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.

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."

ACT VI

"Colonel Hogan?"

Hogan opened his eyes at the melodic sound of Hilda's delicately accented voice. He pushed his crush cap out of his eyes and stretched. He'd given in to some much needed sleep as he sat in the outer office of the kommandantur.

Most of the night before had been spent arranging for the parachute drop. As he'd suspected, Big Bad Wolf was reluctant to send another group; but in the end, finally agreed to an indirect drop.

London scheduled it for that night at Bad Orb, about thirty miles northwest. Hogan had Baker contact the Underground to alert them and arrange pick-up. With any luck, Wilson would have the blood plasma by the next morning. He'd also instructed Baker tap out messages to their contacts in Hammelburg; telling them keep their eyes and ears open for any information on a captured American colonel.

The rest of the overnight consisted of the rather tedious work of cross-checking names and service numbers with London's files. They hadn't taken a break until forced to by the morning roll call. Afterwards, Hogan allowed his men to lay down for the few hours until lunch. He'd just settled into his own bunk, when Schultz rousted him out. An order from the Kommandant; the Senior Prisoner of War Officer was to report to his office immediately. Once Hogan made it to the Kommandantur, however, Klink became suspiciously busy and requested that Hogan wait.

"Is his highness ready to see me now?" Hogan asked, not even trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He gently massaged the kinks out of his neck as Hilda nodded.

"He said he's let you sweat long enough," she said, her smile wide and eyes twinkling.

He pouted playfully, "I'm glad one of us finds it funny."

"He is playing your game, is he not?" she questioned innocently. She sashayed back to her desk, smoothed her skirt and sat down behind her typewriter.

Hogan smoothed his shirt, tucking it in tighter to his waistband then zipped his jacket before following her. He pretended to take great interest in the form she was diligently typing up. Leaning down to whisper next to her ear, he said, "and what game is that?"

Without stopping her typing, she gave him a sideways look and opened her mouth to reply. The door to Klink's office opened and its owner stuck his balding head out. "Hogan, will you stop bothering my secretary and get in here?" he grumbled, "I don't have all day."

Hilda giggled softly behind her hand while Hogan sighed, rolled his eyes and straightened. He gave the secretary a wink. A quick 'see you later, honey' was tossed over his shoulder as he walked into Klink's office. The German sat behind the desk, polishing his monocle. Hogan shut the door behind him and took the seat opposite Klink's. He shifted into a relaxed position, bringing up his right ankle and resting it on his knee, "well now, what can I do for you, Kommandant?"

Klink replaced his monocle and smiled broadly, "no, my dear Colonel Hogan, what can I do for you?"

"You called me to your office..." Hogan said, slightly puzzled.

"Let's just call it a preemptive strike," Klink said, waving his hand in the air. "This is the part where you barge into my office and attempt to sell me some ludicrous sob-story about how poor Corporal Newkirk was caught up in a fire when he was young. That because he was driven mad by fear of the flames, he tried to escape."

Klink opened his humidor, slapping Hogan's hand away when he tried to help himself, "And of course, you'll tell me to have a little more understanding… ask me to show mercy."

Hogan seized the lighter and held out the flame. Klink leaned forward and puffed on the cigar until it was sufficiently lit, "I won't fall for it this time. Newkirk and Wilson will serve their entire sentences."

Hogan replaced the lighter and wagged a finger at his counterpart, "you've been spending too much time with Hochstetter; his paranoia is rubbing off on you." He tutted sadly, "I should have realized it last night when you ordered your goons to toss our barracks."

"Do not call my guards goons," Klink snapped. Ever since one of the prisoners had let it slip that the American slangs, 'goon' and 'fink' didn't quite have the meaning Hogan had ascribed to them, Klink had hated the terms with a passion.

"Yes, sir," Hogan replied in his most respectful and obedient tone. He gestured to the door as he stood, "is that all? The boys were talking about playing some volleyball and I promised to keep score."

"You aren't going to try and change my mind?"

"I know better than to try arguing with the you, Kommandant?" Hogan gave him a look of admiration as he backed toward the door. "They don't call you the Iron Eagle for nothing."

And three, two, one… he counted down silently anticipating Klink's next statement.

"You aren't even going to ask for a reduction in Newkirk's sentence," Klink pulled the cigar from his mouth, his confidence wavering. "Or maybe his release in exchange for work details?"

Hogan paused with his hand on the doorknob. So, that's what you're after, he thought, working hard to keep the smile from his face. "To tell you the truth…"

"Aha!" Klink said, smiling with self-satisfaction. "You are going to ask!"

He leaned against the door casually saying, "actually, I was going to suggest you keep him where he is… perhaps even increase his sentence?"

Klink gaped, not at all pleased with how this negotiation was turning on him. "You're supposed to argue their side… present their case," he said, coming from behind his desk to explain the process of negotiation to this uncooperative American.

Hogan shrugged, "he escaped without permission and that's more of an affront to my authority than yours."

"Yes, but you have to defend them," Klink insisted. "I could release Newkirk in exchange for one little, work detail," he added, holding his cigar up in front of Hogan's face.

Hogan pretended to consider it, "I don't know..."

"I'll throw in Wilson, too!" Klink hurriedly explained, "the guards' barracks is in need of repair after that barbaric bombing. I don't think the structure was damaged too badly, but there's plenty of clean-up to be done..."

"Kommandant," Hogan interrupted, "I couldn't possibly consider a work detail without extra rations for the men."

Klink frowned and waved his hand dismissively, "impossible."

Hogan walked over to Klink's desk. Now that he understood what Klink was after, he could manipulate properly. He sat down on the edge of the desk and explained, "Kommandant, if I come back to the barracks with a 'deal' like that, then they'll lose all respect for me. Tunnel digging will start up again… the unsanctioned escapes will become more regular… and it would only be a matter of time before your record is broken."

Klink's eyes narrowed, "an extra slice of brown bread for each man on the detail for as long as the detail lasts."

"The Bible says man cannot live on bread alone," Hogan said. "And just so, they need meat and vegetables; double portions for only the men on detail. I'm sure I'll have an endless supply of volunteers."

"One and a quarter."

"One and a half," Hogan crossed his arms, "and that's as low as I go."

"Deal," Klink muttered, grudgingly. "And on your way out, ask Fraulein Hilda to bring me some aspirin. You're dismissed."

"Headache, sir?" Hogan asked as he left the office.

Only when I talk to you, Klink thought bitterly. He reached for the phone, knowing better than to try and go through proper channels. They would reject a request for larger food rations faster than you could say hasenpfeffer! This would have to come out of his own pocket, but his guards had to have someplace to sleep. So, he did the only thing he could do and called the local market to make arrangements.

TOH~HH

Murderer?!

The accusation pounded in his brain. Gallagher stood and quickly turned his back on Greve. His pride couldn't and wouldn't let his enemies see his confusion. The questions whirled around in his mind as he desperately tried to piece together his memories. He remembered the mission to Duisburg as clear as day, then landing back at Archbury… Britt was waiting for him with orders… maybe that was the mission Greve was talking about, but why couldn't he remember. There had to be an explanation… one doesn't simply forget a mission like that... did they?

"Your upset," Greve crooned. "It's understandable, but I'm afraid we must continue. According to my file, the Nine-Eighteenth was going to be involved with the landings at Pas de Calais*. Which were a failure, of course." He laughed before adding, "who knows, if you had been involved perhaps they wouldn't have been so disastrous."

Calais… We landed in Calais?

He'd heard many rumors the that invasion was coming; but specifics were, for obvious reasons, kept under wraps. As Greve droned on about the failures of the invasion and how he wouldn't be surprised if the Americans would began brokering a peace deal any day, Gallagher rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb and focused on the scene from the window.

It was smaller than he'd expected Berlin to be and a lot more rustic. The storefronts were few and clustered together. There were several tallish buildings further down, but to say this was the city of a couple of million people was absurd. Unless they were packed like sardines in a tin.

This can't be Berlin, he thought, growing steadily more perplexed. A suburb perhaps?

A tiny, brown and gray bird landed in the tree beside the window and caught his attention. It was a sparrow or, at least looked like a sparrow. Joe forgot where he was and why he was there for a moment, wishing he had his pad and pencils. The bird was almost breathtaking; just sitting there preening himself on the snow-dusted branch. Joe blinked and his eyes widened as realization dawned on him.

"Colonel, although I have this information, I still need you to give a verbal statement," Greve said, trying to bring the American's attention back to the interrogation.

Gallagher ignored him, staring at the bird instead. He had to figure out how much of Greve's story was just that, a story. He also wondered how he could use this to his advantage. Calais, huh?
The seed of an idea slowly began to take root and he turned to face his captor.

Slowly walking back to the desk, he sat down. "You want a statement, Oberst?" he said, not bothering to hide the scorn, "How about this… it doesn't snow in July. I demand to see my men."

Greve's eyes darted to the window then back to Joe as he closed the file, "all right, Colonel, you've caught me in a few minor… fabrications." He moved around the desk and over to the window.

"I should put up curtains or something," He laughed, tapping the glass with his fingertips.

Gallagher kept silent, his back stiff and unyielding. Greve cleared his throat, "you must still answer my questions, Colonel Gallagher. Will the Nine-Eighteenth be involved in the Allied invasion?"

"Colonel Joseph A. Gallagher, O-9142046," Gallagher replied in a stiff, formal tone.

Greve sighed harshly, "I lied about the date to throw you off… to make you more at ease with giving up information." He paused before stooping down to add, "please, Colonel, I was not lying about having to turn you over to the Gestapo. I am the only ally you have here, don't make an enemy of me."

Though the tone was calm, there was no mistaking the threat. However, Gallagher was unimpressed, "You've lied to me about where I am, the time of year, the extent of my injuries, not to mention that cock-and-bull story about the prison camp."
He leaned forward until he was only inches away from the German's face, "If you want my cooperation, you'll have to get it the old fashioned way."

Greve straightened and frowned. He studied the slight smile on the younger man's face, the look of control, even if it was only the slightest bit of control. As much as he hated the words, Greve couldn't resist the tug of curiosity, "meaning what, exactly?"

"You want everything I know about the invasion," Gallagher replied, hoping this idea worked. "You let me see my men. Let me make sure they are being treated well, and then I might answer some of your questions regarding that subject."

Turning his back to his prisoner, Greve quietly mused over his options. Sure, the American had seen through his ploy and he now he was the one making demands. Like he thinks he is the one in authority; filthy, American pig, his lip curled up in contempt. He might lose a lot of leverage by letting the prisoner see his men or letting him think that he was in charge… however, this would give him what he wanted. He'd get his answers and maybe even a promotion. He couldn't wait to see the looks on every face in Berlin when he brought back the report with specific details on the upcoming invasion.

"Very well, Colonel," Greve conceded, hardly able to keep the smug grin from his face. "It's a deal. You may visit with your men and then you will answer all of my questions."

TOH~HH

According to Hogan's men it was well past sundown… not that you could tell from fifteen feet underground. It had only been two days since they'd been rescued from the harsh weather and Fritz's welcome committee. Most of the men in the Nine-eighteenth had been thankful for the chance to relax and read the few books or magazines that Hogan's men had to offer. Some took the chance to catch up on their sleep; but in general, the cramped quarters and lack of activity were starting make the fliers fidgety and anxious.

Yesterday, Wilson had returned with a British corporal in tow. The two, in particular the Brit, were greeted with playful banter from Carter and LeBeau. The Brit didn't spend too much time goofing off, but rather, he began giving orders to the others. Under his guidance, yards upon yards of cloth were measured, cut, washed, and currently hanging on the makeshift clotheslines; ready to be sewn into civilian suits and coats.

For Komansky's part, he hadn't moved from the stool beside O'Brien's cot, but once or twice in those forty-eight hours. He sat quietly, smoking his cigarette, and watching the men play poker. They'd made the mistake of allowing that Brit into the game and were now losing, handily.

"I'm going to change his dressings," Wilson said, coming up beside him. "You should take the opportunity to stretch your legs and maybe get some of that soup LeBeau brought down."

Komansky dropped the butt of his cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath his boot. "If you need help..." he started to offer.

Wilson turned Komansky away from O'Brien and gave him a gentle push, "if I need help, I'll use Olsen. Now, go on."

Komansky nodded and ambled over to the pot of soup. He had his doubts, as it wasn't more than broth and a few paltry vegetables; however, he joined the back of the small line. LeBeau ladled some into a tin cup and handed him a small, hard roll. He mumbled a quiet 'thank you' before taking a big gulp. It might not completely fill up a grown man, but it sure did taste better than the K-rations cooked at the mess in Archbury!

He moved over beside the radio set-up. The radioman was fiddling with his radio and the telegraph key, obviously taking and sending messages. Komansky settled down to the floor and attempted a bite of roll. Finding it hard and tough, he dropped it into his soup to soften. As he waited, he turned his attention to the poker game. He was just in time to see Hopper, one of his fellow sergeants, lay down a hand of three aces. He was about to pull in the pot – almost two dozen cigarettes and three books of matches – when Newkirk dropped his cards.

"Sorry," he grinned, "flush beats three of a kind."

Hopper leaned back against the wall and stared at the Brit in a mixture of amazement and annoyance, "well, I'll be damned if you haven't cleaned me out."

Newkirk stacked the cigarettes and match books in front of him. "Oh, come on! Surely, you've got something else to bet with?" He eyed the gold watch on Hoppers wrist. It was much nicer than the green, cloth-band watches he usually collected in poker games

"Not anything I could bear to lose." Hopper replied as he pulled the sleeve down over the trinket. He stood and chuckled, "I should have saved one 'cause I could really use a cigarette now."

Newkirk handed him one, "Here, never let it be said that Peter Newkirk was a hard man."

Hopper accepted with a word of thanks. He lit it and caught sight of Komansky, "now, he'd give you a run for your money. Sandy's the best player in our unit."

Newkirk glanced at the baby-faced sergeant and a smirk appeared on his face, "once knew a bird named Sandy… a right looker she was."

Komansky pushed down the resentment that built up every time that crack was made. Quietly, he set the mug down and joined Hopper at the table. He pulled out his pack and dropped it on the table before swinging his right leg over the ammo box that Hopper had been using as a seat. "What's the game?" he asked, casually.

Newkirk shuffled the cards, deftly before tossing some of his winnings into the center of the table. "You pick," he said, "ante is two chips."

Komansky slid two cigarettes in and said, "let's keep it simple… Five-card draw, deuces wild?"

Newkirk nodded and dealt the cards around the table. They played three games, with Komansky winning them all as the rest of the men, both POWs and fliers, gathered to watch. Newkirk won the next four, as the other players bowed out.

"Looks like it's just the two of us," Newkirk said cheerfully as he gathering the cards and his chips. "Ante up?"

Komansky pushed the two cigarettes forward, "just deal."

Newkirk dealt the cards and began to pick his up, when Komansky grabbed his arm. "You're cheating," he accused, his voice threateningly low.

"Take it easy, mate," the Brit smirked without missing a beat. "Just cause you hit a spot of bad luck…"

"I'm not your 'mate' and luck has nothing to do with it," he growled. "You spent most of the games before I joined leafing the cards. After you started losing, you switched to an overhand deal and stacked the deck." Newkirk's eyes narrowed as he continued, "How much do you wanna bet that when I flip your cards over, I find a whole lotta aces and deuces?"

"And if you're wrong?" Newkirk asked, evenly.

"If I'm wrong," Komansky said, flipping over the first card, the Ace of Diamonds. "I'll give you the rest of my chips..." he flipped the second card, another ace, "and apologize." He flipped the next two cards, both deuces, and Newkirk began to squirm.

"If you admit to the cheating," Komansky said with his fingers hovering over the last card. "I might not give you a licking."

Newkirk stiffened and lifted his head defiantly as Komansky waited. He looked around the room, sizing up the men on his side and the men on Komansky's side. After a brief calculation, he leaned closer to the American and whispered, "sod off,"

Newkirk shoved Komansky backward off the ammo box. The rest of the men backed up, staying clear of the blossoming fight, while at the same time beginning to take bets. Komansky jumped to his feet and charged at Newkirk striking him in the chin.

Newkirk wrapped him up in a tight hug and backed him into the wall. Komansky attempted to wriggle out of his grasp, but failing that, settled for taking Newkirk's feet out from under him.

The two fell to the floor and rolled in the dirt. Each one landed several decent blows on the other as yells of, 'get him, Sandy' and 'stay on top of him, Peter', came from the spectators.

When the brawling men bumped into the table causing the radio to teeter. Baker pulled the headset from his ears and jumped to his feet. "You're going to break something," he barked. When they continued unfazed by his shouts, he stepped forward and tried to physically pull them apart. This only gained him an elbow to the jaw, which sent him stumbling back into the arms of Colonel Hogan.

Hogan, who had just come back from the meeting at Bad Orb, was dressed in dark clothing and his face was blacked out with grease. He set Baker upright and stepped toward the circle of men. After he pulled the first couple of men aside, the rest noticed his arrival and quickly backed away from the fight.

Hogan grabbed a hold of Newkirk's arm and pulled him off of Komansky. Hopper helped his friendup keeping one hand on his shoulder and the other at his waist to steady and restrain him.

"You two keep that up and you're liable to bring the roof down on our heads, not to mention the goons," Hogan said, sharply. "What happened?"

Newkirk, his lip split and eye starting to swell, shrugged. Hogan turned to Komansky, whose nose was obviously broken, but he too remained silent. Finally, after a moment or two of strained silence, Hopper cleared his throat, "if I may, sir… Corporal Newkirk and Sandy were having a disagreement about a card game."

"Who threw the first punch?" Hogan asked.

Hopper shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to get either man in trouble. "Well, uh…"

"I did," Komansky finally admitted after the silence became unbearable. "I accused Corporal Newkirk of cheating, he gave me a push, and I decked him."

Hogan looked to Newkirk for confirmation and the Brit nodded once. "How do you know he was cheating?" Hogan asked Komansky. "Maybe you just aren't as good a player as you thought."

"I make no brags about my ability," Komansky hissed through clenched teeth. "But I do know that when a player switches shuffling style, it's not just because his hands get tired. That last card is an ace... I'd stake my reputation on it."

Hogan held eye contact with the Sergeant for a moment before glancing over at their make-shift table, which – amazingly- had remained unscathed during the melee. He picked up the last card from the table. "This card?" he asked. Komansky nodded and Hogan held it out to him, "it's the Queen of Hearts."

Komansky's jaw went slack as he took the card, "but… I could have sworn he…"

Newkirk crossed his arms over his chest, smugly. "I'll take that apology now, mate," he said, adding extra emphasis to the last word.

Komansky fingered the card and looked at his feet, "I'm sorry, Corporal… I – uh, was wrong."

"Okay," Hogan said, before Newkirk had the chance to gloat. "We just brought in the plasma for Captain O'Brien and Wilson's giving it to him now. Sergeant, why don't you go give him a hand and, when he's done, get your nose taken care of?"

Hopper followed Komansky as he shuffled over to the other side of the room. Hogan took in the rest of the men and raised his voice, "you're all going to be here for the next few days, maybe even a few weeks. I suggest… no, make that an order, that you keep your card games bet-free. Newkirk, come with me." The last part he tacked on as he headed toward the changing rooms.

Hogan sat down on the bench and began to untie his shoes. His uniform hung on a peg beside him, right where he'd left it earlier that evening. "So," he started by pointing to Newkirk's hands, "are you still able to forge?"

Newkirk flexed the bruised and bloodied knuckles on his writing hand. "They'll be a little stiff in the morning, but it'll be fine."

Hogan buttoned his pants and sat back down in the bench. "You'll spend all of your free time in the tunnel working on those papers," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "But above ground, you'll take over KP duties for the next month, that way you won't have time to cheat at cards."

"Guv," Newkirk's uninjured eye went wide and he held up his hand in an overly theatrical sense of innocence, "I wasn't cheating, scout's honor..."

Hogan fought the urge to smile as he grabbed Newkirk's wrist and pulled a playing card from his sleeve. He held it in up, "Komansky might not have noticed you sneaking the card off the table, but I did." He placed the ace in the Brit's swelling hand, "try not to pick anymore fights with the guests, hmm?"

Newkirk grinned sheepishly, "sorry."

Hogan dismissed him and began to wipe the grease from his face with a rag. He'd do a more thorough washing when he got back up top, but for now this would do. He glanced in the mirror as he turned down his collar. London hadn't been in radio contact since agreeing to the supply drop. Not that Hogan could blame them, they were tracking down their leak; however, they hadn't set up a rendezvous to get the fliers back to England. The Gestapo were still searching for the Americans, but they were beginning to ease up the restrictions around Hammelburg as their search expanded. Hogan hoped to have the fliers gone sooner, rather than later. Keeping the work detail going on the guard barracks, without actually finishing the work, was going to have Klink breathing down his neck.

Once the pressure started, it would be harder and harder to convince him that a forty man crew can't complete the job in a timely fashion.

"Colonel?"

Hogan spotted Baker in the mirror and turned. "Received a transmission from Little Brother," Baker handed the clipboard over. "He said that an American Colonel was spotted at the clinic in Hammelburg."

"Injured?" Hogan asked, quickly skimming through the transcribed message.

"Not badly," Baker shook his head. "Little Brother said that he was favoring his leg, but he didn't receive treatment."

Hogan re-read the message as a knot of unease began to tighten in his stomach. "It says he was with Gestapo agents, but a Luftwaffe officer was in charge."

"Yes, sir," Baker said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Perhaps he was one if the officers Klink met at the Hofbrau?"

"Could be," Hogan mused. He handed the clipboard back to his radioman and reached for his jacket. "The question is, why isn't Hochstetter in charge of the prisoners? They would normally put captured men, specifically officers, through interrogation. Luftwaffe wouldn't see him until he was placed"

"Only because they don't want Klink doing the interrogations," Baker countered. "If they have a highly-ranked, Luftwaffe officer, who is actually competent, maybe he took it out of Hochstetter's hands."

Hogan nodded thoughtfully, "see if Little Brother can find out where they're holding him and I don't mean just the building or floor, but the exact cell."

"Do you have a plan?" Baker asked.

"I'm starting one," Hogan said as he zipped his jacket and blew out the kerosene lamp. "Tomorrow, I'll talk to Klink and see if I can find out more about this Luftwaffe guy."

*Pas de Calais is a town on the coast of France and was one of the locations used in Operation Fortitude. Operation Fortitude was a deception strategy used to draw the Nazis away from Normandy. The Nazis were supposed to believe that the landings at Normandy were merely a diversion from the real landing point at Pas de Calais.

Author's Note:

Merry Christmas, everybody!
I hope you all had as wonderful a year as I have this past year. I'm working on several new stories and hope to finish them soon. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and just making my year great!
As with all my other chapters, feel free to send my any and all comments and criticism you may have.

With love,

Leah