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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Dennison paced back and forth in his small office, having grown tired of talking to papers that were never going to talk back to him to provide him with any answers. Hell, they weren't even arguing with him at the moment. And that had to be a bad sign.

He stopped and looked out the little window to the airfield in the distance, where several planes were already lining up for a daylight raid over Bremen. Another place that's part of The Hogan Legend. Nine submarines destroyed at a secret base, his plane mangled almost beyond recognition. And yet, he made it home, crew intact, on two engines. I would guess you didn't like the odds on that mission either, Colonel Hogan, Dennison thought, mentally tipping his hat to the former leader of the 504th. But you went out and did your job anyway. Dennison sighed. Maybe I'm just being too cautious. If I just stop thinking and lead the raid, maybe it'll work out just fine.

Dennison nodded as though he had had reached this conclusion by speaking aloud with someone. "That's it," he said. "I'll just do it. I'll just do it!"

He sat back down and slapped his hands on the desk conclusively. Then he looked at the papers before him. So why am I not satisfied?

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"I don't like this Oberholzer chap; he's spending far too much time with the gov'nor," Newkirk stated distastefully, as they waited yet again for Hogan's return. It was mid-morning and there had been no movement from the solitary confinement cells. Hogan had been taken again some time in the middle of the night, and to their surprise, the prisoners had seen Oberholzer strolling toward solitary confinement only after roll call at dawn. They had hoped for—expected—Hogan's return at least two hours ago. But the building had remained unyielding to their wishes, and neither Hogan, nor Oberholzer, had come out.

Kinch sat down at the table with a cup of coffee. "I agree," he said, disheartened. Then, unable to hide his lurking fear any longer, he added, "And I don't think the Colonel's holding up very well, either."

"What do you mean?" Carter asked. "Colonel Hogan won't tell that fella anything, Kinch—I mean, not anything!"

Kinch shook his head. "I don't mean that, Andrew."

"Well, what then?" Le Beau asked from the door. He had refused to give up his post, still hoping that any minute now Hogan would come waltzing out of the cells.

"I mean that guy's using a lot of psychological warfare on the Colonel, and I think it's starting to get to him. Colonel Hogan will never tell any secrets, but he's starting to feel pretty down about everything that's happened. Oberholzer's just reminding him over and over again how much he's lost since he got shot down."

"Oh, that," Newkirk said. He grew angry as he remembered the hollow man Hogan had been when he was first brought into Stalag 13. The Englishman had been so pleased as, watching discreetly in the past few months, he had seen the American regain his lost self. It had been a slow and painstaking nurturing, and it hurt Newkirk to think of Hogan's psyche going backwards again. "Bleedin' useless sods. They took it all from him; do they think he won't remember it every blessed day he's in this cesspool?"

"Do you think he will be able to hold out, Kinch?" Le Beau asked.

Kinch shrugged reluctantly. "Oberholzer's playing hard ball, and he's hitting the Colonel pretty much all the time: taking him in the middle of the night, questioning him for hours on end… it's not good."

"He's only a man, no matter how strong he is," Newkirk said unhappily. "It's gotta be Hell for him."

"But the Colonel wouldn't tell that guy anything—not a single word!" Carter declared.

"I know, I know!" Newkirk answered, defensive. "I'm just saying that the gov'nor must be having a rough go of it, that's all. Who said he was going to say anything?"

"Cut it out, you two; arguing isn't going to help Colonel Hogan," Kinch reprimanded, his patience almost gone.

"Well, what is?" Newkirk retorted, exasperated. "You tell me something I can do, mate, and I'm there."

Kinch sighed as the fight went out of him. "Me, too, Newkirk," he answered quietly. "Where do I go to sign up?"

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Hans Schultz approached Hogan's men looking tired. Only a few hours into his shift, the prisoners were used to seeing the portly Sergeant of the Guard looking like he'd done two rounds of the camp with a full pack. It wasn't easy carrying around all that weight—something he would admit as he absentmindedly handed one of the prisoners his rifle—or working under a man like Klink, who often blew hot and cold, depending on which intimidating officer he was dealing with that could send the Kommandant to the Russian Front if he so chose.

The men of Barracks Two were huddled outside their hut, still watching the cooler. Oberholzer had left a short time ago, but Hogan had not come out. Le Beau stopped stamping his feet and blowing into his worn gloves just long enough to greet the guard. "Hey, Schultzie."

Schultz grunted a reply. "Cockroach," he said to the Frenchman. "The Kommandant wants two of the prisoners to go get Colonel Hogan out of solitary."

Kinch immediately pulled himself away from the barracks wall. "What do you mean, Schultz?" he asked, frowning.

"Major Oberholzer has released Colonel Hogan for now, and the Kommandant wants him out of the cells."

"Well, why doesn't the Colonel just leave, then?" Newkirk asked, alarm raising the volume of his voice.

"I think he is too tired," Schultz answered. He tried again. "Please, boys. Please go get Colonel Hogan—I do not want the Kommandant angry."

"Yeah, yeah, we'll go, Schultz," Kinch answered, exchanging worried looks with the others.

"Danke," the guard replied, lumbering off. "There will be noon roll call in five minutes."

Kinch went into action immediately. "Le Beau, see if you can find out where Oberholzer's gone off to. Newkirk, you and I will go get the Colonel."

"Right, Kinch."

"What do I do?" Carter piped up.

Kinch hesitated. "Carter… get Wilson over to the barracks with his medical bag, just in case."

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Newkirk came to an abrupt halt as he was about to enter the solitary confinement cell and just stared. Kinch, coming up behind him, gave him a gentle shove. "Come on, Newkirk; let's go!"

Newkirk moved slightly into the room to allow the Sergeant in, but he did not advance, and Kinch then also took up the stare. "Colonel?"

Hogan was sitting on the hard, bare cot in the corner of the room, his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low. Without his jacket or his cap, they would have expected the Colonel to be shivering with the cold, but he was actually dripping with sweat, his breathing slow, and labored, and his eyes closed, as though he had to concentrate on every breath. He did not respond to Kinch's voice.

The pair moved in closer, and Newkirk sat down next to Hogan on the cot, trying to examine the Colonel without touching him. He noticed fresh blood on Hogan's hands that he presumed came from wounded wrists, and the American was trembling slightly. Hogan's face seemed untouched aside from the prior scratch, but he looked exhausted, as though he was asleep sitting up. "Gov'nor," he said in a whisper. "Gov'nor, we're gonna take you out of here, mate."

For a second Hogan raised his head and grunted as though in answer, but he did not open his eyes and his head soon dropped again as he resumed his hard breathing. Kinch came to Hogan's other side. "Colonel," he said, in a voice a little stronger than the Englishman's, "we need you to stand up. Can you walk?"

For a minute Kinch wondered if Hogan had heard him, but after a few more seconds, the Colonel raised his eyes to the Sergeant and grunted an affirmative response, nodding once before the throbbing in his skull forced his head back down.

Kinch, his actions mirrored by Newkirk, took hold of one of Hogan's elbows and, putting his other hand on Hogan's lower back, gently pulled the Colonel upright. Hogan groaned as seized muscles in his back and shoulders protested the move. His men paused but did not give up. "Come on, Colonel," Kinch said softly, encouragingly, "let's get out of here."

Hogan forced his eyes open and weakly tried to pull away from his helpers. They allowed him to move more freely, but did not release their hold. "I'm all right," he said through dry lips. "I just sat in one place too long," he explained, wobbling on swollen ankles. "He didn't hurt me."

We'll be the judge of that, Kinch thought unhappily, glancing at the bare bulb above them that had been switched off some time ago. Kinch guessed at its use as he watched Hogan wince at the slightest light.

"Come on, gov'nor. Let's get out of this hole," Newkirk said, trying to sound bright. "We've got a much better class of dump waiting for you in the barracks."

Hogan seemed to gain some strength and energy as he moved with his men out of the cells. When they reached the outdoors, however, he flinched and seemed to pull back momentarily. Newkirk realized it was the brightness of the midday sun that was affecting his commanding officer, and he steered Hogan toward the shade of the barracks.

Roll call was in progress, and despite their attempts to get Hogan inside, the Colonel aimed toward the men in the line-up. "Colonel, you don't have to do this," Kinch murmured.

"He's right, gov'nor; Klink asked us to come get you—he knows you're not up to it."

"I'm fine," Hogan said in a determined voice. He shrugged away the pair, who were determined to hold him fast. "If I'm awake, I'm at roll call with my men," he said, staring hard at the dozen prisoners facing the Kommandant.

Kinch and Newkirk exchanged looks as Hogan hobbled to his place in line, steadfastly ignoring the stares of both the Germans and the men under his command. Still almost oblivious to the cold, Hogan reached his usual place and turned to face Klink. He reached up and fumbled with his collar, trying unsuccessfully to make his sweat-soaked shirt presentable. The only concession he made to his condition was to keep his eyes half-closed and his head bowed away from the light. He would not leave his men on their own, damn it. He would not let Oberholzer take them away, too.

Newkirk pulled up beside Hogan as he always did, openly watching the Colonel now, as Kinch pulled up behind them. Schultz declared the prisoners all present and accounted for, and Klink eyed Hogan warily but did not comment. Then, as Klink turned away and the prisoners dispersed, Hogan finally let out a soft moan and swayed toward the Englishman.

Newkirk was right there to steady him. "Come on, gov'nor; let's get inside."

The camp medic, Joe Wilson, was waiting in the hut, as he had been summoned earlier by Carter, and when Hogan was ushered inside, the medic immediately guided him toward his quarters and helped him to lie down on the lower bunk. Hogan's men backed away but did not leave the room.

"Colonel, where did he hurt you?" Wilson asked.

Hogan wanted to shake his head, but by now he knew better so he just raised a swollen hand. Wilson grimaced as he saw the damaged wrist and turned toward his bag. "No—no, he didn't," Hogan panted. "I just… need to sleep."

And before anyone could protest or try to ask him more questions, Hogan rolled over onto his side and slowly, painfully, curled himself up into a ball, and closed his eyes.

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General Alfred Butler took Hogan's hand and shook it firmly. "Colonel Hogan, welcome to Bomb Group Command."

Hogan smiled, trying not to burst with happiness. "Thank you, sir."

"You've earned this, son. It's going to be damned hard work, and you'll be lucky if that hair of yours stays as dark as it is now by the time this war is over, but I feel you're the right one to lead the new 504th."

"I'll try not to disappoint you, sir," Hogan answered.

Butler smiled. "I'm sure you won't. You know those B-17s like the back of your hand, and your skill is unparalleled by anything I've ever seen. Your men are proud of you, Hogan, and so am I."

Hogan's head bowed at Butler's words, humbled by the praise. "Thank you, sir."

The young Colonel frowned as the air suddenly grew cold and the deafening sound of plane engines assaulted his ears. He looked up to find that he was sitting in the pilot's seat of his Flying Fortress, Goldilocks, his hands gripping the control column, clouds and a flak-filled sky spread out before him. He looked to his right to see his co-pilot, Trevor Montgomery, shaking his head. "We're going to lose her, Papa," he said into his interphone.

"No!" Hogan protested angrily. "We can't, Trev; we can't."

Montgomery shook his head. "You can't stop it, Colonel Hogan."

Hogan turned to look at the man beside him and was shocked to find him dead. Suddenly sick to his stomach, he turned away, seeing blood on his own hands and pooling at his feet.

"We've got a fire starting back here!" came a sudden, heart-stopping call.

Hogan doubled over in agony as his abdomen burned from the intrusion of flying shrapnel. He watched as blood poured onto his flight suit, and then he hit the alarm bell—three short, unforgettable bursts—and jumped, without the benefit of his parachute, into the sky, leaving the screams of his men, trapped in a burning plane, behind.

Hogan tried hard but couldn't remember his landing or capture as he stood before the large desk with the Nazi flag behind it. His bloodied flight suit had disappeared and now he was wearing his dress uniform and seemed perfectly well, physically. Numbly watching his own actions as though from a distance, he extended his trembling arm out toward the towering German officer confronting him and gave him a handful of dog tags. Without reading them, Hogan knew instinctively that they belonged to his men: Montgomery, Kovacs, Doolittle, Bailey, Martinez… Then the officer handed them to an ornately dressed priest nearby, who buried them in his robes, shaking his head at the loss.

Hogan watched without a movement or a murmur of protest as the Nazi solemnly reached out and pulled the Colonel's pilot's wings from above his breast pocket, and then his eagles from his collars. These the German calmly put on the floor before him and then crushed neatly under the heel of his brightly polished boots. Hogan's only reaction was internal: a shame and a grief that reached deep down into his soul.

The Nazi shook his head, then put on a mocking smile and laughed softly. Hogan lowered his eyes again, starting to feel like he was suffocating.

The laughter slowly morphed from a low, sly sound to a sharp, grating cackle, and when Hogan looked up it was to stare into the face of Franz Oberholzer. His eyes full of mirth, the Gestapo officer stared back at Hogan unflinchingly. Hogan tried to remain steady as he looked back, but the Major's blue eyes were so cold that the American suddenly experienced an intense fear and had to break the gaze.

"How does it feel to have lost everything, Hogan?"

Hogan jerked his head up, only to see himself in the prison yard at Stalag 13, dressed in his crush cap and bomber jacket, the latter quite clearly devoid of any rank insignia or even symbol of the Bomb Group that he had led. In the distance, he could see his men—Newkirk, Le Beau, Kinch, Carter—being herded into the back of a truck at gunpoint, with scores of other prisoners lining up behind them, ready to be taken away. "You can't!" Hogan practically shouted, looking desperately at Oberholzer. "Leave them—leave them alone!"

But Oberholzer shook his head slowly, patiently. "How does it feel to have lost everything, Hogan? How does it feel to have lost everything?"

"I didn't lose it," Hogan protested now, looking back toward the truck, then back to the German. "You took it from me. You took it!"

Oberholzer didn't answer, but turned back to look at the truck. He raised his arm, then lowered it as though giving instructions to someone in the distance, and suddenly the truck holding Hogan's men exploded in flames.

Hogan cried out, stunned, and then sank to his knees, unable to stop looking at the horror before him. "No…" he gasped, as his chest heaved with an unrelenting anguish and tears poured down his face. "No…"

"How does it feel to have lost everything, Hogan?" Oberholzer's voice cut through Hogan's grief loud and clear. "Because you see, now… now you have nothing."

"No," Hogan moaned. "No…" He stayed on his haunches on the ground, then raised his eyes to the skies and wailed, "No!"

Hogan awakened abruptly and sat up ramrod straight in bed. He covered his face with his hands, and when he felt wetness realized that he had actually shed real tears while dreaming. He shook violently as sweat poured off him, concentrating only on catching his breath and erasing that horrible nightmare from his mind. Some of it had been memories: he remembered the conversation with Butler; he remembered Montgomery dead beside him in his plane. And he remembered the taunting of Oberholzer: how does it feel to have lost everything?

Feeling foolish but unable to stop himself, Hogan slid out of bed and flung open the door to his quarters in search of someone, anyone. But when he looked he found no one, and for the slightest second, he panicked, thinking that the nightmare might have been real after all.

Forcing himself to think more clearly, he tried to look at his watch but found only white bandages. As calmly as he could, he rationalized that Wilson had removed his watch to dress his raw wrists while he slept, and he turned back to his room, where he found the timepiece sitting on his desk. Four thirty-five. It was still afternoon; the boys would be out in the compound. Hogan opened the shutters to his window that had been thoughtfully closed when he was brought in earlier. Sure enough, there were prisoners milling about the yard, and in the distance, yes, there was Carter, chatting with Schultz, and looking for all the world like everything was as it should be.

Hogan nodded as an irrational sense of relief washed over him. He turned away from the window and, still shaking, sat down. You don't have them yet, Oberholzer. And I'm not going to give you the chance.