomen. He hadn't had to strain them this much since he had been taken, and now he could do nothing but wait until the feeling of nausea passed so he could push them to their limit again.

Hogan looked down to the camp. The gates loomed before him, with fences reaching high into the sky, the barbed wire reflecting the pale moonlight. Hogan shivered and drew the jacket around him. Winter was definitely in the air—the earth was hard beneath his feet and he could see his own breath in front of him. At least he had his shoes; thank God someone had pulled his outer clothing from solitary confinement when they had rescued him. Otherwise, tonight would have been even less pleasant than it was already shaping up to be.

Resigned to holding off until morning light before making his appearance, Hogan settled down for the wait. He looked with concern at his right hand. Wilson had been right—it had easily been the worst of his injuries, and it continued to cause him great pain. The bandages now around the two fingers looked like they had been applied by an amateur, but Hogan could feel the support the medic had built into them. Still, the hurt was sometimes breathtaking, and he was worried about regaining full use of his fingers. The thought of having a permanent physical reminder of Hochstetter was almost enough to drive him screaming out of the woods, and he leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes until the thrill of fear receded.

When he opened his eyes, Hogan looked around him for any watching patrols, then pulled away from the tree and started walking away from the camp. He would have to do many circuits around Stalag 13 to keep himself warm, and to get himself in a sufficient state to make it appear that he had been on his own for a long time. They did a good job on the shirt, though, Hogan thought, wrinkling his nose. Maybe too good a job—phew! Come on, sun, hurry up! I haven't been at calisthenics for three weeks; I'm not fit for walking too long!

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Eichberger nodded to his Sergeant of the Guard that his inspection of the men of Barracks Two was completed and turned away to do his usual morning inspection of the compound. Schultz waved his arm and called for the group to break it up and get started with their assignments. Grumbling, Schultz was surprised when Le Beau came up to him, with his pick and canvas sack already in hand.

"Ready to start the day, Schultzie?" he asked lightly.

"Ja, ja, one day is like the next," Schultz answered with a note of sadness.

"Aw, come on, Schultzie, that's no attitude to take when I am about to make you some nice potato pancakes."

Schultz stopped on his way to the guard house and looked with a small smile at the Frenchman. "Potato pancakes? For me?"

"Oui, for you," Le Beau said, nodding. "It has been hard for you, Schultz; you have lost your commanding officer, just like we have. I want to do something nice for you." He looked carefully outside the camp, scanning the woods. Then he started walking again, so Schultz had to move to continue the conversation.

"That is a very nice thing to do, Le Beau," Schultz said. "You are a very good friend, for an enemy."

Le Beau smiled widely at his guard. "I try," he said. He turned from Schultz again and looked once more out to the woods. "Hey, Schultz, what if we were to start a vegetable garden here in camp?"

"What kind of vegetable garden?"

"Well, you know—one where we could grow cabbages, potatoes—all the things that go into the kinds of food you like, so I could make it more often for you."

Schultz considered. "I don't know if the Captain would let you," he said.

"Oh, sure he would—look, all you need is some good soil, like that soil out there," he prompted, pulling Schultz closer to the wire. "See?"

Schultz resisted. "No, no, Cockroach, the dirt in the camp is the same as the dirt outside."

"No, it isn't!" Le Beau insisted, tugging at the guard. "Look—that soil is richer. It has been fertilized with the leaves from the trees and the droppings of the animals. Look closer, Schultzie."

And he practically pushed Schultz up to the fence. Suddenly, there was a movement in the trees, and Schultz drew back. "Cockroach—there is something out there!" he said.

"Out there?" Le Beau echoed. "I don't see anything, Schultz."

"But there is, there is!" the guard persisted. He leaned closer to the fence to look in between the wires.

Schultz's eyes widened when he saw what emerged from the trees. A man, stumbling and unsteady, heading for the gates. The figure looked familiar—that jacket, that hat, with that height and weight—"Colonel Hogan!"

Schultz hurried to the gate and ordered it opened, motioning for Le Beau to stay behind. Le Beau nodded, satisfied to watch the events unfolding. Schultz ran toward the trembling man who was still coming toward him with his eyes downcast. "Colonel Hogan!" Schultz said again, grabbing hold of the American, to support him.

Hogan looked blearily at the guard. "Schultz?" he gasped weakly. His face was white, and he was bathed in sweat. Schultz took only a couple of seconds to look over the prisoner and was disgusted by what he saw—torn, filthy clothing, bloody bandages, and a hollow look in Hogan's face that spoke of fear and pain.

He guided Hogan toward the camp. "Colonel Hogan, where have you been?"

"Had to... get out, Schultz," Hogan panted. As they entered the camp, he stole a very alert look at Le Beau, who came rushing over as though seeing Hogan for the first time. Hogan turned back to the guard and continued. "Hochstetter..." He sagged in Schultz's grip as the gates were closed behind him. "But I... couldn't last out there, Schultz... please, let me come home."

Le Beau took hold of Hogan's other arm. "Colonel. Colonel, it is Le Beau. You are safe now, Colonel."

The ruckus at the gate was attracting the attention of others in the camp, including Eichberger, who had not yet returned to his office. "What is going on here?" he asked, now standing before the trio.

"Herr Captain, I was looking outside the fence when I saw this man coming toward the camp. This is Colonel Hogan!"

Eichberger took a long look at the man being supported by Le Beau and Schultz. "So this is Colonel Hogan," he observed. Hogan didn't look up, continuing to breathe labouredly. Le Beau looked from Eichberger to Hogan, unconsciously holding his breath. "Colonel Hogan!" called Eichberger, very close to Hogan's face.

Hogan slowly raised his head and looked at Eichberger with vacant, tired eyes. "Colonel Hogan, you and I are going to have a talk in my office. Schultz, handcuff this man and bring him."

"But Herr Captain—"

Eichberger waved the protest away. "Never mind," he said. "I will do it myself." He grabbed the handcuffs from Schultz's belt, then jerked Hogan away from his helpers and drew his arms roughly behind his back, applying the cuffs tightly. Hogan grunted and squeezed his eyes shut as a bolt of pain raced through his hand. "If he can get out of a locked cell by melting through the walls, then what is to stop him from getting out of this camp unless we take stricter measures? Come, Colonel Hogan, we have much to discuss."

Eichberger pulled Hogan away by the arm. Hogan looked back toward Schultz and Le Beau, sweat pouring down his face. Le Beau bit his lip, hoping that the condition Hogan appeared to be in was an act, and Schultz simply watched their retreat, stunned.

"What... just happened?" Schultz asked.

"The Colonel has come back!" Le Beau answered. "And that pig Eichberger has already got his hands on him."

"Cockroach," Schultz asked, turning to the Corporal, "was he supposed to come back?"

"Schultz," Le Beau replied, "the Colonel would not want to ruin the Kommandant's perfect record. No one has ever escaped from Stalag 13."