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 refused to think.

His body ran on auto-pilot, pulling him through dense brush and muddy clearings, forcing his already-straining lungs to draw in more air, while he struggled along as quickly as he could with a throbbing leg and a pounding head and long-abused muscles, leading him in the direction instinct told him he needed to follow, when his logic deserted him. His subconscious must have been telling him where to go and how to protect himself, because the image of Newkirk's lifeless body being carried away was all that was burned in his sight, obliterating everything else before his eyes.

You should have stayed. You should have gone back for him! And yet the torturous accusations in Hogan's mind were being countered with the unbearable truth that if Newkirk was dead, then nothing would be accomplished by returning to Stalag 2 and being recaptured by a man whose only objective seemed to be to demoralize and dehumanize the Allied prisoners. But Hogan couldn't stand the idea of his friend's body, even lifeless and beyond any capability of being hurt again, staying in the hands of that monster, and as he reached the tree stump entrance to the tunnel that led back into Stalag 13, Hogan's numbness started crumbling around him. Breathing heavily, he pulled open the hatch and drew himself down. The cover dropped back into place and Hogan automatically locked it, then almost fell to the floor of the tunnel below.

He was home. For just a second, Hogan leaned back against the ladder, panting, feeling the sweat rolling down his face and his clothes clinging to him, letting the dizziness that had started to close in on him recede. Then he opened his eyes and looked around him in the dimness, seeing two small oil lamps burning, and he hobbled further along into the tunnel, stopping when he came across a rack of German uniforms sitting untouched. And then something else.

Hogan took one or two excruciating steps forward when his eyes lit on the sewing basket. Newkirk had been working on repairing one of Hogan's many German get-ups right before they went out that fateful night. He always did the best with what he had, that boy, Hogan thought. Didn't have enough thread… somehow London couldn't even manage that. London… Hogan suddenly thought, anger and anguish dancing together deep inside him. Didn't think we were worth the cost of a few spools of thread…. Well, I've got news for you—Newkirk was worth more than the bunch of you all put together!

And then, unable to go any further, and longing to feel nothing again, Hogan sank down to the floor near the rack with a groan, and finally let his mental and physical pain overwhelm him.

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Kinch sat at the radio, staring at the dials and switches without seeing a single one. He kept seeing the words on the paper from the files about Stalag 2: "Segregation of all prisoners by nationality." And one line in particular: "Kommandant Brinkfried has a special hatred of all British prisoners, regardless of rank." Peter, my friend, if you're there, I hope the Colonel's been able to make you keep your big mouth shut for once. He shook his head and sighed. Somehow, I doubt it.

The radio man stood, putting his hand on the power switch to close up shop for the night, when he heard what could only be a groan of pain coming from the general direction of the emergency tunnel. Kinch reached under the table and pulled out a pistol, then quickly tapped the knocker that would signal the others in the barracks above that there was trouble downstairs before he started moving cautiously toward the sound. As he approached the clothing rack, Kinch was surprised to see a figure huddled against the tunnel wall. Blue sweater, dark hair… Newkirk? He moved closer, and when he crouched beside the man, he suddenly realized that it wasn't the Englishman at all. "Dear God—Colonel Hogan!"

Hogan heard Kinch's voice as though from under a blanket and tried to sit up. But he only succeeded in falling forward into the Sergeant's lap with an exhausted moan, and mumbled something Kinch couldn't quite make out.

Kinch gently cradled his commanding officer in his arms, and stared in shock at the livid bruising and lacerations on Hogan's face. My God, what did they do to you? He looked up as Carter and Le Beau came down the ladder, and held up his hand to stop them. "It's the Colonel. Louis, go back up and bring some hot coffee and a blanket, and Andrew... go get Sergeant Wilson."

Both men hesitated, wanting to see for themselves that Hogan had made it back to them. But what Kinch was asking for meant Hogan had a need for their care, not their curiosity, and so they nodded and left to fulfill their tasks quickly. Kinch looked down at Hogan, who, although his eyes were closed, was anything but at rest, breathing hard, muttering incoherently, and still twitching as though being still were not possible. Kinch tried to soothe the Colonel with soft words, but gave up as it became clear none of them were getting through. Fleetingly, he wondered why Hogan was without his bomber jacket, and why he was wearing what appeared to be Newkirk's sweater. But those thoughts passed quickly; when he was able, Hogan would explain it all. For now, all Kinch wanted to do was get his obviously distressed Colonel settled, and on the road to recovery from whatever Hell he had gone through.

After a few moments, Le Beau clambered back down the ladder, juggling the coffee pot and a cup as well as the blankets slung over his shoulder. He parked the pot and cup on the table, and hurried over to the two men, already shaking out a blanket to spread over Hogan's trembling body. When the Frenchman caught sight of the American's face, he swallowed hard against the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach and carefully wrapped his commanding officer with the blankets he'd brought. "Mon Dieu, Colonel. What happened to you?" he whispered.

Hogan didn't answer, so stuck was he in whatever world he had entered when he got back to camp. He continued whispering breathily, and the others briefly tried to figure out what he was saying, then abandoned the idea and concentrated on the miracle of having him with them again. "How long was he out there, Kinch?" Le Beau asked, distressed but trying hard not to turn away. "How did he get away?"

"I don't know, Louis. And I can't make out what he's saying." Kinch shook his head. "When Carter gets back, let's get the Colonel up onto the cot over by the radio and let Wilson check him out first. Then we'll see if he can tell us what happened… and if he knows where Newkirk is."

As if on cue, Carter came bursting down the tunnel, pausing only to avoid plowing into Townsend, who was lurking near one of the tunnel branches, unwilling to intrude on what was clearly a very private time, even in its urgency. "Wilson's coming," Carter said. "He said he'd be right behind me." He came in close and tried to look his Colonel in the face. "How's Colonel Hogan?"

Kinch shook his head, unable to answer properly. It wasn't long before Wilson appeared. The medic dropped his bag and crouched beside Hogan, taking a quick look at the Colonel's face before pulling back the blanket. When he saw the blue sweater, he shot a questioning look at Kinch, but went on giving Hogan a rapid once-over. "Okay, let's get him off the ground so I can get a better look at him." Kinch nodded in reply, and the men began the careful task of moving Hogan to the cot.

After getting Hogan settled, the men withdrew to give him some privacy while Wilson examined him. They gathered near the table, each man trying not to look over at the corner near the radio. Le Beau had the blue sweater clutched to his chest, as the medic had carefully removed it from the Colonel in order to make the exam easier. The Frenchman ran his hand across the garment, then suddenly turned it inside out and began looking at it closely. The others watched, curious but silent, until Le Beau's fingers stopped on a neatly-done piece of repair work. "Oui," he said quietly. "This belongs to Pierre. It was before either of you came here, but I remember how he got this hole in it all too well."

Kinch furrowed his brow. "So why was the Colonel wearing it? And why isn't Newkirk with him?" He looked over toward the cot, where Wilson was still tending to their commanding officer. He shook his head, noting that Hogan had stopped moving, but was still whispering words that only he could understand. "He'd never leave Newkirk on purpose. And how did he get here? Stalag 2 is too far from here to walk."

But the questions remained unanswered, and the men lapsed into silent brooding. Wilson joined them a short time later. He glanced at the cot and frowned. "Wherever he's been these last two days, it sure hasn't been a picnic. Looks like he's been used as a punching bag a few times, but it's mostly a lot of bruising. I'm worried about that cut on his face, though; going to have to keep a close eye on it so it doesn't get infected." He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully before he went on. "Thing is, he has had some medical care along the way. He's badly injured his knee, but it's been wrapped up properly, and someone did a fine job of cleaning up that cut I mentioned. In any case, I've done what I can for now. The best thing is for him to get some something to eat and to get some sleep."

Wilson looked at the cot again and shook his head. "Thing is, he's not going to be able to sleep until whatever's on his mind comes out. I think you guys had better try talking to him; get him to open up and let go of it." He turned and looked up at Kinch. "Now, where's Newkirk so I can get a look at him, too?" Strained silence was the only reply. "Damn this war anyway," Wilson growled. "Talk to Colonel Hogan, but don't push him too far tonight. I'm gonna go get a few things, then I'll be back to sit with him." With that, the medic moved off down the tunnel.

Kinch came closer to the cot, where Hogan was lying still and pale, looking exhausted even as he continued his barely audible monologue. "I sure wish I knew what he was saying," Kinch said softly.

Carter came up quietly behind him. "Do you think he'll be able to tell us anything soon?"

Kinch shrugged. "I don't even know what he's trying to tell us now."

Le Beau crouched beside the cot, putting one hand on Hogan's blanket-covered arm. "Mon Colonel, can you hear me? We need you to wake up and tell us what is going on. What has happened to you... and where is Newkirk?"

Hogan suddenly started thrashing in the bed, and his desperate muttering became louder. "S'a'right I'm coming," he burst, still breathless. "I'm come... Itsa'right…" One or two more outbursts and the voice was stilled, and Hogan slowed his movements. His men looked at each other, bewildered.

Kinch closed his eyes for a moment, then leaned down over the cot. "Colonel Hogan! You need to wake up and talk to us now." The Sergeant's firm tone, contrasted with Le Beau's soft pleading, drew him stern looks from the others. But he persisted. "Come on, Colonel; you've gotta snap out of it!"

For a minute, Hogan didn't answer. He was silent and still, and Kinch believed that perhaps the Colonel had fallen deeply asleep. But then Hogan reluctantly half-opened his eyes, and looked with what his men saw as wonder at his surroundings. His hushed voice trumpeted his exhaustion. "Oh, my God."

"It's okay, Colonel. You're in the tunnel and you're safe now." Kinch paused, hating the idea of badgering the clearly exhausted man, but knowing he had to keep Hogan talking, at least for now. "Can you tell us what happened out there, sir?"

Hogan let his eyes roam the area, not really able to focus on any one thing or person. He was still tired, so tired, and he could barely keep his eyes open. But he had heard Kinch. Kinch—Hogan was at Stalag 13. How did he get here? Oh, yes… the run. It was a long, long run. Over an hour and a half; no chance to slow down and rest his straining lungs, his throbbing leg, his aching head. No chance to take a deep breath or a drink of water from a stream. No chance to stop his pursuers—real, or imagined after awhile—from closing in on him. No chance to forget what he had seen. What he had dreaded. What he would blame himself for always.

"We got out of Stalag 2," Hogan whispered, closing his eyes. Kinch, Carter and Le Beau pulled in closer to hear without asking Hogan to speak up. "I had to run… all the way back." A pause, a collecting of emotions, scattering in his exhaustion. "Couldn't get… Newkirk's body," Hogan continued, as he felt himself slipping into oblivion. Then came the whispered promise to Peter that he had been repeating since he ran away from the camp: "It's all right… I'm coming… I'm coming back." And with a sigh of tiredness, Hogan was still.

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Carter watched as the potato Le Beau was peeling got smaller and smaller in his hand until it nearly disappeared. But Le Beau continued running the knife over the vegetable, with no apparent intention of stopping. Finally, when he thought the next slice would cut his friend's hand, the young American spoke up. "Uh—Louis—I didn't think you liked to cut them that thin."

Le Beau looked up, annoyed, then looked at the potato and realized what he had been doing. He put it and the knife down on the table with a thud. "You are right," he said, irritated with himself. "I will have to do some more." And he got up and went to the storage cupboard to retrieve more food.

"Make sure you have something good waiting for the Colonel," Kinch spoke up. "He'll have to be starving after his long sleep." He put the kettle back on the stove and swirled his coffee in its cup. "I'm glad Wilson finally sedated him last night. The way he was thrashing around… he must have been having terrible nightmares."

Carter grimaced. "I wish he could have sedated me, too," he said. "Poor Newkirk. I wonder what happened to him. Maybe the Colonel will tell us when he wakes up."

Le Beau came back to the table. "I am sure he will not forget it." He started peeling again. "You heard him last night—he could not stop saying he would go back. He would go back for Pierre's body." He stopped in his work as tears stung the back of his eyes. "The Colonel will bring him home."

Kinch took a seat at the table, nodding slowly to the others. "If there's a way, the Colonel will find it. But for right now, we've got to let him rest." The radio man rubbed his hand across his face and sighed. "I mean, we all want to know what happened to Newkirk; we just have to let Colonel Hogan tell us in his own way. He's going to have to deal with it himself first, before he can think about sharing it with us."

Carter sat and stared at Le Beau's nimble fingers, and this time just stared silently as the potato was peeled down to nothing.

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Group Captain Townsend sat at the radio desk, taking a turn at watching Colonel Hogan as the man slept after his long ordeal. Townsend had stayed back as the men had cared for their commanding officer, watching how each man helped according to his strengths. They'd all been glad to see Hogan's return, and each had been devastated to learn that Corporal Newkirk had apparently been killed. It was amazing to the Englishman how close-knit these men of widely different backgrounds were to each other.

Wilson had finally chased the other men upstairs, saying that the Colonel needed to rest. However, when the medic found himself needing to take a short break, only the British officer was then available to keep an eye on Hogan. Townsend hadn't minded, as it gave him something useful to do for once, and also gave him time to think about everything he'd seen and heard here last night.

Now, the Group Captain looked on the battered face of the American Colonel and shook his head. Away and in the hands of a clearly uncivilized enemy for two days, faced with the death of one of his men, and all Hogan could think of, even semi-conscious, was going back to retrieve a corpse. For what? Not for glory; in their line of work there was none. For the dead man's dignity? Noble, but fruitless considering where his body was being held. For friendship? What kind of commanding officer made friends with his subordinates? How could he command from such a compromised position?

And yet Hogan's men seemed to hold to him close to their hearts, that much was clear from the way they had rallied around him last night, the way they had to be practically pried away from his side when the medic had decided Hogan needed something to help him find real rest. This operation was very unlike what they had led him to expect in London. But in one respect it was exactly as they had said: unorthodox.

A soft moan from the bed brought Townsend's thoughts back to the present, and he watched as Hogan frowned and clearly struggled to force himself awake. I'd be trying to forget all of this as soon as possible, old chap, he thought. Why are you in such a hurry to remember? Finally, Hogan opened his eyes with a labored breath and stared blankly for the briefest second at nothing.

"I say, are you all right there, Colonel Hogan?" Townsend stood, making his way around the radio desk as he spoke.

The unfamiliar voice gave Hogan a start. Suddenly out of his daze, he jerked his head around to see who was speaking to him, then groaned as the move set off fireworks in his head. "Who—?" he began, now quite sure that the idea of being back at Stalag 13 had all been a dream. It was a dream… was what he thought had happened to Newkirk merely a nightmare?

"Group Captain Townsend," he identified himself as he moved to the cot. "Your man Wilson had to step out a moment and asked me to keep an eye on you until he returned."

"Townsend…" Hogan raised a hand to his forehead, trying to think. Then the name came back to him. "Oh," he said flatly. "So you made it." Hogan's eyes dulled. It wasn't a dream after all. And the nightmare about Newkirk… that was real.

"Yes, thanks to those fine chaps you sent to meet me." Townsend paused, taking note of the American's fatigue and confusion. "Look, Hogan, why don't you go back to sleep for awhile? There'll be time to talk later."

But Hogan was thinking of other things. "Oh, but there won't be time," he countered, trying to struggle to a sitting position. Townsend watched, taken aback, but quickly recovered and helped Hogan to get upright. "I've got something I need to do." He looked around the tunnel. "Where are my boys?"

"Upstairs, but you're in no condition—" Townsend found himself cut off as Hogan pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the ladder leading to the barracks above. "Damn it, man, be careful or you'll end up hurting yourself worse than you already are!"

Hogan didn't answer and pulled himself with difficulty up the ladder. The men upstairs clambered to help him as he practically fell into the room. "Carter, watch the door," Kinch said immediately. As he helped ease Hogan onto a bunk, he asked, "Colonel, what are you doing up here?"

Hogan took a minute to catch his breath; the trip up had been more strenuous than he had expected. He looked down at himself, and then mumbled, "Gotta—uh—get a new shirt."

Le Beau stared in shock at the bruises covering Hogan's torso, then ran into the Colonel's quarters, quickly coming back with a clean uniform shirt. "Here, let me help you put this on, sir." He held out the shirt with a trembling hand as he fought down the nausea that always accompanied the sight of wounds. Wilson says le Colonel will be all right, and if he is all right, then I can get through this so I can be of some help!

"Colonel, Klink thinks the Gestapo has taken you and Newkirk," Kinch explained as Hogan very carefully dressed himself with some fussing from Le Beau. "We organized it to give you two… time… to get back."

Hogan stopped buttoning his shirt when Kinch's words sank in. He swallowed hard but looked at no one. "Well, then, it worked, at least for one of us." He paused as the sick feeling he had carried since last night forced itself on him again. "You… did a good job." He sighed heavily and looked at his men, whose eyes he could feel boring into him. "We escaped from Stalag 2 last night in the hopes of getting back here. But things went wrong… and Newkirk didn't make it." Hogan stopped, unable to continue and hoping the others didn't try to force him to elaborate.

Silence filled the room as each man absorbed Hogan's words. Finally, Kinch found his voice. "We're all gonna miss Newkirk," he said with difficulty. "But… we're… glad you made it back, Colonel."

Wilson clambered off the ladder and stepped into the barracks, sighing in relief on seeing Hogan there. "Okay, Colonel. I don't know what prompted this little ramble of yours, but it's time you got back downstairs and back in bed."

"He's right, Colonel." Kinch nodded to the medic. "You're still worn out, and besides, we can't take the chance of one of the guards coming in and catching you here when officially you're somewhere else."

Hogan let all the words wash over him. Kinch's well-intentioned welcome twisted in his gut like a knife. He was grateful that he had made it back alive, deeply thankful. But when put next to the loss of his friend and colleague, the joy was hollow. Being trapped in the tunnel would only make it worse. He had to think, and for that he needed to be alone—without a medic prodding him, and without an observer studying him. He stood up and turned, empty, to Wilson and his men. "I need to go into my office for awhile. If one of you guys can watch the door…" He glanced around him, seeming at a loss.

Kinch glanced from the tunnel entrance to the outer door, and finally nodded. "Sure, Colonel. We'll keep an eye on things out here for you." With that, he went outside to organize some of the other prisoners into an early-warning system that would give them not only more eyes to watch the guards, but more time to get Hogan back downstairs if necessary.

"Thanks." Wishing he was stronger and more able, Hogan limped stiffly to his room and shut the door behind him.

Wilson turned to the remaining men. "I'll go back down and wait. But see that he doesn't overdo it if you can. And if you can get him to fall asleep in there, all the better."

Hogan's men agreed and closed the tunnel entrance behind the medic. Then they stared at the closed door, and wondered what kinds of memories were haunting the Colonel's mind as he holed himself up in his room all alone.

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Hogan wanted to pace, but still-severe pain in his leg stopped him from doing that, and so he collapsed onto his bottom bunk, holding his head in his hands and wishing everything he ever knew could just disappear. You made it back, he told himself. But at what cost?

A verse ran fleetingly through his head, and he stopped in his whirlwind of thoughts and repeated it. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me…. Sharp, stabbing grief overcame him as he continued the so-well-known Psalm, and he could hear the words through his pain, his face contorted with sorrow as he doubled over on the bunk, his hands tugging at his hair as tears filled his eyes and spilled out onto the floor. Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me…Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.

Hogan stayed stock still for a few minutes, his mind numb, his soul drained. And then another verse entered his head. A single sentence that spoke volumes: A faithful friend is beyond price; no sum can balance his worth. Hogan turned that thought over in his head several times, and when he felt his strength return, he knew what he had to do.