No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.
Author's Note: From here on out I am using the timeline and general outline of events as made brief mention of in ML Breedlove's "WWF2: Undoing the Past" (thanks, Marty!). Full Author's Notes including sources and research will be posted at the end of the story.
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The sound of trickling water near his right ear was the first thing Hogan was aware of when he faded back into consciousness. Not opening his eyes, he wrinkled his brow, trying to concentrate on where the noise might be coming from. Where was he, anyway, and why was that was little sound so deafening? There wasn't a tap near his bunk in the barracks at the base….
Hogan's other senses swiftly kicked in and flooded his body with pain. Reality set in just as quickly and reminded him that he had jumped out of an airplane at about twenty thousand feet, somewhere over Germany, and he must now be in enemy territory. Both from despair and from agony, Hogan moaned weakly.
He opened his eyes. He had obviously landed on his back. Still-bright sunlight told him he had not lain unconscious for more than an hour at the most, and he closed his eyes again as he tried to cope with increasing pain moving in waves through his body. Gotta take stock of what's going on… Gotta hide…
Forcing his eyes open again despite the knives driving into his skull, Hogan tried to take in his surroundings. Trees, scrub, and, when he moved his right hand, a shallow creek were his introduction to the Fatherland. He willed himself to move, a difficult and excruciating task. He drew his legs up to prepare to roll over onto his right side, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut against the torture that task inflicted on him. Crying softly in pain, he tried to prop himself up on his right elbow, only to collapse as a searing heat stabbed his upper arm and refused to hold him up. Hogan felt a tiny splash of cool water on his cheek, but it did nothing to cool his fiery brow.
He lay still for a moment, just panting, then without opening his eyes he slowly moved his left arm up and up past his head. Yes, the parachute ropes were still there. He was still attached to his harness. Taking in a deep breath, he forced himself up, gasping when fresh agony throbbed through him. He managed somehow to get into a sitting position, swaying drunkenly as the world spun around him. He looked at his right arm to see that the blood he had thought was Montgomery's was actually his own, and it was soaking onto his torn sleeve from a burning wound near his shoulder. He hadn't noticed it when they were still in the plane.
With unsteady hands, Hogan fumbled with the harness and managed to get it off. He stopped for breath and considered hiding it. He was starting to feel cold. In the middle of summer, Hogan was still alert enough to realize this was a sign of shock, a result of the absolute trauma of having to jump for his life, and a result of serious injury. In a burst of clear thinking, he reached carefully into a pocket for his army knife and awkwardly hacked into the silk so he could design makeshift bandages. His strength came in small pockets, and he had to stop several times to rest. But when he finally finished, he examined himself and was less than happy with the findings.
The material from his jacket was acting as an ersatz bandage for his right arm, but Hogan knew it would need to be covered. So, using his left hand and his teeth to help tie it, he grunted his way through dressing the wound and hoped it would stay in place. His abdomen was a mass of agony. Though the bleeding had slowed, probably due to shock, the pain had only increased, and Hogan knew that securing that injury was going to be an incredible task. Still, he braced himself and with trembling hands drew the silk around him, ready to tie it at his side as tightly as he could make it. His first instinct was to stay alive, and with a wound as bad as that, leaving it exposed was not an option. He drew in a shaking breath and positioned the material in such a way to give maximum thickness to it over his abdomen. Then, gritting his teeth in anticipation, he started to tighten the knot. Against his will, Hogan screamed, a cry that became an almost soundless sob as he refused to stop until he had accomplished what he set out to do. He slumped forward weakly when he was finished, spent.
Hogan let the water cover his hand, and then he ran that hand across his damp face before he continued his examination. He found another wound on his lower left leg, one more on his forehead above his right eye, and one he could do nothing about made itself known in between his shoulder blades. Allowing himself only a minute to regain his equilibrium, Hogan took handfuls of water to drink, splashed some more water on his face, and then staggered to his feet and toward the shelter of the nearby trees. Safety first, then escape. He would try to head southwest, to get to the border, to get out of Germany. But he didn't know exactly where he had bailed out, and so had no idea where he was, or how far away safety would be. And right now, it was all he could do to stay awake.
Hogan could feel weakness settling in like an old friend, and he tried hard to resist it. He knew shock and blood loss were dangerous companions, but he could not force them to leave, and so he hobbled along despite their increasing hold on him. The sun was starting to sink in the west, and Hogan turned himself toward it, knowing that if he was to have any chance at all, it would only be with the Allies. It was only then that his mind drifted to the men who had been aboard Goldilocks with him, and he wondered if any of them had made it out alive.
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Hogan concentrated with all his might on each stumbling step. Breathing hard from the exertion and shivering from blood loss and shock, he could only think one thing: Keep going. Keep going.
The pain in his gut had passed unbearable and was now just a vague thought in the back of his unfocused mind. He looked down once to see a large red stain spreading easily across his shirt. As he walked, he had slowly stripped himself of everything but the bare necessities: his Colt 1911 pistol, his knife, his outer clothing, his dog tags, extra parachute silk. Everything else was just a burden. He stopped for what must have been the tenth time that hour, leaning his head against a tree, feeling the sweat of fever pouring down his face, resisting the overwhelming urge to sink down to the ground and sleep, or die.
The sun was quickly disappearing, and Hogan knew he had to find a place to stay, sheltered if possible from the elements. But for all his looking, there was no place visible, not even remotely possible, and so he pulled himself away from the tree trunk, and struggled on, groaning with each step that forced more precious blood out of the wound in his leg and left him weaker for the next.
He finally came to a point where he felt he had to stop. The large stump of a fallen tree provided a seat, and he dropped into rather than sat on it. Sleep, I've got to sleep, his body demanded. But his mind argued back. Sleep, and you may not get up. You're not safe; not yet. Desperation won out and so Hogan did his best to keep his eyes open. Pulling out his pistol and shakily holding it with his left hand, he recited Shakespeare, the Bible, popular music lyrics; he challenged his own reasoning over political issues, and counted by sixes to five hundred, then sevens; he tried to find specific constellations in the sky as night fell. But he was losing the battle against his body, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before he succumbed and collapsed.
As he felt the moment closing in, Hogan lurched up from the tree stump and forced himself to continue. "Come on," he gasped through dry lips. He cleared his throat and staggered from tree to tree, trying to keep himself steady and alert. The task was becoming increasingly difficult, and more than once he stumbled over his own feet, crashing agonizingly to the ground, where he would stay until the paralyzing pain passed and he was able to cope with moving again. He stopped twice more to redress his injuries with the extra parachute silk, but he could feel his body succumbing to the incredible loss of blood and the shock, his leaden steps slowing, his feverish body growing numb and cold, his vision tunneling until everything seemed far away, so far away, from his outstretched arms.
As dawn was just starting to show pink in the sky, Hogan found himself unexpectedly facing the barrel of a German rifle. He had been leaning against a large tree, as he'd done countless times in the last several hours, when he heard a click that made him open his eyes. He hadn't even heard the soldier approach, and Hogan wasn't sure whether to resist or simply to be relieved.
He chose to resist, no matter how weakly, and when the German said, "Bewegen Sie sich nicht, oder ich werde Sie schießen," Hogan tried to straighten up against the tree, and ineffectively moved his arm down toward the gun in his pocket. "Hände hoch!" came the voice harshly. The rifle was pushed closer to Hogan's body, and Hogan dropped his arms by his side. "Hoch!" the German said, gesturing upwards. Hogan slowly obeyed, looking for some opportunity, any opportunity, to throw the soldier off balance and try to get away. But in the recesses of his mind, he knew it was only a gesture—even if he did manage to escape from the German now, it would be only minutes before he was caught again. Still, he needed to be able to say he tried.
The soldier spoke again. "Walk," he said in English, motioning the rifle ahead of him. Hogan pulled away from the tree and took the only chance he had. When he noticed the soldier relax just slightly as Hogan seemed to move into place, he grabbed hold of the gun barrel from the side and tried to pull it away. But his grip wasn't strong, the German hadn't been fooled, and the only result was a rifle butt pushed into Hogan's gut, a hit that made the world explode in white before him as he crumpled to the ground, gasping in pain.
The German reached down to Hogan's pockets, using the rifle to hold the American in place on the ground, and pulled out the pistol and the knife. "Walk."
Hogan staggered to his feet, still bent double, and, feeling broken, did as he was told. He was dizzy and breathing more and more rapidly to keep up with the shortness of breath he was experiencing. His fever was giving way to a bone-chilling cold, and he found it difficult to shake the blurriness from his vision. What seemed like hours later but could only have been several minutes, Hogan stumbled into a clearing, and saw a wide street that was starting to come to life in the early day. Two other German soldiers were some distance away, guarding three other prisoners. Hogan's captor prodded him toward the others, and when they approached, the other Germans conversed briefly without regard to the men whose lives they held in their hands.
Hogan looked vaguely at the other prisoners. All in American uniform, he didn't know any of them. One of them appeared to have some sort of wound on his head, but otherwise, they were fairly intact—dirty, exhausted, and probably starving, but well enough to travel. They looked at Hogan and then at each other, and one of them spoke up to the Germans, who were still talking in low tones. "He needs a truck." The soldiers turned to the man, surprised. The man gestured toward Hogan then made driving motions with his hands. "Truck. He needs a ride." He pointed to his own stomach and bent over. "Too sick to walk."
Hogan wanted to thank the young flyer for trying to help, but he couldn't raise his eyes to do it, and speaking wasn't possible either. His breathing was becoming labored, and the world was fading in and out before him.
The soldier that had brought Hogan here shrugged. "Nein." He gestured around the quiet street. "No truck." He was right; there was none. He straightened, then the Germans leveled their guns at the prisoners again. "Walk."
The group turned and started making their way up the street toward God knew where. If he had been able to take notice of anything but his deteriorating condition, Hogan would have seen the people slowly coming out onto the road to watch the passing of the enemy. Someone threw something at them, but Hogan didn't see what it was or really feel it as it bounced off of him. As his steps slowed and the guards grew impatient, one of the prisoners took Hogan by the left arm and helped support him in their trek, arguing briefly with the soldiers when they protested the close proximity of the two men. It was an insane fight—two men who couldn't communicate still making it quite clear what their point of contention was. Still, Hogan kept walking, and when he stumbled and someone's hands stopped him from hitting the ground, no one complained.
Hogan didn't know how long they'd been walking when the sound of singing reached his ears. "Heute sollen wir in Lied singen, Und trinken schon rotten Wein." The man on his left turned back to see the soldiers walking in time with their music. Their rich voices at any other time would have been a joy to hear. Now, they were just more salt in the wounds of their prisoners. He translated under his breath, his voice taking on a bitter tone. "'Today we're going to sing a song, and drink good red wine,'" he muttered. "Nice work if you can get it."
"Und die Glaser sollen dabei klingen, Weil es muss, es muss gescheiden sein."
"'And the glasses will clink together because we have to be parted soon.'"
"Why are they singing?" another prisoner asked.
"Keeps them in step," answered the translator. "Keeps them motivated. Listen—this next bit says 'Give me your hand, your white hand, and let us live well, my sweetheart.' They're singing to their loved ones about marching off to war."
"Wenn wir fahren gegen England, ja wohl!"
"Into England, I take it," piped up the third man.
The Germans continued marching, now laughing heartily and loosely moving their charges along the street. Hogan was starting to lose consciousness, and one faltering step pitched him forward as blackness moved in to claim him. Careful hands stopped him from falling flat on his face. But he was no longer able to stand on his own, or even comprehend what was happening around him. A voice that sounded miles away said, "We've got you, sir. A truck's coming now. Just hang on a little longer."
Hogan wasn't listening. For a brief moment he fought the darkness, fearing that with it would come finality. But as all pain and reality started fading away, he embraced oblivion gratefully, making a final prayer that if he did wake up, this would all turn out to have been a nightmare.