No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Original text and characters copyright LJ Groundwater. Thanks.

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"What do you think of Kommandant Klink?"

Hogan let one side of his face raise up to form a lopsided smile. He had woken up a little while ago and found, as usual, that Kleinschmidt had roused him. Now, his neck unbearably stiff, he was unable to turn his head at all toward the Corporal, nor indeed toward anything else, without blinding pain, and so he remained with his head back against the seat. And when he had opened his eyes he found the almost absent daylight still piercing, and so he kept them shut, since there was very little to see anyway.

"I can't tell you that," Hogan answered, breathing with some effort. "It's not nice to put down people your friends might admire."

Kleinschmidt let out a little laugh. "The Kommandant is not so bad," he said.

"I suppose he's okay, yeah," Hogan conceded. A small warning thrilled through him: Don't let on you think Klink's a pushover. This kid is still a Kraut, no matter how nice he is. "For a fella who can order you shot whenever he feels like it," he added.

"Do you really think he would ever do that?" Kleinschmidt asked.

Hogan paused. "Gunter, when you're a prisoner being held captive by the enemy in a camp thousands of miles from home… you learn to think that anyone could do that."

"Perhaps." Then Kleinschmidt asked another question: "Could you ever do that, Robert?"

Through Hogan's mind flew what seemed like a thousand missions, a thousand jobs that he and his men had done for the Allies, a thousand times that they had snuck out of Stalag 13, guns drawn, tension almost physical, waiting, watching, just in case they had to kill anyone who got wise to their set-up, and who couldn't be snuck back to England via the Underground channels. A thousand potential times to end someone's life before he even realized it was happening. Most of the time, it was blessedly unnecessary. Once in a rare while, though, it had to happen. And if it hadn't, the lives of Hogan's men—or hundreds of others—would have been forfeit. "If I had to," Hogan finally said thoughtfully. "If it meant saving my men."

"Your men," Kleinschmidt echoed. "I have seen your men in camp, Robert. The Frenchman, Le Beau; Corporal Newkirk; the black man, Sergeant Kinchloe. That skinny one who always laughs so much—the Sergeant…"

"Carter," Hogan filled in. "I never thought about him that way until you said it. He's a good kid. Keeps his humor no matter what." As their names were spoken, Hogan put their faces in front of his mind's eye. My men. They would know something had gone wrong, somehow. When the Underground contact told them he had not arrived. They would worry, and there would be nothing they could do until Hogan and Kleinschmidt were missed by the Germans, who were not expecting the pair back until nightfall.

Hogan felt himself fading, drifting into a consoling blackness that frightened him. The once-unendurable pain from his injuries was almost non-existent there, the heat of his fever now receded to bone-chilling cold that was only partly due to the temperature outside. It would be so easy to just let all feeling slip away… all the pressure of the operation… all the responsibility… all the pain… It was calling him... softly... gently...

"Gunter!" Hogan cried, as he drew himself up as quickly and suddenly as he could. His head burst and fire raced from his neck straight down his arm and his back. He gasped, breathing heavily through his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to focus his suffering mind on being able to cope. You won't just lie back and die, Robert Hogan…. You won't let go like this!

"Robert!" came the Corporal's voice. It sounded so distant, so detached. Hogan fought to concentrate only on Kleinschmidt's words. "Robert, you must not sleep again. Do you understand? You have lost blood, and now you are weak. If you fall asleep now, you will find it harder to wake up when our rescuers arrive. You must be able to talk to them. Do you hear me? You must be able to talk to them… and to me."

Hogan groaned a response, his right hand raised to support his head and fruitlessly try to ease the incredible pain his frantic movements had triggered. But he understood the warning in the German's words. And more than that, he believed it. "Okay…" he gasped, now reluctant to move himself back toward the seat. "Okay… I'll… stay awake. I just… got…" Why couldn't he say the word to the boy? Scared.

But Kleinschmidt didn't seem to need to hear it. "Tell me about your men, Colonel Hogan," he said. "What makes them so special to you?"

In spite of himself, Hogan smiled. What didn't make them special? "Lots of things," he managed. He still couldn't think past the renewed pounding in his head and the active, brutal pain thundering through his body.

"Tell me about them. Tell me about your laughing Sergeant, Carter."

"Carter?" Hogan waited until he could see Andrew Carter's face clearly in his mind, and hear his voice as the young Sergeant babbled on about his favorite topic: explosives. The Colonel felt a bit of comfort from the image, and, letting out a tiring breath, he said, "Carter's the kind of fella you can always count on to back you up." He paused for a moment. Kleinschmidt said nothing, so he continued. "He's loyal and generous… and gentle. And he has a smile that could light up a room when he's happy."

Softly, the German replied, "That is sehr gut. And he can manage this in a prisoner of war camp?"

"Carter can manage that anywhere."

"What about the Frenchman—he would be different, ja?"

"Oh, he would be different, ja," Hogan agreed, momentarily amused. "Louis is… everybody's mother… and a loyal friend… and the fiercest patriot you'd ever have the pleasure to meet. I'm sorry, Gunter, but you Germans picked the wrong people to repress when you conquered the French."

"Peut-être," the German answered with a touch of humor in his voice. "What about the black man, your Sergeant Kinchloe?"

"Oh, is he black?" Hogan retorted. "Sorry, Gunter, but his color never mattered to me. God never made a finer man. Kinch is smart, he's funny, he's strong… he's a great soldier, and an even better friend."

"You can be friends… with a black man?" Kleinschmidt asked, his voice slightly incredulous.

"If I can be friends with a German right now, Gunter… I can certainly be friends with a black man." Another white-hot blast of pain. Hogan curled forward, dizziness and nausea rising with alarming speed. He broke out in a cold sweat and groaned through gritted teeth, pressing his good hand against his forehead as if trying to stop his brains from spilling out, while the torment expanded to encompass his entire skull. He heard Kinch's voice in his ear, as though the man was standing beside him. We're coming, Colonel. As soon as the Germans get word, we're coming. "I know, Kinch," Hogan muttered aloud. "But please hurry."

"Robert?" A worried question from Kleinschmidt.

Slowly the anguish and the queasiness subsided to a more manageable level, and Hogan gulped in air greedily, but carefully. "Sorry," he managed, still biting back the agony, and the tears that accompanied it. "I'm… okay now."

"Tell me about the Englander," Kleinschmidt prompted gently when Hogan had not picked up where they left off. "How is he to live with?"

"Lots of questions, Gunter. What are you—Gestapo?" Hogan joked weakly.

A slightly bemused Kleinschmidt responded. "Not a chance, Robert," he said with a small laugh. "I would not have left you in such good condition."

With his uninjured arm braced against the mangled dashboard and his other arm cradled in his lap, Hogan was able to cope with a tiny breath of a laugh. But it still took a few more seconds of controlled breathing before he was able to continue. "Newkirk's a wild card," he panted; "you never know what he's up to—or why. You might think you've got him… pinned down… but then he… turns around and does the exact opposite of what you… think."

Hogan stopped. There was certainly more to Peter Newkirk than that. But he was starting to find continuing this conversation difficult, physically. There were shooting pains in his leg, and his chest was stinging, and he wouldn't even consider what kind of bump he must be sporting on his head. An overwhelming tiredness was once again descending on him, and this time he desperately wanted to give in to it.

"And is he loyal? Robert?"

Hogan didn't answer. Please… this is enough… Please… I have to stop, fellas. Please try to understand….

"Robert? Is he loyal, this Newkirk?"

Now beyond exhausted, Hogan nonetheless lifted his head at the name of his friend. The sound of his difficult breathing filled the small space. He could not answer.

"Please, Robert. It is dark. They will be looking for us soon. Please keep talking to me. Just a little bit longer."

"Why are you… so… stubborn?" Hogan panted at last.

"Because we both need me to be. Please… tell me about him, this unpredictable Corporal Newkirk."

"Okay. You win," Hogan whispered. "Newkirk…. He's proud… he's insecure… he's clever… and conniving… and…"

"And?" prompted Kleinschmidt.

Hogan had paused to catch his faltering breath. "And yes… he's loyal. Happy now?"

"Ja, Robert. Very happy." A pause. "Robert, I am tired."

"So am I," Hogan answered, one tiny speck of him concerned at Kleinschmidt's admission, since the boy had never indicated more than token discomfort since this whole ordeal had begun. "But you've kept me going—I'm gonna keep you going, too. Okay?"

"I do not know if I can, Herr Oberst."

"It's Robert," Hogan corrected the boy, alarm growing inside him. "You hear me, Gunter?"

"Ja, ja… Robert."

The voice was weakening. Hogan was spurred on to speak louder and more forcefully, an act that drilled spikes into his skull, which he ignored. "Gunter, you haven't been in camp long; I don't know anything about you. You said you had a brother. Tell me about your parents. Where are they? Are they waiting for you to come home?"

"Oh, ja, Robert. They are waiting for me. I will be with them soon."

"Where are they? Are you near the end of your time in the service?"

"I was born in a small village outside Helmstedt. It was always just the six of us; most of our family lived further away. But my father liked the area and wanted to stay there, even when his brothers left to find work elsewhere."

"Six of you," Hogan said, latching on to anything to keep the young man talking. "There were others besides you and Karl?"

"Oh, ja, there were my sisters, Helga and Annaliese."

"Were they older or younger than you?"

"They were older. I was always the baby."

Hogan tried to fight the fog closing in on his own mind. "Married?" he blurted, hoping anything would keep Kleinschmidt going while he himself was fading.

"Nein. They wanted to marry… Annaliese especially had a sweetheart. But he was called to fight. Helga had not yet found a man, and when the war came, all the young men were called away."

I'm so cold… so cold… and so tired…. Hogan's eyes started closing.

"Robert?"

Fellas… where are you? I can't go on with this, fellas. I'm gonna have to sleep. Okay?

"Robert!"

"Gunter… I just can't… think…. Keep—keep talking. Come on… it… won't…. be long…."

Hogan's eyes closed completely. Anything his companion had to say now went unheard.

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"Easy, now—easy, easy! Don't try to move him till we know how bad he's hurt! Colonel! Colonel Hogan!"

The words swam in close and then moved away, and Hogan could do no more than let out an almost inaudible moan. His brain was telling his good arm to move, his throbbing head to turn, but his body was not obeying and he was still so unbelievably tired. He flinched weakly as the piercing beam of someone's light swept past his closed eyes, then felt someone's hand on his shoulder. The almost non-existent pressure was excruciating, and he moaned, louder than he had before; the hand immediately withdrew.

"Colonel Hogan! Can you hear me?"

Why are they shouting? A groan was Hogan's response. He tried to open his eyes, and when he could see through the slits, it was the pale, fuzzy yellow glow of a flashlight that greeted him. He tried to take in deeper breaths so he could answer, but he couldn't. His lips moved but only whispered nonsense came out.

Then a voice very close to his ear. "We're here now, Colonel. We're gonna get you out of here."

The voice was deep, soothing. And familiar. "K-Kinch?" Hogan managed, though he was unsure it was more than a sigh that escaped him.

"That's right, Colonel. Kinch. And Newkirk's here, too." The voice was still there. Kinch was behind him, in the back seat. Hogan's body relaxed despite his predicament. His men had come; everything would be all right. "When you and Kleinschmidt didn't come back to camp, Klink sent out a search party. We convinced him to let a couple of us come along, since not everyone speaks English as well as we do."

"As well as I do, you mean." The voice of the English Corporal floated toward Hogan's ringing ears from across the car. Soon it was closer, and softer. "It's all right, gov'nor. We're gonna get you out of here in no time. You'll be right as rain soon."

The worry of the past few hours started melting away. Hogan no longer had to worry about holding everything together. He no longer had to think about what would happen to his men, to the operation, to all the people fighting the war against the Germans in secret, if he let himself fall apart. That tension blessedly disappeared…

Leaving him plenty of room for pain. Suddenly, unbearably, Hogan felt the full force of every injury he had been ignoring, and he jerked weakly away from the back of the seat, crying out like a wounded bear cub as waves of agony rolled through him. Caring hands guided him back, while from somewhere unseen, reassuring words were being spoken softly in his ear. It would all be over soon, he was promised, as his sharp cries became quiet moans. He'd be back in camp among friends before he knew it.

"We knew something was wrong when Cyrano radioed that you'd never made contact," Newkirk murmured. Louder, the Englishman asked, "What happened?"

Never made contact, echoed through Hogan's brain before draining away. "I guess… this did," Hogan breathed. The noise of creaking metal and other voices descended past the fog in his brain, and he allowed himself to simply absorb the reality that he really, truly was being rescued; even though he had reassured Kleinschmidt it would happen, a small, niggling fear that they would not be found had refused to go away. Now that it was actually happening, his sense of relief was overwhelming.

Kleinschmidt. "What about… Gunter?" Hogan asked faintly. He felt another wave of light-headedness as fire burned through him with a sudden jerk of the vehicle. Metal ripping back; someone was prying open doors.

"Gunter?"

"My friend here," Hogan explained almost drunkenly. Bright stars appeared in front of his eyes as someone trying to be helpful lifted a badly bruised shoulder. Breathing heavily through clenched teeth, he said, "Kleinschmidt. He and I were talking while we waited for help… he was trying to keep me awake but I fell asleep and now… he's… gone quiet."

Newkirk looked at Hogan and then back at Kinch and shook his head. The worried look in his eye drew the Sergeant closer. "'is neck's snapped, mate," Newkirk whispered. "He would have died instantly."

Kinch turned his attention back to the Colonel, whose pain was now pouring off him in streams of sweat. His panting breaths were punctuated with occasionally sharper sounds as rescuers continued tending to him. Kinch moved back in near Hogan's head and leaned down to speak softly to him. "Colonel, they're gonna cut back the front of the car now, to free your leg. Do you want something to bite down on?"

"Just do it!" Hogan burst breathlessly.

A long, agonized cry forced its way through Hogan's gritted teeth, his lips pulled back and his eyes closed impossibly tight. The lack of blood circulation due to the heavy pressure of the vehicle and the cold was remedied all too suddenly, and the blood rushed back into the wounded leg with excruciating speed. The heat of injury-induced fever was now giving way to frame-wracking chills, and someone moved a blanket in to try and hold off some of the worst of the trembling. Hogan breathed heavily and painfully, his head swimming even though his eyes were closed. "See, Gunter?" he panted as he was eased slowly and gently out of the vehicle. A sharp, anguished cry as he was gently lifted into the waiting truck for the journey back to camp. Then, forced confidence: "I told you they'd come…. Can't be out… past… curfew."

Hogan pried his eyes open, and for the first time saw the worried face of Kinch above him. Hogan smiled tiredly. "Stop… worrying…" he ordered feebly. He took a moment to gather his strength and then called out, "Gunter?"

Newkirk and Kinch exchanged glances and continued to help prepare Hogan for the trip in silence. "Gunter!" Hogan called again. "See, I told you: loyal." A pause for breath and to cope with increasing pain. He dragged his eyes back to his men. "Gunter asked me about you," he explained. "We kept each other… talking so we could… cope. He told me… about his family. Sisters… his older brother… killed on the Russian Front... and Helmstedt…. And… we talked about… Klink. I told him… I knew if we were out too long… Klink'd send someone out… to drag us back."

Kinch bit his lip as he watched Hogan try to smile. His commanding officer was doing anything not to think about the agony he was in. Is that how he had survived the last four hours—by pretending to talk to a dead man? "You were right, sir," Kinch said tightly.

"He says his parents... are waiting for him. Have to have Klink… tell them how brave he was. They'll... be proud…."

Another shake of Newkirk's head. Kinch turned toward him in such a way that Hogan could not see either of their faces. "I heard the others talking—the gov'nor's right about his brother. But his parents died in a fire just before the lad joined the service; they aren't waiting for him."

Kinch felt a chill run through him. He just blinked and turned back to Hogan. "We're gonna get you back to camp now, Colonel. We'll try not to move you any more than necessary. Kleinschmidt will be…" A look exchanged with Newkirk. "…going separately. You're more badly hurt. Okay?"

Hogan sighed an affirmative answer, his eyes now closed, his face pale and drawn, his lips pinched in his suffering. "Started to doubt we'd be found in time. Had angels… watching over us today," he murmured.

Kinch looked back toward the car, where the German's body was being carefully extricated for transport back to camp. Maybe his parents had been waiting for him today. "You sure did have an angel with you, Colonel," he said thoughtfully. He turned back to Hogan, who had finally grown still. "You sure did."