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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One look at Hogan and Newkirk rushed to his bedside, kneeling close to him. "Gov'nor, what is it?" he asked. He scanned the room. "Where's your medicine?"

"Forget it," Hogan rasped, still curled in on himself as much as he could. "Price is—too high."

"What's that, gov'nor?" Newkirk asked. He looked at the perspiration pouring off the senior POW's grey face and became too frightened even to touch him. "What can I do?"

"Nothing. I'll do—without them."

An agonized groan through tightly clenched teeth told Newkirk what he had to do. "I can't say I agree with your conclusion, Colonel Hogan, but I'll let you have your way… at least until I get Wilson over here."

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Sergeant Joe Wilson shook his head as he faced Hogan's men. "He needs that medicine to hold off the worst of the pain," the medic said. He stared at the bottle still on the common room table. "But I understand why he won't take it any more. I'll give him something else. Not nearly as effective, but at least he'll take it."

"Why won't he take the Boche pills?" Le Beau asked, frustrated. "It's about time they did something decent."

"It's not that simple," Wilson countered, sitting at the table. "Apparently, there are strings attached to those."

"Strings?" Carter echoed.

Wilson nodded, still disgusted at what he had been told. "Klink paid him a visit earlier today. The Propaganda Ministry wants to turn the Colonel into an advertisement for fair treatment of POWs by the Nazis."

The outcry of disgust was immediate and unanimous. Wilson continued, equally repelled. "Klink told him that the Krauts went to extraordinary lengths to help him—taking him to the hospital… giving him pain medication… in short, doing the right thing." He paused as Hogan's men shook their heads. "So… because he was angry… Colonel Hogan got out of bed, took the pills off his desk, shoved them back at Klink, and told him he'd do just fine without them." Picturing the scene in his head, Wilson sighed. "He isn't up to that kind of activity. Not yet."

"That explains why the tablets were out here," Newkirk realized. And why you were in so much pain, gov'nor. "Ol' Klink must have left them behind."

Wilson nodded. "Maybe. All I know is it'd take a few strong men holding him down to make the Colonel accept them now. And he needs them; they're better than anything I can supply."

"What have you given him now, Joe?" asked Kinch.

"Aspirin," the medic replied, frustrated. "He wouldn't take morphine—says he wants to be more alert now that he knows the Krauts are up to something. He did accept a sedative to help him relax. It wouldn't be a bad thing for him to get numb to everything for awhile, in spite of himself. It might actually keep him from pulling crazy stunts like the one he did today."

"Thanks, Joe," Le Beau said.

"Yeah, thanks," Carter agreed.

"It's okay," the medic said. He looked again at the spurned medication. "Maybe you can slip one of these into his food," he said without a trace of guilt or humor. "It's the least the goons can do for him." He stood up. "Talk to him about what's coming up," he suggested. "Klink's visit got him all wound up. And that isn't doing him any good at all."

"Nor the rest of us," Newkirk added.

Wilson paused at the door. "No… nor the rest of us. Good night, fellas."

"Good night."

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"Herr Kommandant, there is a Captain Lehmann here to see you."

"Captain Lehmann?" Klink looked up from his desk. "I'm not expecting any Captain Lehmann," he mused. "What does he want?"

"I do not know, Herr Kommandant. And I did not think it was my place to ask," Schultz replied confidentially.

Klink thought a moment. "But no one is due here until this afternoon!" He shrugged his shoulders. "Very well, Schultz; send him in."

The guard opened the door and gestured for someone to enter. A small, stout man entered, his dark hair parted on one side and pulled over his head. I never did like that look, thought Klink, who nearly gasped aloud when he realized he was criticizing what was the Fuhrer's own hair style. He wore a suit that was just one size too small for him, and Klink's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the buttons that seemed ready to burst on the man's chest, which were only put under even more duress when the man offered a sharp salute to the Colonel.

Klink returned the gesture. "Captain Lehmann, is it?" he asked.

"Yes, Colonel Klink."

"I was not… expecting you today." Klink tried to shrug casually. He failed miserably. There was nothing casual about an unexpected visit by anyone, even a lower-ranked officer.

"I have been sent by Berlin. Did you not receive word that someone would be coming?"

Klink hastened to amend his words. So, this man was replacing Major Schafer as the representative from the Propaganda Ministry! It would not do for Klink to seem unwelcoming. "Oh, of course, of course, Captain Lehmann!" he said with exaggerated cheerfulness. "It's just I wasn't expecting you to arrive until this afternoon, that's all." Klink let out a small laugh and came around the desk. "Please, please—won't you sit down? Cigar?" he offered, gesturing toward his humidor. "A glass of brandy, perhaps?"

Lehmann accepted the offer of the seat but waved away the cigar and the brandy. "No, no, Colonel Klink. I am fine as I am. So you have everything ready for me here, yes?" he asked, folding his hands in his lap.

Klink frowned. "Here?" he asked. "Why, Captain Lehmann, I thought you would be doing this in the barracks." He stopped and took a quick look around. "You have not brought your equipment with you, Captain," he observed.

Lehmann let out a light laugh. "Equipment, Colonel? Why, I have everything I need. And I'm sure you would not deprive me the use of one of your pencils, would you?"

"My pencils—no," Klink mused, still looking. "It's amazing," he muttered, staring at Lehmann's jacket. Perhaps there was a legitimate reason for its tightness after all.

"What is so amazing, Colonel?"

"Why, that cameras can be made so small!" Klink marveled. "I can't even tell that you have one with you!"

Lehmann's own lightheartedness turned into perplexity. "Cameras?" he repeated. "Colonel Klink, I have no camera. I have no need for one."

"You don't?" Klink asked, surprised. "Well, Captain… I mean, I was under the impression that…" Thank heaven. He thought about his encounter last week in Colonel Hogan's office. It had frightened him to see Hogan so distressed and so ill, and it had done the American no good, either. Maybe I can get Hogan to simply tell this man that he was thoroughly looked after; that is the truth, after all. Without photos it can't be half as bad, and then maybe he won't be so defiant about taking those verdammt pills he needs so much! "Well, perhaps we should go see Colonel Hogan now."

"Colonel Hogan?"

Klink nodded. "Yes—well, he's not really well enough to be up and about, not for long, anyway," he explained as Lehmann frowned at him. "As a matter of fact, this morning was his first day out at roll call since the accident."

Lehmann shook his head. "Excuse me, Kommandant, but… why do I want to go see a prisoner?"

"For your assignment!" Klink answered.

"I do not need Colonel… Hogan, for my assignment," Lehmann said.

"Oh, Captain Lehmann, I'm sorry. I was led to understand that you were going to speak to Hogan about his treatment after the car accident. So it is only me that you want to talk to?" Klink babbled. This might not be bad after all, Klink considered. "Well, I suppose you people in the Propaganda Ministry know a lot more about what is effective publicity than I ever would. After all," he added, with a laugh that he hoped sounded more carefree than relieved, "I am Kommandant of a prisoner of war camp—I do not look for publicity." A quick one-eighty. "Of course, I do have one or two fine photographs of myself in full military regalia if you think they would be useful for—"

"Kommandant Klink—Kommandant Klink!" Lehmann waved his hand to signal negative as he tried to cut in on Klink's sudden flow of words. Klink came to a halt and looked at him expectantly. "Herr Colonel, I am not here to talk about this—car accident—at all. I don't know anything about that."

Klink's shoulders slumped, deflated. "You don't?"

"No, no."

"Then… why are you here? Aren't you replacing Major Schafer?"

"Schafer?"

"From the Propaganda Ministry! He was to come here today to do a story about how our senior POW was taken to the hospital and generously treated by German doctors to save his life. I presumed you were here in his place."

Lehmann raised his eyebrows, but shook his head. "No, Kommandant," he said, standing. "There has obviously been a miscommunication somewhere along the line. I am not from the Propaganda Ministry, and I know nothing of your senior POW or his car accident. I am here from Central Supply—your reports came in earlier this week and there were some—shall we say, unusual?—figures in them. I am here to conduct an audit." He smiled as Klink seemed to melt before him. "Now—you have already said we can use your office. That's just fine. May I take you up on that glass of brandy now?"

Klink nodded numbly. He was right. It wasn't bad; it was worse.

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Hogan winced considerably as he shifted position on the small bench in the common room. He had started to get a bit more involved in camp life in the last couple of days, and only this morning he had joined his men for the first time in nearly three weeks at roll call. When Klink came out at first light, he had been astonished to see the American standing in the front row, the collar of his brown bomber jacket drawn up to help ward off the morning cold, one thumb hooked into a pocket, one hand gripping a cane a little too tightly. The German had come and taken a good, close look at Hogan, as though not sure he was real. And then suddenly roll call was the fastest affair Hogan had ever seen, and Klink had ordered Hogan to go back to the barracks and sit down before he fell down. Hogan had offered a characteristic half-grin at that, which his men appreciated. But he didn't laugh, because it was too close to the truth.

Now, he was waiting for Kinch to come back up from the tunnels below Barracks Two, nursing a cup of coffee and trying to consider what they had heard a few hours ago on the coffee pot in his office that served as a nice receiver for the listening device they had planted in Klink's office. An auditor, Hogan thought. Just what the Bald Eagle needs—more people around to make him jumpy.

He rubbed his forehead wearily. The once-constant overpowering headache had finally receded, but it had left him feeling sore in the head and still sensitive to loud noises and bright light. His neck was still stiff, but he could at least turn his head without tears stinging his eyes, and his shoulder and ribs were finally on the mend. Most of the trouble now remained in his leg, which resisted all attempts at relief and woke him up often at night, when his nightmares weren't busy doing the same. I could be up all night for a month; I still won't take those tainted pills you offer, Hogan thought again. He cursed his own stubbornness as a sudden stab of pain left him momentarily paralyzed. Aspirin will do just fine, he reminded himself grimly when it passed.

The bunk over the tunnel rose up with a clatter and Kinch appeared. He climbed into the room and re-secured the secret entrance. "Are you all right, Colonel?" he asked as he approached the table.

Hogan smiled half-heartedly. "Sure. Don't I look all right?"

Kinch shrugged. "Well, I guess so. But if you hold that cup any tighter it's gonna bend in your hand."

Hogan let his eyes drift to the coffee cup. Sure enough, his grip was so strong his knuckles were white. Deliberately, he released it. "What'd you get?" he asked.

"Plenty. The Krauts have more Ack-Ack batteries starting to converge near Berlin and the surrounding towns. And apparently, the hot shots are starting to get nervous. They're trying to get organized."

Hogan scowled. "Well, we can't have that," he remarked. "Anything else?"

"London." Kinch twitched his moustache as his dark eyes tried to gauge Hogan's reaction.

It was unreadable. "What about London?"

"They want to know our progress towards a solution to their… dilemma."

"What did you tell them?"

"We're working on it."

"Good man," Hogan answered. Since the truth is, I haven't been able to think. He gave his ribcage a soothing rub. About anything. Except…

The door to the barracks suddenly opened and Le Beau popped his head in. "Another Boche car has just come into camp, mon Colonel," he said.

"That must be Schafer," Hogan said. "Take a look, Le Beau."

"Oui, Colonel."

And that's my signal to sign out. Hogan looked up at Kinch from the table. "I'm gonna go lie down for awhile," he said.

Unused to Hogan retreating when new developments arose, Kinch sighed. "Right, sir."

Hogan stood and picked up the cane he had propped against the table beside him. His color—and his energy—instantly seemed to drain away, and his voice was unexpectedly faint when he asked, "Can you please—bring me some water, Kinch? I need to take some aspirin."

Kinch couldn't help but notice the white-knuckled grip Hogan had on the cane. He shook his head as his commanding officer took one heavily limping step toward his office. "Right away, Colonel."

Hogan turned to nod his thanks, and briefly, the two men's eyes met directly. Kinch saw that same look in his commanding officer's eyes that he had seen when Hogan had first learned about the fate of young Kleinschmidt, and knew then it was better not to press. This was about more than avoiding propaganda. "You just go lie down."