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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Newkirk sat at the table, idly running a silver coin through his fingers. When he caught Carter's almost child-like look of fascination, the Englishman smiled and sped up the movement of the coin until it was nearly a blur. He flicked his wrist, making the coin jump to his other hand where he ran it back and forth several times before it suddenly disappeared.

Carter laughed and clapped his hands. "That was great, Newkirk! Could you do another trick? Please?"

"I dunno, mate. That all depends on if you're gonna give me back my silver or not." Newkirk leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head as he waited for Carter's response.

"But I don't have it!" Carter spread his gloved hands wide, glancing at the other men in the barracks who had started to gather around the table to watch the show. "Honest, fellas, I don't have it!"

"You sure about that, mate? You're absolutely sure you don't have me coin?" Newkirk leaned forward and took hold of Carter's hand. Turning it palm side up, he slipped a couple of fingers inside the glove and pulled out the silver dollar, holding it up for his audience to see.

"How'd that get in there?" Carter gave Newkirk a baffled look as the watching men started laughing.

Kinch shook his head and laughed softly. "Carter, when are you going to learn that a good magician never reveals his secrets?"

Hogan looked over from the stove where he was pouring a cup of coffee. "He might not reveal them… but he might do the tricks again if we ask him nicely."

"What's that, Colonel?" The magician looked over at Hogan curiously. "Sure, I can do it again if you missed it. Maybe Carter'll learn not to try to take the coin this time."

Carter started to protest, but stopped when the others laughed again. Hogan shook his head and came up to the table. "I didn't miss it. And neither should the fellas in the other barracks. We need something to get our minds off this weather, gentlemen," Hogan said, propping a foot up on the bench. "Something to make the time pass a bit faster. I think a camp show would be just the thing to do it. If Newkirk the Magnificent would agree to be our Master of Ceremonies, I think we might just be able to pull it off."

After staring at Hogan for a moment, Newkirk grinned. "About time someone recognized my talents around here." He produced the silver dollar and began running it through his fingers again as he continued to look at the American officer. "I'll do it, on one condition."

Hogan crossed his arms in front of his chest. "What's that?" he asked, dropping his foot off the bench.

"I can get Theo Sheffield's band to join in, except they're short a man. Rodgers took a fall on some ice yesterday and sprained his wrist so he can't play. They're gonna need a drummer, and I know just who'll fit the bill."

Hogan raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "And who would that be?"

Newkirk gave Hogan his best innocent look, though it was spoiled by the grin still lurking on his face. "Oh, just this Yank Colonel I've heard pounding on the drums in the Rec Hall when he thought nobody was around."

Hogan shook his head. "It's a show for the men; you don't need me to get involved. There'll be other drummers out there somewhere."

"You're one of the men, too, gov'nor."

Hogan smiled ironically. "I thought officers weren't like real people; don't you remember them teaching you that in Basic Training?"

"That's true. They taught us all kinds of things about officers, most of which ain't repeatable in polite company." Newkirk flipped the dollar into the air, caught it and put it away as the gathered men burst out laughing.

"When did you foul balls become 'polite company'?"

"You know, lads," the Englishman looked around the room, including everyone in what he was saying, "if I didn't know better, I'd say we've just been insulted. Of course, we all know that no real officer would stoop that low, don't we?"

"Le Beau, have you been able to reach that shopkeeper who sells officer's pips really cheap?" Hogan asked.

Le Beau gave a start and then laughed. "Mon Colonel, you are causing trouble again."

Hogan's eyes twinkled "Yeah," he said with a grin. "Ain't it great?"

"So what you're sayin' is, you bought those bits of brass on the cheap then stuck them on your collar? If that's the case, I'd have to say we're gonna have to demote you to Private." Newkirk reached around and brushed an invisible speck of lint off his chevrons. "That means I outrank you, mate."

Hogan raised his chin and smiled, clearly enjoying the game. "And what is your first order, Herr Corporal Newkirk, sir?"

"First off, I'm no ruddy officer so drop that 'sir' stuff. What do they teach you Yanks anyway?" Newkirk shook his head and did his best to keep the grin off his face, no easy task since Hogan's grin was practically lighting up the room. "Second, now that we've established that you really are one of the guys, I don't reckon there's any reason for you not to play in the show, now is there?"

Hogan brought himself to complete attention and shot off a crisp, clean, perfect salute. "No, sir, absolutely not, sir!" he barked. Then he relaxed, still smiling softly, and took another sip of his coffee. "I'll practice, already, I'll practice. Just be ready to emcee the show by Friday night."

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Kinch settled down in his bunk, totally relaxed for the first time in weeks and completely unable to sleep despite the tiredness rippling through his body. He lay on his back, hands linked behind his head, then suddenly an idea came to mind and he hopped out of bed, opened the tunnel entrance, and headed downstairs. From behind the radio equipment he pulled his diary, and by the low light he was used to functioning in, he started writing.

Newkirk's a hard fella to figure out. Sometimes he makes me so mad I think I'd like to strangle him. Other times, he does just the right thing and smoothes everything over. How can one person be so infuriating and so soothing at the same time?

Tonight we had the camp show that the Colonel talked about the other day. He wanted us to find another project to keep our minds off the weather. Things have been slow all over because of the snow and cold. Bombing raids are slowed, even London hasn't asked us to do much, which is a good thing because we've been pretty snowbound since that last big storm. Everyone showed off a bit of their talent. Louis sang and played the piano, Newkirk was emcee and magician, Carter sang and—well, tried to play the trumpet. Okay, to be fair it wasn't the best quality instrument in the world, but it was all we had, and besides, no one beats Carter when it comes to audience appreciation. I helped Louis sing and accompanied him on the upright bass we had in there, Theo Sheffield's band played—some really good stuff, too. And Colonel Hogan played the drums.

Hogan didn't want to at first, but Newkirk told him he wouldn't emcee the show if the Colonel didn't agree. So of course Colonel Hogan caved in; he knew Newkirk would dig in his heels, and he didn't want us to miss out. Boy, I tell you, it was the best thing ever. I could actually see the Colonel relax the longer he was at that set of drums. He's been looking real worried and real tired lately, and when he was playing, all of that melted away and he looked well again.

I think Colonel Hogan forgets the whole world when he's playing the drums. For awhile, he was just an ordinary man—not a commander, not a spy, not a shot-down pilot. Just a fella who loves playing the drums. Somehow, I think Newkirk knew that's what would happen. Maybe, instead of running a casino or a tailor shop when this place closes up, Peter should be a psychologist.

Kinch stopped as he realized what he had just written.

What am I saying!

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5 janvier, 1945

C'est magnifique. Everything tonight was perfect, could not have been better if we were free. We had a camp show, an idea of Colonel Hogan's earlier this week that was meant to help us forget this lousy weather we are still having. I sang, Newkirk performed his magic tricks, Carter played instruments and Kinch was pulled up to sing as well. Oh, his voice, it is wonderful. He should use it more often, but alas, he does not. The Colonel played the drums… it was all like being in a cabaret in Paris. Everyone was relaxed. It could not have been a better night.

Well, it could have. But that would have required having girls around. And even Colonel Hogan would have had a hard time pulling that off. Though it would not have been impossible!

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Boy, what a great time. We finally had that show I've been talking about all week—well, writing about—and I tell ya, it was great. Kinch has a great voice. He doesn't usually sing—I mean, I guess there isn't much to sing about in a prison camp—but when he does, boy, you listen. Nice and deep, and rich. Not like Louis Armstrong deep, but more like… oh I don't know, someone who you don't mind listening to for a long time.

Louis sang, of course, and played the piano. He's really talented like that. I sang a few Irving Berlin songs with the other fellas, and played the trumpet. And Newkirk did that great magic trick again that he did the other day when we were in the barracks and he pulled a coin out of my glove. He still hasn't explained why he's walking around with an American silver dollar instead of that English coin he used to bring out all the time. But when I've asked him, he kind of just shrugs at me and looks over at the Colonel. And then neither of them says anything. It must be a secret.

Finally, Colonel Hogan played the drums. He was taking the place of one of the fellas in Theo Sheffield's camp band who couldn't play. He said he didn't want to, but Newkirk reminded him that he'd promised, and once he was up there, you couldn't get him down. He didn't show off or anything, he just kept the beat during everyone's songs, and he was so happy you could have sworn he forgot he was in a prison camp! Gee, it's a good thing he has ideas like this one every now and then, because even though what we do here is important, we all want to forget we're here once in awhile, even the Colonel.

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A bloody good show tonight, mate. And I'd like to take all the credit for it, but I can't. I emceed it, but it wasn't my idea and I wasn't the only one up there onstage, either.

Earlier this week, the Colonel saw me doing some magic with Andrew in the common room and suggested we put on a camp show. Good idea, really, as we've all been so down-in-the-mouth lately. You know, Christmas time without the family, stuck here in a ruddy POW camp—don't want to count what number I'm on now. And this year even Nan's fruit cake didn't get here in time. I expect either some Kraut is having a really good feed, or it's stuck somewhere between London and here—all the more rich and, shall we say, well, full of inebriating abilities by the time it makes it.

Anyway, it was a good time. I convinced gov'nor to play the drums in Theo Sheffield's band. Told him Rodgers had slipped on the ice and hurt his wrist so he couldn't play. Nearly forgot to let Rodgers in on it—it was a really close call on Thursday when the Colonel walked by and Rodgers was outside building a snowman! I diverted Hogan quick enough, though, and from then on it stuck in my head to tell Rodgers to grab a sling from the medic and have it on whenever he thought the Colonel might be walking by!

It might sound underhanded and devious, and maybe it is, but I could see that winter and the war were taking just as much a toll on Colonel Hogan as any of the rest of us, and he was so anxious for us all to find an outlet, but wasn't planning on helping himself none. I don't know what it is about him, that he can help everyone but himself. Don't know if that's how they train officers in the States, but Hogan holds to it more than anyone I've ever met. I suppose if I took the time to think about it I'd probably realise it has to do with him being in charge of such a big operation here. The closer he gets to us, the more vulnerable he becomes, the more danger he can put us all in, if he's captured by the Krauts. But every man has a need for companionship, and the Colonel is no exception. He can only deny that for so long, before it really starts to eat him away inside.

I'm sure he didn't mind the companionship of Hilda, the Kommandant's secretary, when I got him involved in one of my more complex magic tricks, and he found himself in a big wooden box… with just her for very tight company! He offered me a month's pay just to let the box get stuck shut for half an hour. The wily fox! I told him for a month of a Colonel's pay, the ruddy box could just as well stay shut the rest of the night.

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Hogan let out a long breath as he sat at his desk. He stared unseeing at the journal before him, then thoughtfully opened the book and began writing.

The boys put on a great show tonight for the camp. With all the lousy weather we've been having, even after the holiday season—or maybe it's because of the holiday season—everyone's been kind of down, more than usual, that is, and the weather still isn't cooperating, so I thought it might be a good idea to put on a show.

Brother, did they come through. Newkirk was the emcee, and he did his magic tricks that everyone is so fond of, Kinch and Le Beau sang, Carter sang a bit and Olsen did impressions—I really can't go into those here, not in a family journal!

Theo Sheffield's band played back-up for everyone's bits tonight, and because I'd promised Newkirk, I sat in on the drums. It felt good being around those instruments, having control of at least one thing in this God-forsaken country. I know Newkirk insisted on my playing because he has this idea that I have to be "one of the boys"—included in everything they do.

I don't know why I have such a problem with this. There's nothing I'd like more than to feel "normal," to just blend in with everyone else. When I was at West Raynham, the fellas and I used to have a bull session before a mission, work together as a team, we could practically finish each other's sentences—well, I know Bailey could always finish mine. That boy could read my mind. But here, somehow… though I sometimes feel I know some of these men inside and out, I feel like I have to be separate somehow, like I have to remain one step removed. I'm the only officer here in camp, and I'm supposed to help keep these men safe and mentally together until the Allies storm the gates—which, by the way, looks more and more like it's coming every day.

And somehow… maybe if I let myself get too attached… maybe if I get so comfortable that I become "one of the fellas," as Carter would say… maybe I'll forget that command presence I have to have, that edge I need when I'm making decisions that will allow me to send someone on a dangerous mission, even when I know there's a more than even chance that he won't make it back. Maybe if I let myself become one of them… I'll make a mistake that will kill them. Or I'll finally get captured and they'll hang around instead of getting the hell out—and get themselves killed.

I'd rather be sequestered away from them for the duration of the war, than ever take a chance on something that horrible. I'd rather be alone. It's not worth the risk for a few hours of comradeship. The men need each other—they need to bond, and to look after each other like brothers.

Anyway, speaking of the boys being mentally glued together, one particular part of the show made me smile. Alan Fisher did a skit with some of the other boys from his barracks. He's a talented young man. I'm glad we didn't lose him that day. He has a lot to share. At least one thing went right in this hole we're forced to call "home."