A/N: Previously on Hogan's Heroes: Dubois, a member of the French Underground, has been captured. Burkhalter's aide is taking him away, and the heroes waylay them in the woods, freeing Dubois and capturing the aide.
The guard casually lifted the barrier just over his head and walked under it, over to the passenger's side of the car. He leaned down beside Cpt. Franz and said, "Guten abend. May I see your papers?"
Franz held up his pass without opening it, saying, "I have a pass from General Burkhalter allowing me passage anywhere in Germany."
Then the Frenchman beside him spoke up. "That's exactly what I need." Franz turned his head and found a gun pointed at him. He immediately stiffened up at the sight of it, slowing his movements to prevent any hasty shots from being fired. The Frenchman took his pass and gestured him out of the car. He turned back to the guard for assistance with this defecting prisoner, but instead found that the guard had opened the door for him. Confused, he stepped out, still very slowly.
Before he had a chance to ask what was going on, he spotted, out of the darkness, three figures dressed in black. They were already close, and approached quickly. The one in front had another gun out, also trained on him. Ah. The Frenchman had these confederates to help him, probably members of the Underground. The guard had probably seen them first, and, knowing they were outnumbered, hadn't tried anything that might get them shot. But there he stood, relaxed. Something was wrong.
The first of the new arrivals jabbed the gun at him. "Take off your uniform."
American. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw that the other two men had gone around the car and were helping the Frenchman take his own uniform off. Seeing this, Franz came out with the first definite thing he had been able to say this whole time. "No!"
The man responded quickly. "Would you rather I shoot it off?"
No. He wouldn't. Faced with no other options, he reluctantly began to take off his uniform. Going too slowly, the man in black began to tug it off with him, and threw his outer coat over the hood, toward the others. Simultaneously, the stopping guard was patting him down and removing weapons. What? What was he—?
A wad of blue fabric was shoved at him, and he was pushed towards the stopping guard and another of the Underground men who had come to this side of the car. The first man gave orders. "Carter, Newkirk, you take him back to camp. The Underground will pick him up in a few days."
Each man answered with a brief "yes sir." The only thing he had time to register was the fact that one of the voices sounded British, and neither were German. They grabbed him by the arms and bundled him away from the car and into the woods. As they receded, he could hear a stream of French, followed by the closing of a car door.
Franz went along easily enough at first, his mind working furiously. The Underground will pick him up? These men weren't from the Underground? Then what were they? He looked at the man in the guard's uniform as they wove around a tree. Defecting German soldiers? No. The accents. And the English and French that were spoken. These were foreigners, familiar with the protocols, at least of the road, of the Wehrmacht, that had a "camp" in the country, from which they were assisting their allies. How?
They had walked far enough to be out of sight of the road, and at this point, the man in black stopped them. "'ere. Let's get you in this French uniform, shall we?" This was the Englishman. He pulled his gun out before he let go of Franz, but both he and his companion stayed very close, discouraging any attempts at running. Franz looked at the both of them and said nothing, instead untangling the ball of clothes in his hands and buying himself time to think while he put them on. He watched the behavior of his two captors. The stopping guard was only a disguise. He was part of this group, sent ahead to stop their car. Judging by looks and the few words he had said, this man was probably American. And he was young. Younger than the Englander.
"'urry up, now. We don' 'ave all night." Franz made a show of going faster, which, in effect, did nothing to increase his speed. He got the shirt over his head, and started shouldering on the jacket. At that moment the American completely lost hold of the rifle, handgun, and Halt sign that he was carrying. There was a great clatter, that was drawn out much longer than was necessary as the man kept grabbing at the objects to try and catch them. They all fell anyways. The Brit let out a quiet stream of curses, interspersed with "Carter! What are you doing? We're in the middle of an operation and you can't keep ahold of what's in your 'ands? Bloody klutz!"
Franz didn't do anything to take advantage of the moment. He was still in observation mode, he wanted to give them a false sense of security, and the man beside him still had a gun. He felt out the situation, still gathering information. The rebuke was angry, certainly, but it wasn't the anger of a commanding officer to his unmanageable inferior. It was much closer to annoyance between friends, heightened because of the stakes.
"Why were you 'olding them like that anyway? Give that t' me." The Englishman took the handgun and tucked it in his belt, slung the rifle over the other's—Carter's—shoulder and planted the sign in the air. "Can you manage 'olding this?"
Carter took the sign a little sheepishly and nodded. Quick enough to be unnerving, the Brit had his full attention back on Franz. "Don't you make any noise near that loud, you 'ear?" Franz dumbly nodded, not betraying his discovery. He had found the weak link.
After a minute of listening for anyone coming who may have heard them, they resumed their positions and continued through the trees. Franz continued in observation. He wanted to figure out the situation before trying anything. Something had been itching at the back of his mind for a while. All of the different languages and accents, even the looks of his captors, and the hierarchy evident with the yes sir's back at the car, it all sat in the back of his head, pestering him with the same feeling that a thought you are trying to remember gives you. He hadn't had much time to process it, and now he focused intently on it. But it didn't come out into the open until he quit focusing on it and looked at his surroundings.
He looked forward through the trees, then thought back to where they had come from. One thing he lacked was an acute sense of direction, but he thought back carefully. It wasn't a difficult map to create, actually. And it included the short drive in the car. A nearly complete triangle.
They were heading back toward the Stalag they had come from. That explained the various foreign nationalities, the allies, the "camp." Colonel Klink's very own Stalag 13. Wasn't he the one with the perfect record? No escapes? And here at least four men, likely more, could come and go as they pleased, sabotaging what they liked, and worked with the Underground? This was incredible. This had to be exposed.
The captain took stock of his surroundings in an unobtrusive way. He had to find a way to get away from these two men before he was surrounded by many more than two enemies. Once he was in the camp, there was likely no escaping. It had to be right outside the camp, where there were plenty of Germans, who would probably think they were escaping prisoners and try to capture before shooting. That was the risky part, out of uniform as he was, but perhaps if he spoke only in German it would help. And then another thought struck him. This was a Luft Stalag. Despite his being an aide, chiefly in diplomatic work, he was likely to have more combat training than these two combined. Taking them out before they were in sight of the camp would eliminate the risk of being shot from the guard towers and of meeting up with more prisoners before they made it into the camp. Yes. He had a plan.
~HH~
Cpt. Franz was alert the rest of the trip—which wasn't long. The checkpoint had to be within walking distance of the camp, and close enough not to miss roll call. Newkirk and Carter made small talk on the way back, but nothing too loud or long. They had a job to do. And as far as they saw it, it was a job. Part of the routine. Most of the time, the prisoners came fairly willingly, only a little bit of trouble with them trying to wriggle out when they found out what was going to happen to them. Which was just being dumped on the Underground and going to a POW camp in England. This was why they weren't expecting what Cpt. Franz did. He had guessed at most of this, and knew the opportunity he was looking for. He wanted to be close enough to camp to get help if he needed it, but far enough away so as not to be seen. He needed a distraction, but if one didn't come before he needed it, he'd have to just go for it. Luckily, one did come.
They were approaching a rise in the ground. Something of a hill. Without saying anything, the POWs told him it was important. It was in their body language. Franz prepared himself, examining the area for any geographical advantages. As it turned out, his advantage was geological.
"You take 'im. You're still wearin' that." The Englander—Newkirk, as he had learned—gestured at the light-colored uniform Carter wore.
Take him? What was that supposed to mean? Where was he going? After putting down his sign, Carter received a handgun from Newkirk and kept it in Franz's back, the other hand on his shoulder. He stood still. They weren't moving anywhere.
Newkirk got on hands and knees and began to crawl forward to the peak of the hill. Stalag 13 must be right there, and the older prisoner was checking to see if the coast was clear. Now was his chance.
Franz planted an elbow in Carter's gut, and in the same movement, brought his arm down hard on his captor's wrist to knock the gun to the ground. Without checking to see if it had worked, he bent down, retrieved a rock and made steady aim at Newkirk's head. The man jerked as it hit its mark, but it was nowhere near big enough to knock him out. It only stunned him. Franz spun on one heel, ready for the fist Carter was swinging at him. It was a left-handed punch, and with his poor hand-to-hand training, was easily deflected. Franz gave him a few solid blows before ducking around him, pulling the concealed blade Carter had missed, and holding it up to his throat.
Newkirk, who had just been trying to stand up, stopped halfway at the sight of his friend, bruised, struggling to stand, and in the hands of a very competent German adversary. His breathing became more forced as he tried to gain some sort of upper hand in the scenario, but at first, all he could think of was "How—?"
"Don't bother looking for it in the standard gear. I sew it into my own uniforms." In fact, the blade he was using was very easily hidden. It was only a triangle of metal, sharpened on one side, with a hole in the opposite corner to put one's finger in and grasp it. It was small, thin, and still incredibly effective. Franz tried pushing the advantage of surprise, speaking quickly to keep his enemies from having any time to think. "You will give your guns to me and stay right where you are. In order to discourage you from following, I will take Carter with me," Newkirk looked surprised at the mention of his name, "out of eyesight and earshot, where I will leave him for you, alive if you do as I say. Do not follow me, as I have excellent eyes, ears, and aim."
The Brit only straightened, slowly. His pause was too long. Franz had to keep up his advantage.
With his free hand, he grabbed his captive's left wrist, pulled his arm up behind his back, and swung his knee into the back of Carter's to buckle it and use his own weight to twist his arm further. There was a faint pop as his shoulder dislocated. Carter yelled in pain.
Newkirk's eyes widened and his face flushed. Franz repeated his demand. "Give me the guns!"
Now Newkirk did as he was told. He held up his hands, held his gun by the muzzle, and approached slowly. "Grab the one on the ground, same way, and don't try to shoot. If nothing else, my reflex will be to slit his throat." Newkirk picked up the gun carefully. As he came near, acutely aware of Carter's labored breathing, he held out the first gun. Franz took it. In order to free his hand to receive the second, he had to divert his attention just the tiniest bit for the shortest amount of time to place the gun in the unfamiliar pocket. That's when Carter saw something that Franz didn't.
Newkirk handed over the second gun, and stared hard at the German. They locked eyes. "Don't you dare kill 'im," he whispered. His voice was shaking with adrenaline and, Franz noticed, with rage. The American was definitely the weak spot. This should work just fine.
"Step back," he ordered Newkirk. With all of his protective instincts raging, Newkirk hardly noticed him say it. He didn't want to get any farther from his comrade. Franz saw this and pressed the blade just far enough into the thin skin of the neck to draw blood. Carter gasped in a strained way, galvanizing Newkirk. He stepped back a few purposeful steps. Franz began to recede, eyes and gun trained on Newkirk.
Newkirk watched as the German dragged his friend into the dark forest, with nothing to assure him that the German would keep his word.