No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied of inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

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"I understand, General Burkhalter, but Hogan isn't in any condition to—" Kommandant Wilhelm Klink tried to protest, even though inside he knew it was pointless. "But Herr General, Hogan isn't likely to want—" Klink tried again, then: "No, of course, sir, I know what Hogan wants isn't important. It's just that—" He slumped his shoulders and shook his head. "Yes, sir, I agree we did quite a bit to help him, but that was because—" Klink shivered and pulled his ear away from the phone as his name was bellowed through the receiver. "Yes, sir, I'll tell him…. Yes, sir…. Oh, to you, too, sir. Heil Hitler."

Klink hung up the phone and sighed. His superior and direct connection to the Fuhrer, General Albert Burkhalter, certainly knew how to use everything for the glory of the Third Reich. So why didn't Klink want him to use this incident? When Hogan had been brought back to camp the night of that terrible car accident, it was Klink himself who, shocked by Hogan's condition, had insisted on getting the injured man to the hospital in Hammelburg immediately. And Hogan had been treated there, sometimes sedated, and given as much pain relief as would be spared for an enemy officer. That certainly was magnanimous, wasn't it?

But when the American returned to Stalag 13 a week later—prematurely, Klink thought—Klink saw a different man from the one who had driven out of camp that tragic day. True, Hogan was still recovering from very serious injuries. But there was something else. Klink had heard both the guards and the prisoners talking in low tones around the camp, and what he heard gave him the shivers: Hogan had barely met Kleinschmidt until then, and the pair had not traveled very far before their car careened down a steep embankment. When they were found, Hogan told his rescuers that he and Kleinschmidt had sustained each other by talking, and that the young guard had told the American all sorts of things about himself. Private details that were confirmed later by another camp guard, Corporal Karl Langenscheidt, who had finally provided the details necessary to track down the dead man's only remaining relatives—his sisters, who were living on their own in Helmstedt.

None of that would have bothered Klink, if not for the fact that Kleinschmidt had died immediately in the crash. So Hogan had actually been alone for four hours trapped in the wreckage, trying desperately to simply survive, talking to whom? Or… what? Clearly, the whole incident was haunting the senior Prisoner of War as well. That might be a poor choice of words, Klink thought uncomfortably.

His own compassion for Hogan disturbed the Kommandant. Hogan was merely a prisoner, an enemy who had caused more than a little trouble for the Germans before he was shot down. Klink should have had no qualms about letting some middle-ranked sycophant from the Propaganda Ministry use the American to the advantage of the Third Reich—yes, Klink began to think self-righteously, the Fatherland did use its precious resources to care for someone whose value to them was limited. It did give up one of its limited number of hospital beds to make sure Hogan could be monitored properly when he was first treated. The Fatherland did willingly do more than expected of it to keep Hogan alive.

Who am I trying to fool? Klink thought suddenly; I had to practically beg the doctor at that hospital to give Hogan something for his terrible pain when we first arrived. All doctors are not created equal…. Then with equal self-loathing, Klink realized that he would probably give these cold-hearted officials all the cooperation they wanted.

With a sigh, he turned back to his inventory report. His conscience would have to wait until he finished his paperwork.

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"The Schweinfurt raid was a disaster," Hogan related, shaking his head. "The Eighth Air Force lost sixty planes trying to bomb that ball bearing plant. Sixty." He bowed his head as his face turned ashen at the thought. "That's six hundred men who aren't going home."

Hogan's men nodded somberly. There wasn't a man in the camp who didn't know what it was like to get shot out of a plane. But such a huge loss in just one night…

"London was very anxious to get in touch with you the day after your accident," Kinch said. Hogan shot him a questioning look from his bunk. Kinch shrugged. "They kept calling while you were in the hospital, sir," he explained with some reluctance. "I finally told them we'd let them know when you came back."

Hogan nodded. "That raid was the night of the accident," he said softly. Then, almost in a whisper, he added, "Black Thursday."

Newkirk exchanged long looks with the others. The Colonel was constantly balling a portion of the blanket into his right fist, then loosening it, then gripping it tightly again. His whole body was tense, his mouth set in a taut, thin line. Hogan was in pain. But he didn't mention it, and he wasn't asking the men to leave. So Newkirk did his best to distract Hogan by helping him focus on his talk with Allied Headquarters. "So… why was it so important that you know, sir?" he asked hesitantly.

Hogan stared at the blanket across his legs, his hand still moving, each breath becoming more and more like a difficult pant. After a moment, he replied, "Because the RAF wants to try something else just as dangerous, and they… don't want the same results."

"What do they want to try, Colonel?" asked Carter.

"Air strikes on Berlin."

Hogan's men all started talking at once. Berlin! It was so far into Germany… how could the Allies possibly do it without a staggering number of fatalities? Hogan closed his eyes to the din, willing his ever-present headache to the background, and waited for the group to settle down. "So how do we fit into it, mon Colonel?" Le Beau finally asked.

"Up until a few weeks ago, the Germans didn't think the Allies would try something so daring. Berlin is deep in the country and it's bound to be well… protected." Hogan pulled some of the blanket into his fist tightly again and, more slowly this time, released it. "But lately… London says there have been some trickles coming through that indicate the Krauts are getting a bit wise to the idea of us pulling a stunt like this, and there are Ack-Ack batteries close enough to make Bomber Command nervous."

"And?" Le Beau prompted.

"And… they want us to find something more interesting for the Nazis to focus on when the RAF makes its first strike. Preferably… something not so close to Berlin."

"Then why do they not just stage a raid somewhere else at the same time?" Le Beau suggested.

"Yeah, one raid starting earlier on a target like Düsseldorf, and another raid when the Krauts are all tied up there, on Berlin!" Newkirk agreed.

Hogan shook his head, then winced as he shifted his leg under the blanket. "You're forgetting one thing," he said. He bit his lip. A piece of the blanket disappeared again. Hogan's men waited. "This is war… but six hundred men are still hard to forget. They do this wrong and they lose a lot more men—at both sites."

Carter lowered his head, saddened by the news of the Schweinfurt raid. When he looked up, it was to see a very pale Hogan obviously just as unhappy, and obviously taxing himself beyond his capabilities today. "We'll think of something, sir," he said hopefully. He looked at the others. Come on, give the Colonel a break! "I mean, we always do. You always do." He looked at the others when Hogan remained silent. "Come on, fellas, you know we'll come up with something to help Headquarters. Don't you?"

"Sure we will," Kinch said with a half-hearted smile. "You can't stop Hogan and Company for long."

Kinch looked from Carter to the others and then over at the Colonel. Hogan was trembling. He wasn't letting go of the blanket, and a thin sheen of perspiration was covering his face. Kinch pursed his lips and moved in closer. "Time for your medicine, sir," he said quietly. Hogan closed his eyes as he took in short, shuddering breaths. "Then you can get some sleep."

Hogan said nothing, concentrating as much as possible on the fabric crushed in his grasp. He'd done all he could for now; it was time to forget where he was, and why he was there. And right now, he'd do that gratefully.

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Hogan opened his eyes and took a couple of seconds to orient himself. He was in his quarters, but on the bottom bunk instead of his usual upper berth, which explained the blocked view of the ceiling. And he had taken pain medication before he slept, which explained his fuzzy-headedness upon wakening, when he liked to wake up clear-headed and sharp. And he was at Stalag 13, which still didn't explain why he found himself being stared at by the camp Kommandant when he looked around the room. Hogan frowned, questioning.

"I need to talk to you, Hogan."

Klink's voice didn't offer any option to refuse. "How long have you been standing there?" Hogan asked, his voice betraying a touch of annoyance.

"I just got here," Klink lied. In truth, with the other men out in the prison yard, Klink had come into the barracks to see Hogan in private, only to find the senior POW in a deep, drug- and pain-induced sleep. He watched the American closely for a few minutes, his eyes tracing the large, terrible bruise on Hogan's face that had given him a black eye and, Klink guessed, a ferocious headache. Then he remembered what he had to tell his prisoner and had nearly backed out of the room, when Hogan had groaned and woken up. Now, Klink realized with more than a little trepidation that he was trapped. "The noise of the door shutting must have woken you up."

"Hmf," Hogan grunted in reply. "What do you want?"

"Do you want to sit up?" Klink asked, ignoring the question. He gestured toward one of the blankets on the floor that had been being used as a make-shift pillow.

"Yeah," Hogan answered vaguely.

Klink reached down and picked up a blanket as Hogan struggled to pull himself up in the bed. At first the German avoided looking, to allow the injured man some dignity, but it very soon became obvious that Hogan couldn't manage that task without a substantial amount of pain, so Klink turned and offered one hand as support for Hogan's back as he drew the American up by his good arm with the other. Then, still gripping Hogan's arm, Klink grabbed the blanket he had dropped and shoved it behind the Colonel, and eased his own hand away. Hogan fell against the blanket, biting back a groan, the roots of his hair damp with the sweat of exertion, and trying to slow his fast-beating heart. "Thanks," he said breathlessly, when he could.

"You're welcome."

"So," Hogan said, finally locking a suspicious gaze on Klink, "what do you want?"

Klink swallowed hard. "May I sit down?"

Hogan lifted his chin tiredly to indicate yes. Klink took the stool from the desk and put it beside the bed. He sat down heavily. "How are you feeling, Hogan?" Klink began.

Hogan looked chagrined. "You woke me up to ask me that?"

"No—no." Klink paused awkwardly.

"Getting a little better every day, Sergeant Wilson says," Hogan eventually offered the silence.

"Good. Good." Another pause. "Actually, Hogan, I came here to tell you something." More silence. "About your car accident."

Hogan closed his eyes.

"The investigation is completed; I got a phone call about it this morning."

Hogan didn't open his eyes. "Good for you," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"It was an accident, Hogan. Pure and simple. The roads were bad and Kleinschmidt couldn't handle the car after all the rain. There was no foul play."

"Glad to hear it," Hogan said softly; "I'd hate to think one of my boys was trying to do me in."

"Hogan, I mean there was no sabotage. No one was trying to do anything to hurt you, or Kleinschmidt."

Hogan remained silent.

Klink waited. And waited. Then: "Hogan?"

Two dark eyes opened and turned listlessly to the German Colonel. They were full of words, full of questions, full of pain. Klink felt a strange tug within him. He's not just a prisoner, is he, Wilhelm? You must stop that, now.

"It's very little comfort to me, Kommandant. And it's probably even less comfort to Kleinschmidt's—" Gunter's—"family." Hogan suddenly arched his back and drew in a sharp, gasping breath when a not-unfamiliar arrow of pain shot through his leg.

Klink watched silently until Hogan released the breath and sank back against the blanket. "I suppose you're right," Klink answered.

Hogan's voice was weaker when he next spoke. "Anything else I can do for you, Colonel Klink?" he panted.

Just get it over with, Klink ordered himself. "Yes, Hogan," he said with a nod. Hogan raised one eyebrow—the one that's not above the black eye, Klink noticed unnecessarily. "We're getting a very special visitor this week from Berlin."

"I'm sorry, Kommandant, but I'm in no condition to bring the men out for parade. If you want a special formation, you'll have to talk to Kinch. I've asked him to scramble the men in my absence."

Klink couldn't miss the irritation in Hogan's voice. The American was wrong in his guess about what the Kommandant wanted—but he was on the right track. And Klink knew he would have every reason to be angry. "I do not want the men to parade," Klink replied, putting a bit of severity into his own tone to bolster his courage. "I simply need you to talk to the visitor when he comes here."

"Talk to him?"

"Yes, Hogan. You see, he is coming here especially to see you."

"Me."

Klink let out a light, nervous laugh at Hogan's deadpan reply. "You're a very special prisoner, Hogan. You always have been!"

Hogan put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. "Don't remind me," he said, rubbing carefully around the bruise.

"When Major Schafer gets here, I want you to be charming and helpful and engaging— I want you to act like me!"

"Make up your mind, Kommandant; I can't do both." Hogan and Klink locked eyes for a moment; Klink looked away when Hogan asked, "What does Schafer want to talk to me about?"

Klink paused—an uncomfortably long pause, thought Hogan. Klink raised his chin and said with more confidence than he felt, "When you had that accident, Hogan, the Luftwaffe went to extraordinary lengths to get your injuries treated. You were taken to the hospital, you were given medication—"

"In other words, you acted like ordinary, compassionate human beings," Hogan retorted. "I suppose now you want me to pay for that aberration." Hogan forced himself to pull away from the rolled-up blanket Klink had pushed behind him. "Major Schafer's from the Propaganda Department, isn't he?" he asked, his voice low and accusing. "This is all about publicity." He let out a heavy breath. "And nothing about decency."

Klink shook his head. "Hogan, you don't understand—" he started, even though as he spoke, inside he was already contradicting himself: No, Hogan, you understand Berlin far too well….

"No, Kommandant; you don't understand." Hogan threw off the blanket that had covered him as he slept, and with tremendous effort and not a little pain, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up, grabbing the upper bunk to try and steady himself. Klink rose in surprise, watching with increasing alarm as Hogan, grimacing, then propelled himself—undoubtedly by sheer force of will—toward his desk. The American officer leaned heavily on the surface. It was anger alone that was keeping him standing; his injured leg was shaking and threatening to send him crashing to the floor any second. With his good arm, Hogan reached for the precious bottle of pills that he had been gratefully—unquestioningly—taking to help him cope with the pain of physical healing. "If the price tag of accepting your medical help is to sell myself to the Nazis—" he began. He stumbled toward Klink, tottering and swaying dizzily but still managing to look menacing, and forced the bottle of pills into the German's hands—"then I'd rather go without." Bitterly, he gasped, "Thanks anyway."

Klink's mind absorbed the white, drawn face of the senior POW as the American collapsed, breathless, on the bunk. Hogan had used all the strength he could muster to defy the proposal from Berlin, and now he ignored the Kommandant, completely spent and in agony. Klink stared at the bottle in his hand, debating whether to offer some relief to Hogan, then decided against it since it was bound to be rejected anyway. Instead, he said in as strong a voice as he could, "Major Schafer will be here in one week, Hogan. That will give you time to get used to the idea. I hope you realize, no one is asking for your approval here. Berlin will expect you to comply."

Hogan didn't answer. Klink turned and left the office, and then, as he heard a sob of pain come from Hogan's quarters, he placed the bottle of pills on the table of the common room, before shaking his head regretfully and leaving the barracks.