Disclaimer: I do not own 'Hogan's Heroes' or 'Twelve O'clock High', the only thing I own is the plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.

This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated) is coincidental.

Britt stared at the door, lost too deep in his own thoughts to even hear Harvey. After a couple of moments, he said, "I'll be using Colonel Gallagher's office to make some private calls, would you send in some supper for me?"

Without waiting for a response, he limped into the office and shut the door. He grabbed the phone before easing himself into the chair,
"Get me General Pritchard at Wing Command and scramble the call."

He was just as in the dark as Harvey was, and he didn't like it one bit. He might have to use up every ounce of political capital he had, but he wouldn't stop until he had some answers...

ACT III

Gallagher stared through the windscreen into nothing but black. There was no moon and the clouds had become incredibly thick. They were flying by instruments at a high altitude and, momentarily, they would begin their descent. The navigator would give them a new heading, which would direct them straight to the initial point, or IP, where they'd conduct their turns. The bombardier would take over the plane as it flew over the target and in a few seconds it would be done. They'd fly home and when the reports came in over the next day or two, the would learn their fate… simple… straightforward… no sweat...

Unless you miss.

The taunting voice of doubt picked at him as he gripped the half-oval shaped yolk. He closed his eyes and tried to push the voice out of his mind. It had been smooth sailing thus far and there was no reason to believe that this mission wouldn't turn out all right. He'd come a long way since Savage had stuck him in the Leper Colony. He and his crew, his whole group really, were the best in this business.

Even the best can fail.

How he hated that whinging voice. It was all he'd listened to when he arrived in England. It was one of the things Savage had tried to pull out of him, like an exorcist removing an evil spirit. For the most part, it was gone, but every now and then it reared it's ugly head.

"Colonel, shall I begin descent?"

The co-pilot's question brought an end to Gallagher's internal strife. He nodded, allowing Captain Gilbert O'Brien to guide the plane down. He glanced over his left shoulder and spotted part of his group. Once they got down far enough below the clouds, he could see the rest of the group clearly; they were all in tight, clean formation. He took control when the navigator gave the new heading. By his calculations, they should reach the IP in two minutes; target area in eight minutes.

"Bandits at two o'clock high."

Gallagher craned his neck to look out the right windscreen. O'Brien spotted them first and pointed.

They counted about fifteen fighters, but from all the shouting over the radio, Gallagher assumed there were more behind them.

Komansky scrambled up into the top turret and joined the waste gunners, who were already firing rapidly. Gallagher kept his focus on keeping the plane steady, they'd be at the IP momentarily.

He caught sight of a Fort drifting away from the rest of the group. Calling over the radio, he commanded, "Ramrod to Blue Flanker Two. Ramrod to Blue Flanker Two, you are out of formation. Close up that hole."

The formation was the groups best protection, if the formation wasn't tight enough or someone was out of formation entirely, it left the rest of the group exposed.

"They got Cortez!"

Gallagher swiveled in his seat and watched Lieutenant Victor Cortez's plane, the Tennessee Talker. She was losing altitude quickly; bright reddish-orange flames lighting up the night sky. Cortez was a favorite among the men, he had a great sense of humor and talked, practically non-stop. His plane was named based on this and the fact that he was from Nashville.

"Come on… bail out," Gallagher muttered, hoping that they were in the process of abandoning the falling aircraft. The Tennessee exploded as it collided with the ground; not one parachute was spotted.

Gallagher pushed the loss to the back of his mind. They were just a few seconds away from the IP and this was when it got tricky. Gallagher called over the interphone, "Pilot to left waste gunner, we're over the IP. Release the flares."

"Waste gunner to pilot, roger."

The gunner fired a red flare, followed five seconds later by the second red flare. Gallagher turned and began his run on the target. His squadron, consisting of six planes, was now completely alone against the dozen or so fighters that followed their turn.

The high squadron would turn in twenty seconds and the low squadron in forty seconds. He just had to set the auto-pilot and hand control over to the bombardier.

"Watch out, Joe!" O'Brien cried out as a fighter dove in front of them, shredding the cockpit. O'Brien let out a scream and pitched to the right, writhing in pain.

Gallagher struggled to pull the yoke back and bring the plane out of decent. Come on, girl, don't jam on me now, he begged. It was only a moment before he realized that O'Brien's foot was preventing it from moving freely.

"Gil," Gallagher reached a free hand over to his co-pilot and tapped his leg. "Move your foot, Gil." O'Brien was hurt badly, but still conscious and with great effort, he complied.

After Gallagher regained control of the plane, he called over the interphone, "Pilot to crew, we've taken a hit in the cockpit, but we're okay… we're still flying." He centered the PDI, "Pilot to bombardier, it's your aeroplane. Please, make it good."

"Bombardier to pilot, roger… Bombardier to crew, bomb bay doors open."

"Pilot to radio operator, cameras on." Gallagher barked, as another fighter dove at them. The fighters were taking advantage of the fact that in order for the bombing to be accurate, the bombers had to keep their PDIs centered… meaning the entire squadron were sitting ducks for the next several seconds.

"Bombardier to pilot, bombs away!"

Gallagher rolled to the right, barely managing to evade the next fighter. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. The engines were running rough and the temperature was incredibly high. "Komansky, get down here," he ordered his flight engineer.

A moment later, Komansky appeared at his elbow and began to read the gauges. Almost instantly, he zeroed in on the problem, "You've got no oil pressure, sir."

Gallagher glanced at the oil pressure gauge, "Reduce the power."

Komansky eased back the power, saying, "We're not going to make it home."

As if to confirm his statement, the second engine caught fire. Gallagher closed his eyes for a moment in sheer frustration before calling over the interphone, "Pilot to crew, bail out." Spotting O'Brien struggling to get out of his seat with his injuries as they were, he added, "Komansky, help Captain O'Brien."

Switching to the radio, he turned command over to the lead plane from the second squadron before unbuckling his own seat belt. He pulled himself up and crawled to the rear of the Fortress.

"Komansky, I told you to help him bail out," Gallagher shouted upon finding O'Brien and Komansky still in the crashing plane.

"I needed a breath, Joe," O'Brien gasped, "I don't know if I'll be able to jump."

Gallagher helped him to his feet, saying, "You can't stay here, Gil."

O'Brien held on to his ripcord and tumbled out of the plane. Komansky followed less than a second later. Gallagher turned and took a last look at his aircraft before he jumped.

The air pushed against him as he fell, almost like the wind hitting you while riding a horse at full gallop… except much faster. He pulled his cord and after a sharp jolt, he was floating through the night sky. Behind him, he heard an explosion that had to be the Lily. He turned slightly toward the sound, a pang of resentment welled up. It wasn't the first Fortress to crash and burn, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but this was his Lily.

Well, it was Savage's first... he remembered getting the authorization to rename his plane after General Savage died. The uncertainty he had about leading the Nine-Eighteenth. The pressure that came not only from his superiors, but from the men in his command. How he'd struggled those first few days until everything seemed to click. From then on, the unit moved like clockwork… however, now that he was seconds away from setting foot on enemy territory, none of that mattered. What did matter was escaping the patrols that were sure to be searching for him. He tried to direct himself to a bare patch of ground by tugging the lines of his parachute.

In spite of his best efforts, his chute got tangled in the branches of a tree. Leaving him hanging about twelve or thirteen feet above the ground. He heard the next squadron flying overhead and the fighters shooting at them. He felt the ground tremble with more explosions. Although, whether from the bombs or more crashing planes, he couldn't be sure. He had to get down from this tree.

He depressed the release on his harness, nothing happened. He pressed harder.Oh, come on!

He tugged on the harness and pressed the release at the same time, but still, nothing happened.
For pity's sake, he pulled off his glove with his teeth and dug for his pocket knife. Sliding the blade out, he carefully cut the strap on his harness. He was so fixated on getting loose that he failed to hear the rustling in the brush until a sharp order caused him to freeze.

"Hände hoch!"

TOH~HH

While the Luftwaffe fighters were picking the bomb group apart, the Heroes watched helplessly from the ground below. The camp spotlights swung up into the dark sky and highlighted the parachutes of those lucky enough to escape the falling, metal coffins.

Hogan figured there wasn't much they could do for the poor souls who'd landed directly in Hammelburg, but the small number that landed in the woods could be collected, if they were careful. They just had to get to them before the Gestapo.

Fortunately, the tunnel system had withstood the explosions and the resulting tremors fairly well. The only major damage done in camp during the bombing had been in the guards barracks. One of the guards had been using a kerosene lamp and neglected to put it out before rushing out when the alarm sounded. The lamp fell during the tremors and set the barracks alight.

Hogan used the fire's distraction to enable the rescue. He gave his men a strict fifteen minute deadline, when they'd split up at the tree stump which served as the hiding place for their tunnel's entrance. Hogan and Baker had gone to the left, while LeBeau and Newkirk went to the right. This left Olsen and Carter to go straight.

"Gee, you'd think we would come across someone by now," Carter whispered. It was five minutes until the end of the time frame Hogan had given them and they hadn't spotted a single flier.

"We aren't the only ones looking for them," Olsen reminded him, keeping alert for any patrols in the area. "They might have already been caught."

"I hope not," Carter snorted, softly. "It's harder to get them back to England if we have to break them out of a stalag first."

Olsen was about to agree, but froze when he heard a harshly whispered demand, "Hold it… put your hands up slowly and turn around."

Olsen turned and spoke carefully, "Look, we're Americans..."

"Quiet," he snapped, gripping the government issue, forty-five caliber pistol tightly. "Are you armed?"

Carter frowned, "We are on the same side, you know."

They heard a groan and the man glanced to his left. He shifted nervously and repeated his question, "Are you armed?"

Olsen shared a look with Carter before nodding, "We each have a pistol, but listen, we're here to help you." He had noticed the blood on the man's hands and all over his jacket, "If I don't miss my guess, your friend in the bushes is hurt. We know of someone who can help him."

The man seemed unsure of what to do. His eyes were full of mistrust, but they also held a healthy dose of worry. A pained cry of 'Sandy' from the bushes seemed to make up his mind. "Hand over your guns, butt first," he ordered.

Carter didn't hesitate before pulling his pistol from its holster and holding it out to Komansky. Olsen didn't make a move to comply until Carter nudged him and he reluctantly turned over his weapon.

"I'm going to keep a hold of these." Komansky said, placing their guns in the large pockets of his flight jacket. He relaxed ever so slightly as he waved his gun to indicate that they should move toward the bushes.

Carter spotted the wounded man first. He was an officer, probably a pilot, Carter supposed. He was propped up against a tree trunk, his face gray and waxen. Small beads of sweat trickled down his neck and onto his chest. His leather jacket was unzipped and his shirt unbuttoned. Carter moved the handkerchief that was pressed against his side in a pitiful attempt to stem the flow of blood.

"He's not in good shape," Carter commented. "We need to get him back to camp so Wilson can look at him."

"Do you think moving him will be alright?" Olsen asked, "It might injure him further."

"Well, we can't leave him here," Carter replaced the cloth and added his own hanky. "We'll just have to be careful with him. My name's Carter, Sergeant Carter," he said, directing his attention to the captain and smiling kindly.

"Sorry, sir, this is going to hurt," he added, putting a bit more pressure to ease the bleeding.

The wounded man manged to say through gritted teeth, "Captain O'Brien… thank you..."

"Sir, we shouldn't," Komansky began.

"Komansky," O'Brien tried to make his tone stern, but in his exhausted state it came out as a pained gasp. "We don't have any other options."

Carter turned his friendly grin on Komansky, "besides, you have all the guns."

Komansky reluctantly agreed, with the caveat that if he saw anything he didn't like, he'd shoot first and ask questions later. Carter put his arms around O'Brien's chest, taking care not to disturb his wounds, while Olsen picked up his legs. Together, they hefted him up and headed toward camp.

The German patrols scouring the woods hindered their progress and caused them to hide out in the brush. It felt like hours, but it wasn't too long before Olsen spotted the familiar spotlights.

Komansky was more than a little disturbed when he spotted the camp. "What's the big idea?" he growled, pushing his gun into Carter's side.

"This is where the medic is," Carter explained, lowering his half of O'Brien, who had long since passed out.

"If you think I'm gonna let you take him into a POW camp..."

Olsen eased O'Brien down and blew into his hands. He'd forgotten his gloves in the rush to get out and collect the downed fliers and was sorely missing them now. "Look," he said, harshly. "I've had just about enough of you. We are American and we are on your side! If you want our help then shut up and do as you are told."

He turned his back on Komansky and sneaked forward to watch the movement of the guards. The spotlights were mostly trained inward, but every so often they would do a sweep of the perimeter. However, it didn't appear to be timed in any way. Sometimes it would be every two or three minutes and other times it would be five or six minutes between sweeps.

"This isn't going to be easy," Carter whispered, stating the obvious. "They're not giving us much time to get him down."

"Yeah, even if we managed to get him down they could swing in and spot the guy helping him," Olsen agreed. He watched Komansky wipe some sweat from O'Brien's forehead and said, "I'll go in first and maybe Colonel Hogan will have an idea."

Carter agreed and crawled back to Komansky to explain their plan. Olsen waited for the light to sweep passed and made a dash for the stump. Carter grinned at Komansky's dropped jaw as he watched Olsen lift the top of the tree stump and vanish.

Olsen moved slowly through the tunnel until the dim light was replaced by a brighter, steadier glow of light bulbs. Because of the radio, the radio room was wired into the camp's electricity, while the rest of the rooms and tunnels mainly used kerosene or oil lamps. He heard men bustling about, barking orders, and trying to gain some semblance of order.

"Olsen, it's about time you got back," Hogan said, sharply. "You're almost an hour late."

"Sorry," Olsen shrugged, "it couldn't be helped. The woods were crawling with krauts."

"Where's Carter?" Newkirk asked, his voice edged with minor concern.

"With a couple downed fliers," Olsen directed his attention to Hogan. "That's why I came in alone. We can't get one of them in. He's badly wounded and the timing of the spotlights is too erratic."

"How bad is he hurt?" Sergeant Joe Wilson, the camp's only medical personnel, asked. He was in the process of cleaning a bullet wound on a private's arm, so he didn't take his attention away from his patient.

"He doesn't look good at all," Olsen said. "He's all pale and sweaty. Passed out on the way to the tunnel."

"Newkirk, go out with Olsen," Hogan instructed. "Then I want you to turn yourself in… oh, and be careful. After the fire and everything, the goons are liable to be a bit jumpy. Olsen, while they're focused on him, you and Carter can bring in your fliers."

Newkirk gave a quick nod and followed Olsen back down the tunnel. Wilson, when he was done bandaging the private's wound, came over to Hogan. "We're going to need more supplies, sir. I'm almost out of clean gauze, the iodine is gone, and I've got maybe two doses of morphine left."

"Make a list and Baker can send it to Schnitzer," Hogan said. "He's changing the dogs tomorrow."

"And where is Schnitzer going to get morphine?" Wilson said, incredulously.

"He won't," Hogan replied, "We'll talk to London about a complete supply drop, but being a vet, Schnitzer will have access to gauze, iodine, etc." They heard the alarms go off above them. "That will be Newkirk," he said, "Everybody up top. Krauts will be doing a full count."

Baker, LeBeau and the rest of barracks two took turns climbing up the ladder. Hogan had just ordered Wilson up, as well, when Olsen and Carter appeared with O'Brien and Komansky. Wilson hurried over to O'Brien, tossing over his shoulder, "Sorry, Colonel, but my patients come first."

Hogan bit his lip and decided that arguing with the medic would be a waste of time. So, instead, he ordered Olsen and Carter to get changed and get back to their barracks, before climbing the ladder himself.

Komansky looked around his new surroundings. There was a full radio setup on a table beside the ladder. He spotted several tunnel openings which led off into various directions. He began to wonder just how big of an operation these guys had. He moved over to the other side of the room where he spotted the navigator from the Lily. "Wes," he put a hand on the navigator's shoulder.

Sergeant Thomas Westly glanced up and grinned, "Sandy, it's good to see you! I didn't see you bale out… thought for sure you and the Colonel were goners." He stood slowly and glanced around the room, "You come in with Colonel Gallagher?"

Komansky shook his head, "I was hoping he was already here."

Westly frowned, "I didn't see him come in, but things have been a little hazy." He motioned to the bandage that was wound around his head, "I smacked my head on a rock when I landed."

"Sit down," Komansky urged, "I'll keep looking for the Colonel, you get some rest."

Westly sat back down and Komansky made his way back to the tunnel Carter and Olsen had brought them through. Wilson caught him out of the corner of his eye and quickly intercepted him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he said, keeping his tone as even as he could.

"I'm going to find my commanding officer," Komansky stated, trying to push his way past the medic, who remained firm.

"You can't do that," Wilson insisted. He noticed a glint in the younger man's eye, not that much different than the look Newkirk got when you stood between him and something he wanted to do. "Just think about it," he said, trying to reason with the younger man. "Your commander has likely been caught… probably by the Gestapo. The only way to get him out is with an established operation, which we have."

Wilson didn't miss Komansky's hesitation and capitalized on it, "Once my colonel's done upstairs, he can poke around and find out where your commander is. I promise, but until then your services are needed else where… namely by giving me another set of hands with your captain."

"He'll look for the Colonel?" Komansky asked. Wilson held up three fingers in the boy scout salute. "Okay, what can I do?" He gave in and allowed Wilson to pull him over to O'Brien.

TBC...

Authors Notes:

Hey, peoples! I'm back from my first summer vacation… Okay, I didn't actually go anywhere, so I guess it was a stay-cation. I wanted to give a special thanks to Tirathon from the Forum XIIIc. Your links to the WW2 training films really helped with writing the action scenes!

Okay, a couple things:

Yes, I know that the phrase, 'no sweat' only dates back to the fifties; however, it is used frequently by Gallagher in the series. So, the anachronism is not mine! Lol

Updates will be fairly regular for the next few weeks until mid July(second stay-cation).

Thanks for taking the time to read.

Cheers!