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.

"We have twenty men to get back to England," Hogan said, hoping the young man would listen to reason. "That's twenty men that I have to feed and provide with clothes and papers. I will find Colonel Gallagher, but not at the risk of these men or the men of this camp. You will stay put until you are told to move. Is that clear, Sergeant Komansky?"

Komansky lowered his gaze. "Yes, sir," he mumbled, before walking back to O'Brien's bedside and sitting in a chair beside him.

Westly gave a shaky chuckle, "Sandy's okay, really… he's just worried, that's all… we're all just plain worried."

Hogan dismissed him with a nod, watching as the other sergeant shuffled over beside Komansky. Colonel Gallagher… London's likely to have us rescue him, He thought irritably. Just add that to our ever growing to-do list. He went back to Baker, "Did you get London, yet?"

"Yes, sir," Baker stood and offered the chair to his commander. "We're on stand-by while they get Big Bad Wolf." He watched Komansky from across the room, "you didn't make a friend out of him. He's also got a bit of a temper… could be a problem."

Hogan took the seat and put the headset on, "Keep an eye on him, Baker. If he tries to do something stupid, I want to know about it first."

ACT V

Bob Kinney crossed the empty street as carefully as he could. London was in the middle of one of her well-known and much despised blackouts. The city, which had been bustling with activity a couple of hours earlier, was now eerily silent. Not everyone stayed home during the blackouts, but those who were out and about were doing so quietly.
Kinney would've rather been in his hotel room having a nice dinner and then going to bed, but receiving a call from his supervisor had disrupted that plan. Even though the potential leak had only been identified seven or eight hours ago, talk was getting around that there were leaks among the Eighth Air Force. The rumors had even made their way to General Eisenhower's* office. Kinney was told to get a handle on the situation and fast.

With the Allies starting the plans for invasion*, the last thing we need now is a break in security, Kinney thought as he stepped into Wing Command. He went straight to reception, "Bob Kinney to see General Pritchard… He's expecting me."

The receptionist gave him a stiff smile and turned to the switchboard, "One moment."

Kinney watched her from the other side of the desk. His keen eyes took in her amber hair, which curled under her chin into a neat bob. Drifting down, they took in her slender figure before following the seam of her stockings until it disappeared at the hem of her skirt. Mmm, that's nice, he thought, a smirk forming on his face. Dinner with her would be much more preferable than dinner alone in his room.

She turned her desk chair back to him. "I talked to his secretary and she said to head right up to the General's office."

"Thank you, miss..." he grinned, obviously fishing for her name.

"Corporal Adelaide Cartwell," she said, her tone was icy. She turned her attention back to the work on her desk.

"I'll be up with the General for a little while, but afterwards, we could..." His voice dropped an octave as he leaned on her desk.

"Let me stop you there," Adelaide snapped, glaring up at him. "First, I'm on duty 'til midnight. Second, I'm already spoken for," she held up her left hand to show the small, glittering ring on her fourth finger. "And lastly, I'm not interested in men who can't be bothered to serve."

He hadn't expected to be shot down so swiftly or in such a brutal way. It took a moment for him to recover enough to purse his lips and say, "Well, he's a lucky fella... you have a nice night, Corporal Cartwell."
He hurried to the elevator, hoping to avoid any further embarrassment for either of them, and stepped inside. "Fourth floor," he said to the operator then maintaining silence until the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor. Kinney went down the hallway swiftly, pausing only briefly at the secretary's desk. When she waved him on, he went through to the General's office.

"Enter," Pritchard responded to the knock at his door. "Coffee?"

"No, thanks," Kinney said, sitting in the same chair he'd sat in before. "Why don't you just tell me what on earth happened? Everyone in London seems to know about this leak."

Pritchard scowled, "They went through with the Hammelburg mission."

"How did that happen?" Kinney growled in annoyance, "and more importantly, how did General Eisenhower find out about our problem?"

Pritchard came around to the front of his desk and began to pace. "Ed Britt."

"Your subordinate?"

Pritchard nodded, "He was concerned about the sudden reversal of plans. He'd been calling here trying to get more information, but I had my secretary tell him I was in meetings." He gave Kinney a weak smile, "Persistence was always one of Ed's stronger suits."

"So he went over your head?" Kinney asked. He dug out a cigarette case out of his pocket and offered one to Pritchard.

Pritchard accepted and continued, "Ed's been in the service forever... he has almost as much political clout as I do. He dug around until I started getting calls from my superiors." He took a drag and added, "received word from my man in Hammelburg, there were heavy losses. I won't know exact numbers until Ed gets back to London. I'm sorry you lost your opportunity to get the spy."

Kinney looked up in surprise, "I haven't lost anything. We'll just use another mission, leak some fake information and see what your man in Germany turns up. The Hammelburg mission wasn't that important."

The door behind them suddenly opened and slammed shut, causing both men to jump. Kinney stood as an older man limped over to them. He glanced over at Pritchard, but he didn't appear alarmed… just angry.

"Just who the devil do you think you are barging in here?!" Pritchard bellowed.

"I'm the one who has to write Max Gallagher and tell him that he and his wife might just have lost another boy to this war," He bit back, his fury matching Pritchard's. "And, from what I've been able to find out, without much reason."

Pritchard dropped his gaze, "I'm sorry, Ed… they shot down Joe?"

"Joe and about a hundred others," Britt stated, leaning on his cane. "The Nine-Eighteenth Bomb Group has been completely obliterated… and you knew it was going to happen."

Kinney moved over beside Pritchard, so he could get a better look at Britt, "Who told you that?"

Britt narrowed his eyes. He's sizing me up, Kinney thought. "I asked you a question, General," he gently prodded.

"I'm not sure this concerns you, boy," Britt ground out, deciding that he didn't much care for the younger man.

"Ed," Pritchard cautioned. "This is Bob Kinney of CIC."

Britt snorted disdainfully, "I had you figured as a diplomatic bureaucrat, but a spook is worse."

Kinney smirked without replying to the insult. Britt glared at him, this had been a spy game and he'd lost quite a few men to it… to say he was unhappy was quite the understatement. Pritchard motioned to the chairs,
"I think it's time we let him in, Bob. He's already guessed most of it."

Kinney nodded as he resumed his seat. Britt remained standing while Pritchard sat behind his desk. He hesitated a moment, but decided that having answers far out weighed his dislike of Kinney. When he finally sat down, Pritchard caught him up. The alert from Papa Bear about a possible spy, his concern about who he could trust, the plan to smoke out and trap this spy… the whole nine yards. Britt, in return, relayed Plasket's report. All three sat in silence for a few moments.

Britt looked down at his cane and said, "I suppose I would've played things close to my vest, too." he added, guiltily, "I guess I kind of knocked over the chess board."

Kinney snorted, "that's putting it mildly. Your questions, how ever well-intentioned, have made a lot of people nervous."

"What do we do now?" Pritchard asked, hoping to head-off Britt's sharp retort.

"I told you," Kinney said. He leaned back in the chair and lit another cigarette, "We'll do the same plan with a different mission."

"Wouldn't it make more sense to go through the people who were aware of the Hammelburg mission?" Britt said, making an effort to not speak patronizingly. "I mean only a few people knew specifics."

"Oh, sure," Kinney said, "Only a few hundred people and that's just the Americans, then there's all the Brits."

Britt smiled wearily, "You know, for a spook, you aren't that bright." He tapped the floor with his cane, "Bill, your man in Germany said that they were preparing for a bombing within the next day or two."

"What are you getting at, Ed?"

"Just that the information given was only decided that very day," Britt stated. "Joe said he wanted to do it the very next day and I called you as soon as I got back to London… that lets out the British. Joe also wouldn't have informed his men about the specifics until the day of the mission… that lets out most of the Nine-Eighteenth."

"That leaves you, Bill, and Joe Gallagher," Kinney sat up, thinking that Britt might have something.

"The two executive officers and the adjutant," Pritchard added to the list, "They would've been plotting the mission with Joe."

They sat and contemplated the possibilities. Kinney ruled out Pritchard because he'd called in CIC. Pritchard argued that it couldn't be Britt because of all the attention he'd called to the spy. Kinney had pushed back on that, momentarily… but after some convincing, he agreed that it would be foolish for the spy to call even more attention to his existence.

"Joe Gallagher?" Kinney suggested.

Britt vehemently shot down that theory, "Joe didn't have to go on the mission… and if you knew that you were heading into several squadrons of enemy fighters, you wouldn't want to be on that mission."

"Then it has to be either the ground exec or the air exec," Pritchard deduced.

"The air exec was on the mission, too," Britt sighed, "He was shot out of the sky before they reached the rally point, no survivors."

Pritchard's brow furrowed, "Meaning that even if Ed is wrong and it was either the air exec or Joe, then the leak-slash-spy has already been taken care of..."

"Maybe," Kinney slowly chewed on his thumb nail. "What about that adjutant?"

"Major Harvey Stovall," Britt supplied the name, but quickly added his skepticism. "I doubt it's him."

"Did he go on the mission?"

"No," Britt conceded, "but he doesn't usually go on these missions. Besides, Joe trusted him completely."

"He had access to the information and his claim that his phone never rang is suspicious, not to mention incredibly weak," Kinney pointed out. "I think, at the very least, we should bring him up to London to answer a few of my questions."

Pritchard agreed and reached for the phone, "I'll move the Nine-Eighteenth to the inactive list and have the MPs bring Stovall in."

"And the ground exec," Kinney added, stubbing out his cigarette in the ash tray. "Those two are our likeliest suspects."

TOH~HH

Gallagher opened and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He looked around for some indication of where he was, but the plain, gray walls did little in the way of clues. He let out a groan as he sat up, his head pounded and his knee was sore.
It must've been some party, his first conclusion being the army stockade, It's definitely a jail of some kind. He wracked his brain to remember how he got here, but the last thing he remembered was landing at Archbury after the mission in Duisburg.

He attempted to stand and gingerly placed weight on his sore leg. Relieved that it supported him, he continued looking around. There were no windows, except in the door, and the walls were concrete. He supposed it could be some sort of underground bunker, but that didn't make any sense, limped to the small window in the heavy, metal door and risked a peek out. His cell was the last one in a long hallway. He could see plenty of other metal doors, but the hallway was as barren as his cell. He began to wonder if he was the only one there.

"Hello?" he called, half hoping for an answer and half dreading it. "Is there anyone out there?"

He heard some noises that sounded like a body searching for keys. The door at the other end of the hallway opened and a Nazi officer stepped through. Gallagher's heart sank. It was obvious that he'd been captured, but the troubling thing was that he couldn't remember how.

"You are awake, Colonel Gallagher," The man said, smiling. His light brown hair peeked from beneath is hat and his blue eyes were almost kind.

Gallagher waited until he was closer to the cell door before answering, "You have the edge… You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"My apologies," the polite smile remained in place, "I am Oberstleutnant Harald Greve*. In your country that is a Lieutenant Colonel, I believe."

To be completely honest, Gallagher didn't care what his rank was. No, he was more concerned with filling in the holes in his memory. "Where am I?"

Greve cocked his head in confusion, "You do not remember?

"I assume I'm in Germany," Gallagher answered, hoping the other man would give him a more precise location.

"Oh, yes," he chuckled. "Gestapo headquarters in Berlin, Germany." He sobered, slightly and looked genuinely sorrowful, "You were shot-down."

Berlin? Gallagher searched his mind for answers, what mission was I on? How did I get captured?

Greve smiled that kind, polite smile, "It's not surprising that you don't remember… you were barely alive when we pulled you from the wreckage."

Wreckage… I went down with the Lily? Gallagher frowned, he couldn't remember a crash and, apart from his knee, he sure didn't feel close to death. "Your lying, I feel okay."

"Of course you do," Greve said calmly, as if he didn't mind being called a liar. "You crashed almost four months ago. You've been in a coma at the hospital until you were transferred here last night."

Coma… four months!? He thought, his eyes widening in surprise. I've lost four months worth of memories?

"I'm sure you must be confused and a little upset," Greve said, his voice soft and soothing. "I'm sure I can answer any questions you have."

"My men," Gallagher asked. He wasn't sure whether or not to trust this Nazi lieutenant colonel or not, but he had to know where his men were and whether they were being cared for. "What happened to my men?"

Greve hesitated, "Most of your group was shot-down. The men have been assigned to different stalags throughout Germany."

"Captain O'Brien?" Gallagher pressed, "Sergeant Komansky and the rest of my crew, were they pulled from the wreckage?"

He looked down, reluctant to answer. "You, Colonel Gallagher, were the only survivor in your aircraft."
Gallagher fought back a sudden surge of shock which threatened to overwhelm him, while Greve continued, "I'm afraid that we'll have to start interrogation today. Your injuries delayed it, but it is a step that must be completed."

Gallagher's eyes narrowed. "Colonel Joseph A. Gallagher… O-9142046," his voice steeled as he added, "I believe that's all the information to which you're entitled."

He smiled, again, "As you can tell by my uniform, I am Luftwaffe. We do things differently than the Gestapo. First, you shall have some breakfast… then we'll begin."

Gallagher watched him walk back down the hallway and disappear. He stared out the tiny window and thought over everything he'd been told. His group was gone, most of the men in prisoner camps and his crew was dead. O'Brien, Komansky, Westly and all the rest just… gone.
In a moment of selfishness, he wondered who took over the Nine-Eighteenth. Angrily, he shoved that to the back of his mind as a young man dressed in a plain tan suit stepped through the door. He was carrying a tray with what Gallagher guessed was the breakfast. Another man dressed in an all black uniform, except for the bright red, swastika-emblazoned arm-band, followed him.

Gallagher studied them, as the young man stopped and waited for his compatriot to open the cell door. The man in black hollered at Gallagher in German.

"Sorry, buddy," Gallagher shrugged. "I don't understand a word of German."

"He said you are to turn around and place your hands on the concrete," the younger man translated, his English, though heavily accented, was easily understandable.

As he stood with his hands against the wall, he twisted slightly to get a better look. He wondered if he could take them in spite of his leg. He dismissed the idea when he heard the tell-tale sound of a machine gun bolt. He waited until the door was shut before turning around completely. The men had disappeared back down the hallway leaving a tray sitting atop a small box. He inspected his breakfast which consisted of tepid, watery soup. He guessed it was potato, but he couldn't be sure. Two thin slices of white bread with an even thinner layer of almost rancid butter slathered on top. It didn't look very appetizing, but he was hungry so he managed to choke it down with some effort.

About an hour later, the two men returned and he stood against the wall while the tray was removed. Gallagher was placed in cuffs and pushed down the hall by the man in black. The men guided him down several hallways and up two sets of stairs. They came to a stop at the top of the second staircase and the younger man opened the door on the left.

This was not the interrogation room he was expecting. The room was obviously an office as there were several windows. If the view was anything to go by, they were on the second floor. There was a large desk and on the wall behind it hung a large Nazi flag.

"Ah, Colonel Gallagher," Greve greeted, as he stepped in from a side door. He set several files on his desk and motioned for Gallagher to sit. He gave Gallagher's guards an order as he settled down into his chair.

"Oberst," the man in black objected, a long string of German words followed. Gallagher couldn't understand, but the man was obviously displeased with the order. Greve snapped back at him angrily and the the man in black, reluctantly removed the cuffs and moved back. Gallagher rubbed his wrists and took the offered chair.

"You must accept my apology," Greve smiled that same polite, overly-friendly smile. "Inspector Metzler is with the Gestapo… as you can imagine, he's not really fond of Americans."

"Really?" Gallagher dead-panned, "I couldn't tell."

"Ah, there's that American humor I've been told about," Greve offered him a cigar, which he declined. Greve replaced the cigar box and smiled, "You have questions, as do I… perhaps we could take turns asking and answering?"

Gallagher shook his head, "No deal, you have my name, rank, and service number."

Greve stood and went over to the filing cabinet. He picked up a small decanter and two sherry glasses and sat back down. "We shall have a drink and you shall answer questions," He explained, pouring the reddish-brown liquid and setting the half-full glass in front of him. "After four months, most of the information you have is obsolete." He sipped his own drink and gestured to the files on his desk, "I have this file and it tells me everything about you… there is nothing I do not know."

He opened the file and read, "For example, it says here that you are twenty-six, the youngest son of General Maxwell Gallagher, and a West Point graduate. You became the commander of the Nine-Eighteenth bombardment group after the death of General Frank Savage. You, like your predecessor, have a habit of flying on most missions, especially the dangerous ones." His eyes twinkled, good-naturedly, "that could explain why you are here with me now."

"Your point, Oberst?"

Greve tapped the file, "Most of this information was given to me by your men."

"That's a lie," Gallagher growled, barely keeping his anger in check.

Greve shrugged, "Don't be too angry with them... they didn't have much choice." He swallowed his drink in one gulp, "You see, we have a policy that if prisoners do not give us information proving that they are, in fact, prisoners-of-war," he paused, "then we are required to turn them over to the Gestapo as spies."

Gallagher was stunned, he'd never heard anything about such a policy. He rubbed his knee and thought, It can't be real… but these are Nazis, they aren't exactly know for being decent guys.

"I personally don't like the policy, but rules are rules." He turned the page and continued reading, "We have information regarding most of your missions. The last one caused quite an embarrassment to your side."

Gallagher frowned, the mission in Duisburg? He almost asked, but hesitated, what's his game? What does he hope to find out? Aloud, he played coy, "I thought it went well."

"Went well?" Greve said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "I would hardly call the complete destruction of a prisoner of war camp, containing hundreds of my own comrades, a job well done," he gave Gallagher a look that sent chill down the American's spine. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but in your country, you are considered a murderer."

*General Eisenhower - Okay, obviously everyone knows that Eisenhower is a real person. He was the Supreme Commander during WW2 (from late 1943 to the end) and years later became President.
* Operation Overlord (the allied invasion) was being planed for the past couple of years and the draft plan was accepted at the Quebec Conference in August of 1943.
*Oberstlutnant Greve is a fictitious character, but he is based(in part) on a real person. Hanns Scharff, a Nazi interrogator, who is credited with inventing many successful interrogation techniques, which he taught to the U.S. after the war. I have not based Greve personally on Scharff (as in his character or persona), but I have used some of his techniques in the story.