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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"I'm going back."

Hogan's men turned as one to him as he came out of his office and fixed him with a collective shocked stare. "Colonel? What are you talking about? Going back—to Stalag 2?"

Hogan nodded grimly. "That's right, Louis," he said. "I'm going to bring back Newkirk—he deserves better than to be left there at the mercy of that psychopath Brinkfried."

"But Colonel—" Kinch began. He wanted to stop Hogan from doing something that could put him in great danger again, but the words he would need to use to make Hogan see the fruitlessness of his mission were hard to come by. He stopped. "Colonel," he said again quietly, "whatever Brinkfried is, he can't hurt Peter any more. There's a lot more potential for you being caught again, or worse, if you go back now."

The room grew deathly still as each of them took in Kinch's words. He was right, of course, and they all knew it. But none of them wanted to hear it. Hogan stood in the middle of the room, his eyes troubled, his mind clearly in another place, in another time. His men watched him, intense, as he visibly grappled with the truth.

"He deserves better than to wind up buried in some mass grave under a false name," Hogan said too softly. "He deserves better than to be away from his friends," he added, louder. A long pause that no one could break. "He deserves a hero's farewell. He lost his life for me. I won't let him be forgotten."

No one could move, or speak. Their grief was heavy enough; watching Hogan add to his own sorrow the burden of guilt was almost unbearable. Hogan walked over to the bunk that hid the tunnel entrance and put his hand up to hit the sideboard. He stopped before doing so, and simply lay his hand over the latch and lowered his head onto it. Not looking back at the others, he said softly, "I'm going to get Townsend to drive the truck."

Hogan's men exchanged glances. "What are you doing, Colonel?" asked Carter.

"I'm going to go get Newkirk's body. I'm going back to see Brinkfried dressed as a Kraut General and I'm going to demand his release." He paused and punched the latch, watching the mechanism move everything into place without really seeing it. "And then I'm going to kill the bastard."

Hogan moved down the ladder and disappeared.

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Townsend was surprised when Hogan strode determinedly past him and over to the rack of German uniforms. "Get dressed; you're coming with me," Hogan said gruffly, not stopping to look at the Group Captain.

"I beg your pardon?" Townsend said.

"You heard me—get into uniform. Abwehr, I think. What size are you?"

"Uh—thirty-eight regular. Colonel Hogan, what are we doing?"

"We're going to get rid of a Kraut and bring home a friend." Hogan pulled out an outfit and studied it, then rejected it. No, not intimidating enough. Then he pulled out another one and thrust it at Townsend. "Here, get into this."

"Really, Hogan, this is most irregular. What are you up to?" Townsend took the uniform Hogan held out and looked at it with concern.

"Just what I said. I need someone to come with me to get Newkirk's body back, and I don't want my own boys to do it. They're too close to it. I'm going to confront that sick Kraut Brinkfried and send him back to London with you—that is, if you plan on heading back." Hogan pulled out another uniform and surveyed it critically. He draped it over one arm and then started fishing through a basket underneath the rack for some insignias.

"Back to London with me?" Townsend gaped. "I say, old boy, that's a bit rich—"

Hogan looked up and aimed the fire in his eyes at the Englishman. "Brinkfried's going—whether alive or in a box, I don't care which. If you want to make yourself useful, Group Captain, you'll take him with you." He turned back to the basket, the knife twisting in him as he realized all of Newkirk's handiwork was sitting in here, half-finished.

"Just how do you intend to get him out?" Townsend asked, now wary of this revered American Colonel and his clearly bitter mood.

Hogan continued searching through the basket, almost roughly pushing aside the things he didn't need. He didn't look up as he replied abruptly, "You leave that to me. I just need an aide—someone to stand by and do the 'Jawohl, Herr General', 'Nein, Herr General,' routine. No Kraut worth his salt is ever seen without a sycophant. You smile and you nod and you keep your mouth shut. I'll do the work. Understood?"

Townsend nodded and swallowed hard. "Jawohl, Herr General," he croaked.

Hogan stopped and looked at Townsend. "Now you're catching on."

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As the truck waited at the gate for the guard to let them enter the Stalag, Hogan felt himself go cold inside. He had already warned Townsend for the third time to let him do all the talking. And he was almost confident that he could pull this off. You will, he told himself firmly. If you don't, we don't get Newkirk back. And leaving without him isn't an option. In his mind, he saw the Englishman smiling as he tried to assure the Colonel that he could take whatever Brinkfried dished out. You'll come home with us, my friend. I'll see to it that you're recognized as the hero you were.

Hogan tried to forget the looks on the faces of Kinch, Carter and Le Beau when he told them where they would meet him in just over an hour. The out-of-the-way, rarely-trodden spot near Stalag 13 was where they would bury Newkirk, so they could keep tabs on him until the end of the war, when Hogan would be sure the Englishman was returned to his home soil to a hero's welcome and posthumous honors. Hogan himself would dig the grave. He was sure that each shovelful of dirt he tossed would carry with it a piece of his own soul. There would be a simple service, a reading of some passages of Scripture and a few words of praise and remembrance, and then their fallen comrade would rest in peace. And Hogan would be forever haunted by the question of what he might have done differently, to change the outcome of that terrible night when they were captured that led to this moment.

Finally the guard nodded and handed Townsend his identity papers, signaling to another guard to open the gates to the camp and allow them in. Hogan took a deep breath and nodded, then pointed to the Kommandant's office. Townsend drove up and parked just outside the building, then got out of the truck and went around to open Hogan's door. Arrogantly, Hogan stepped out and swept past Townsend, nodding briefly to show him all was proceeding according to plan, and stormed up the stairs into the antechamber.

The Feldwebel at the desk stood as the door flew open. He started to make a protest, but when he saw the General's insignia on the Abwehr uniform, he scrambled for the telephone. But it was far too late, as the General practically kicked down the door to the Kommandant's office and went inside, followed by his aide.

Major Brinkfried looked up, ready to tear into the intruder until he, too, noted the insignia. He stood, automatically coming to attention, until he realized he knew the face of the man in the General's uniform. "You! What is the meaning of this?" The Major reached for his desk phone, clearly intending to call the guards.

But Hogan's hand came slamming down on top of Brinkfried's, practically crushing the man's fingers on top of the receiver. "You will stand at attention when I am present, Brinkfried!" he screeched in his best German. "How dare you consider bringing guards into this affair? You're in enough trouble as it is!"

Townsend could only watch, amazed at the transformation.

Left with no choice, Brinkfried snapped to attention, his single eye burning with anger at the sudden turn of events. "How may I help the General?" An Abwehr General? How could that be? Until last night, this man was an American prisoner of war in this camp!

When Townsend saw the pistol, he didn't stop to think. He reached for the first thing he could get his hands on, which turned out to be the small, but heavy, press used for embossing seals on official documents. The Englishman swept it off the shelf, and in one smooth motion, flung it across the room, striking Brinkfried's hand and sending the Luger flying.

Hogan, seemingly unperturbed, merely raised an eyebrow as the German Major cried out in disgust and pain and glared back at Townsend. "Danke, Herr Hauptmann," Hogan said politely, with just a nod toward Townsend. Then he turned enraged eyes back to Brinkfried. "Are you through now, Major, or must I have my aide shoot your hands off so you do not try such a thing again?" At Brinkfried's stunned silence, Hogan smiled a tiny, cold smile and continued. "You are clearly confused, Major. You think I am some insignificant American Private, some scum of the earth Allied flyer who broke out of your camp last night." He moved in to lean across the desk until he could almost feel the German's breath on his face. "And I am." He leaned back and straightened, and spoke all the louder. "I am that same man! But I am not your Private Dane, Major Brinkfried. And I never have been! I am Major General Heinrich Peiper, Abwehr Special Services. And you have ruined a very special top-secret project by your petty, self-serving running of this camp! What do you have to say for yourself?"

Brinkfried stood silent as he considered the General's words. Special Services running an operation in my camp! What could these useless prisoners know that would be of interest to the Abwehr? "I was not informed of any special projects, Herr General." He paused. "May I see the General's papers, so that I may confirm this with Berlin?"

Hogan snorted. "Informed? You expected to be informed of top secret operations by Abwehr? My, but we are thinking above our station today, Major, aren't we? I noticed that when I was undercover as a prisoner here as well." Hogan touched his fingertips to one of the violent bruises on his face. "You and your guards well overstep your bounds." He waved a gloved hand carelessly at Townsend. "Schatzie, give the Major our papers. But I will tell you now, Brinkfried, that no one in Berlin will confirm this for you. Again, your lexicon seems to be lacking the definition of the words 'top secret.'"

Hogan paused as Townsend pulled out the identity papers and handed them to Brinkfried. "What did you expect to accomplish by shooting at me and the Englishman when we cut through your wires last night, Brinkfried?" Hogan asked, burning with grief inside but showing none of that to the German.

The Major took the papers, studying them as he spoke. "Stopping an escape, Herr General, comes well within my duties here as Kommandant. Two prisoners attempted an escape last night; one was successful; the other," he shrugged slightly, "was not."

If Hogan's blood pressure were to be tested right then and there, Townsend was sure it would go off the gauge. He could see the Colonel clench his jaw, causing the muscles to ripple. How he was pulling off this charade while in the embrace of such heartache was unfathomable to the Group Captain. "There was no call for us to stop," Hogan growled through his teeth. "There was simply shooting." He fixed another long, hard stare on the Major. "In your zest for power and control, Brinkfried, you have made my project impossible to continue. The Englishman was a well-known escape artist, with connections in the Underground and at other camps. I was operating undercover, gaining his confidence and that of the other prisoners, to try and learn who these contacts were. Thanks to you," he continued, snatching back his papers and handing them to Townsend, "Kirkland is not fit for escape any longer. And Berlin is very, very angry." He narrowed his eyes. "How are you fitted for snowshoes, Major?"

At that, Brinkfried seemed to collapse inside, the glare fading from his eye even as his posture remained perfectly correct. One of the harshest punishments for failure was, as the General had indicated, transfer to the Russian Front. And interfering with an active Intelligence operation, even though he'd had no knowledge of it, was a spectacular failure indeed. There was no way to defend himself, and as the Major refused to beg for forgiveness, he remained silent and awaited the General's next move.

That move was swift and sure. "Schatzie, attend to our friend the Major here while I collect the Englishman. You brought him back here, I noticed?" Hogan confirmed with Brinkfried. The Major cringed inside and nodded quickly. Hogan turned back to Townsend. "You will pick up his weapon from the floor…" he said, to help the Englishman; "and you will of course ensure he has no others in hiding. Make sure you collect the files that he no doubt created with great pride on the two of us as well. They will make interesting reading back in Berlin. Handcuff him and take him to the truck. We will leave as soon as I have finished with my business." Hogan turned back to Brinkfried, who seemed frozen in place. "We will need him now, as propaganda, you understand." Then he laughed, a short, cold bark. "Not that you will see any of it where you are going!" He laughed more heartily, then abruptly stopped. "Where have you put him?"

"He is in the medical hut, Herr General."

Hogan nodded. Townsend noticed his face turn a shade whiter. "Very good," he said thinly. "Get your Leutnant Staub to gather your things. That is, if his hands are good for anything besides punching prisoners." He turned to leave, then almost as an afterthought, turned back. "You know, Brinkfried, perhaps you need to pass on some wise advice to Staub for the new Kommandant: there is a Stalag near Hammelburg, you may be familiar with it—Stalag 13." Brinkfried made no sign of recognition; his mind was not registering anything at the moment. "The Kommandant there, Klink—he treats his prisoners according to the Geneva Convention… and he has never had a successful escape. I understand he has never shot anyone who has tried, either. You may wish to reflect on that when you are shivering in Stalingrad."

And, knowing that Townsend had things well in hand, Hogan left the office and steeled himself for what was to come.