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.

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."

ACT VII

Harvey sat in the cold, dank room where the military police had deposited him the day before. He unconsciously drummed his fingers on the metal table as he tried to think of something… anything, other than worrying. He stood and paced the length of the room. Surely, there was a logical explanation for this.
Could this – whatever this was – be the reason for General Britt's sudden departure from Archbury? Could it have something to do with the abrupt change in plans, resulting in the order to abort?
Harvey gave his musings a rest as he stopped in front of the mirror; briefly wondering if it was one of those transparent mirrors where someone could observe him without his knowledge. If that was the case, he wondered who was on the other side of the glass. None of this makes any sense! Think you fool, he berated himself for the millionth time.

The door opened and Harvey glanced up. In the mirror, he spotted a younger man. He stepped through the doorway carrying a thin folder, which he placed on the table. "Good morning," he said, "I trust that you've been treated well?"

Harvey gave a slight nod, "tolerably. What's going on? Why am I here?"

The man sat down at the table. "My name is Robert Kinney," he pointed toward the chair on the opposite side of the table, "take a seat, Major Stovall."

Harvey hesitated a moment before deciding to cooperate. He was innocent of any wrongdoing and he knew it. It wouldn't be hard to convince Kinney… at least that's what he told himself.

"I have just spent the last fifteen hours speaking with the ground exec and he's assured me that he had nothing to do with it," Kinney paused to offer Stovall a cigarette from a long, silver case. When Harvey declined, he took one for himself before placing the case back in his pocket. "This leaves you as my only suspect. Why don't you save me a lot of time and confess right here and now?"

Harvey's brows furrowed together in confusion. "I don't understand," he said, shaking his head. "Suspect? Confess to what?"

"Treason," Kinney replied, coolly.

"Treason?!" Harvey exclaimed in disbelief and leaned forward. "What are you talking about?"

Kinney lit his cigarette and drew in a deep breath of smoke. "Major Stovall, how long have you been passing information to the Nazis?"

"I have not passed..." Harvey began only to be cut off.

"Who is your contact?"

"I don't..."

"Where is he located?"

"Look..."

"Major Stovall, are you working alone or is there someone else embedded in the Nine-eighteenth?"

Harvey stood, pointing his finger at Kinney, "you listen here, I am a loyal officer of United States Army. I fought in the last war and I have a son in this one. I would never do anything that might endanger him or any other American's life, nor would I do anything to betray my country." He paused for a quick breath and let the calm, rational lawyer in him surface, "if you have any evidence to the contrary, I want you to produce it… now."

Kinney glanced toward the mirror, smoking thoughtfully. "Please… sit back down, Major."

Harvey followed Kinney's gaze toward the mirror over his shoulder and before sitting back down.

"I'm not inclined to believe you," Kinney began, "you see, last night's mission in Hammelburg was quite the disaster; costly in both lives and equipment. However, when the English had the mission, they didn't have such losses. Do you know why that is?"

Harvey crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged, "they anticipated that we would return. It does happen, you know."

"Of course it does," Kinney agreed. "But that's not what happened. An underground contact received information that the Nazis were expecting a bombing raid on the very day it was scheduled. So, either Hitler's astrologer really has something or they were told to expect a raid."

"A spy?"

Kinney nodded, "We narrowed it down to four suspects. Colonel Gallagher, he'd have complete access to the information."

"Joe lost a brother to this war," Harvey defended. "He has another one in Italy, plus his father is a high-ranking officer. Even if you could convince me that he would betray his country – which you can't – I would never believe that he could betray his family like that."

Kinney grinned, "I'd already eliminated the Colonel, but I'll file that vote of confidence away. The air exec was another suspect that we dismissed. Leaving us with you and the ground exec as the only ones with specific knowledge of the raid."
"My money is on you," he added cheerfully. "That story about the phone not ringing is pure malarkey…"

"But it didn't," Harvey insisted stubbornly.

"Right," Kinney nodded, mockingly. "but it worked just fine when you called the control tower? I think you knew that it was a call to abort and I think you knew that you couldn't have Gallagher coming back."

"Joe is my friend," Harvey growled, "why wouldn't I want him to come back?"

Kinney stood and made his way to the mirror. "From everything I've heard about Joe Gallagher, he isn't a fool," he began to adjust his tie. "It wouldn't take him long to figure out that you were the leak."

"You think I deliberately sent a hundred and eighty men into certain death," Harvey swiveled in his chair to stare at Kinney's back, "just to save my own skin because I'm a Nazi sympathizer?"

Kinney pretended to focus on slicking back his hair, but actually studied Stovall's face carefully. The Major was genuinely upset. There's no way he's that good of an actor. He sighed in frustration. Damn, I've eliminated all my suspects. He cleared his throat as he re-took his seat, "if it wasn't you, then who was it? No one else knew the date of the raid..."

"I don't know," Harvey said.

"Surely, there must be someone who sticks out? Someone who wasn't at all pleased with the mission or who'd voiced sympathies for our enemies?"

"No spy worth his salt would be dumb enough to voice Nazi sympathies," Harvey shook his head; there was something he couldn't quite remember… something… He snapped his fingers, "Sherburne!"

Kinney frowned with a quick look to the mirror, "Sherburne?"

"Group Captain Sherburne," Harvey explained. "He's with the RAF—led the missions before Joe took over. General Britt sent him down from London to help Joe plan the mission. As a matter of fact, he was against the mission from the beginning… even threatened Joe after the mission briefing; said it would never go off."

"Sherburne, huh…" Kinney grabbed his folder and began to leave. "I'll look into this, but you'll have to remain here for the time being. I'll have someone bring you some lunch." he noticed the stubble on the officer's cheek and added, "a razor, too."

Harvey didn't have a chance to protest before the door closed and Kinney was gone. He sighed, settling down in the chair and counting the gray bricks on the wall, hoping that this wouldn't be a long wait.

TOH~HH

Klink paced in front of the Allied prisoners, who were lined up in his office. He stopped beside his file cabinet, where Schultz had tucked himself away. "Schultz," Klink began his lecture. "Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous?"

Schultz followed Klink's hand, taking in Newkirk and Olsen. They stood at attention, uniforms wet and muddy, but their faces were clear of expression. Hogan stood off to the side, observing Klink's actions. "No, Herr Kommandant," he dutifully replied.

"Two grown men brawling in the middle of roll call," Klink scoffed. He strode back toward Hogan and smirked, "over baseball."

"Oi," Newkirk barked, "it's cricket!"

"Silence!" Klink glared at the Brit.

"Kommandant," Hogan interrupted. "I'm sure that I can handle this matter internally."

Klink rolled his eyes, "Once this matter is reported to me, it is my duty to report it to Berlin." He stepped back to his desk and sat down. "Sergeant Olsen will be assigned to launder and press all of the guards' uniforms to the satisfaction of Sergeant Schultz."

Olsen almost groaned, but managed to contain it, while Newkirk smirked.
Klink smiled at the Brit cloyingly, "as for you, Corporal Newkirk; you will be assigned to thoroughly clean my uniforms. I want them neatly pressed with only a little bit of starch around the collar. In addition, I want all three pairs of boots shined." He paused, "and, of course this will be done to my satisfaction."

"That's not fair," Newkirk protested. He knew this was getting off lightly as far as Klink went, but this on top of KP duty was too much. "The Geneva Convention..."

"Only applies to the making and/or transporting of arms, munitions, and other machinery for the war effort. My uniforms do not fall under any of those categories. Dismissed." Klink replied without much concern. He motioned to Schultz, "take them back to the barracks and see that they get started after breakfast."

"Raus!" Schultz bellowed, before Newkirk could come up with another angle of protest. He gave the two enlisted men a gentle push, "you heard the Kommandant. Raus!"

Hogan gave them an imperceptible nod and started to follow the hefty guard. As he neared the door, he smacked his forehead. "I almost forgot… I wanted to give you an update on the guard's barracks."

Klink glanced up at him in surprise, "It's only been one day since you started, surely you're not finished."

"Oh no, sir," Hogan laughed. "You see, the men have found pretty severe water damage to the lower portion of the opposite wall." Hogan watched as Klink's forehead creased in confusion. He hurried to add, "Probably due to extinguishing the fire and of course, we'll have to completely tear down that wall along with the other two… so, we might as well just level the building and start from scratch."

Klink groaned, "how long will that take?"

"I'm not sure," Hogan pointed and Klink turned his chair to follow his arm. "Carter has taken over the job as foreman. He's assured me that he worked construction one summer, so he has the most experience." While the Kommandant's back was turned, Hogan slid the pin from the hinge and opened the back of the humidor. He selected three cigars and placed them in his breast-pocket. "I just wanted to let you know so that you can explain it to the new kommandant," he said, carefully replacing the pin.

Klink dropped his head in his hand, mind swirling at the thought of paying for enough food to feed that many men for that long. Perhaps he should try to renegotiate… once Hogan knew what a financial strain he was putting on the camp and himself, he would have to lighten the deal.

Hogan frowned. Klink was so lost in thought that he hadn't even heard his casual slip. "I said," he raised his voice, sat on the edge of the desk, and poked Klink's arm, "you'll have to explain it to the new kommandant."

Klink grunted and blinked up at him, "What did you say?"

"The new kommandant," Hogan repeated, "you'll have to explain what our deal was and why the job will take longer than originally stated."

Klink stood and removed his monocle. "You've heard something?" he asked. A slight tremor in his voice belied his cool demeanor. "What have you heard?"

Hogan patted him on the back. "It's all right, sir, I'm sure they'll give you another camp," he bit his lip and glanced toward the window, so Klink couldn't see his face. "I just hope the new kommandant is as fair and decent as you've been."

"Hogan," Klink snapped, desperately before collecting himself. He smoothed the pockets on his uniform and said slowly, "whatever you have heard is malicious gossip and will go no further, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, if you'll just tell me what you heard and your source," Klink resumed his seat with an air of indifference. "I'm sure I can get this mess cleared up."

Hogan wasn't the least bit fooled. Klink had these mature spells every time he got a new self-help book from the library. With just a little bit more needling, Klink would be back to his old, faint hearted self. He stood and smiled, weakly. "That's it, sir, keep fighting. Right up until those orders come in, you keep fighting."

"Hogan," Klink said through clenched teeth. "I do not have any orders coming. General Burkhalter would never replace me; I'm like family."

"Hey, if you married his sister, you would be," Hogan said eagerly. "That way he couldn't send you to the Russian Front!"

Klink jumped to his feet again, "Hogan, you will tell me who has started these nasty rumors this instant." He punctuated the statement by stamping his foot and punching the air with his fist.

"Well," Hogan hesitated. "I don't want to get anyone in trouble, but… one of the guards mentioned that a Luftwaffe officer was in town and that you haven't received any prisoners from the raid the other night. So…" he trailed off, waiting for Klink to pick it up. How one man could be given the same ruse over and over, without figuring it out, was beyond him. Why, Hogan could almost see the gears turning in the German's mind, albeit slowly… very slowly.

"You mean," Klink, much to Hogan's surprise, started to laugh. "The Oberstleutnant I met in Hammelburg? He's an interrogator, not a kommandant. Why, he wouldn't know the first thing about running a camp." Klink sat back down and began his daily tasks, "you have nothing to fear, Hogan. General Burkhalter wouldn't assign such a novice to this post. Dismissed."

"But, sir..."

"Tell your guard, whomever he may be, that Oberst Greve is most definitely not replacing me and I will receive my allotment of prisoners when he is through with them." Klink gestured to the door, "dismissed."

Hogan's brows furrowed as he backed toward the door, "yes, sir." He gave a distracted salute and shut the door behind him. He ignored Hilda's soft, sultry 'good morning, Colonel' and tucked his hands into his pockets as he stepped onto the porch of the Kommandantur. The sky was clear and the sun was starting to take the edge off the cold, late winter air.

Hogan glanced left, briefly watching the work detail, which had already begun work under the watchful eye of Corporal Langenscheidt and his guards. Scuttlebutt said that Langenscheidt was up for a promotion, so he was taking extra precautions to ensure that no tools and/or prisoners went missing.

Carter, in a rare display of authority, was chewing out one of the privates from Barracks Ten. A ghost of a smile crossed his face. Carter could be the most easy-going fella until he was placed in charge of a project, then he became serious and precise, not allowing any room for error. Perhaps that slight perfectionist streak was what kept him alive while mixing the many chemicals that created his explosives.

Hogan sighed and began to trudge his way to the barracks. He had to get back to the problem at hand. He had little doubt that this Greve was the same man. What were the odds of two men, both named Greve, working as Nazi interrogators? One-in-a-thousand? Maybe a million?

He stepped through the door which Private Anthony Garlotti opened before he even reached it. Garlotti gave him a quick smile and Hogan asked, "where's Baker?"

"At the radio," Garlotti replied, shutting the door all but a crack and directing his attention back to the yard outside. With the men constantly going up and down, it was always wise to keep someone on look out.

Hogan headed for the tunnel entrance, which was open. LeBeau was on the ladder and dragging the large pot he used behind him. Hogan grabbed the empty pot's handle and hauled it out of LeBeau's grasp.

"Merci," LeBeau panted. He wasn't out of shape, but a cast iron pot that big was awkward to handle on a ladder.

Taking the opportunity, Hogan said, "spoke with our illustrious kommandant… We'll have rations to feed them for another few weeks." He chuckled, "as long as Carter isn't too good at his job."

"I don't think you'll have to worry, Colonel," LeBeau said, joining him for a small laugh as he headed for the stove. Wilson had ordered strong broth for the more seriously wounded. "Everything is going as planned and with the extra hands from Barracks 3, we'll have the first batch of travelers ready to ship out once the boche move out."

"Good," Hogan nodded before descending the ladder. He spotted the troublesome Sergeant Komansky immediately. He was pacing back and forth between the tunnel to the emergency exit and the tunnel which lead toward the workshops. Hogan need to talk with him, but now wasn't the time. Now, he needed Baker.

Heading towards the radio, he saw Baker with his head bent down close to his paper, writing rapidly. As he reached the table, Baker began working the key, obviously sending a reply. Waiting until Baker stopped, he asked hopefully, "any good news?"

Baker looked up and shrugged, "yes and no… We heard back from Little Brother and according to him, Colonel Gallagher is being held in the underground cells of Gestapo Headquarters."

"And the bad news?" Hogan asked sarcastically.

The radio man grinned, "that was the bad news. The good news is that Hochstetter is on special assignment in Berlin, and he'll be gone for another four to six weeks. Have you finished that plan yet, sir?"

Hogan nodded, grabbing an empty crate, which had been re-purposed into a chair. "I have it alright, but I'll have to scrap it completely. While we won't have to worry about Hochstetter, we have a bigger problem."

Baker frowned, "sir?"

"Oberst Greve," Hogan said, disgustedly. Baker waited patiently for Hogan to continue. "When I was shot down," Hogan began. "I was interrogated by Greve and boy, is he a charmer," Hogan's voice drifted away as rather unpleasant memories began to assault him.

"Sounds like the guy who worked me over," Baker commented, "Sometimes, he forgot to even ask questions before giving you a sock in the gut."

Hogan shook his head, "no, Greve wasn't that type. I was prepared for that type… what I wasn't prepared for was a best friend."

"Best friend?"

He rubbed his thumb across his jaw, "he was a great lover of the mind games and if, for whatever reason, that didn't work then he became a wheel-and-dealer. He always had a way of making you choose your priorities. I doubt that leopard has changed any spots, not if they earned him promotions. Gallagher's probably been so twisted around and confused that he doesn't know what's going on."

Baker studied the workings of the radio. Something had been bothering him since Hogan had last spoken with London. He kept his voice low so that the guests couldn't hear him. "Are we going to rescue him?" he asked, adding, "I mean, it won't be easy if Greve recognizes you… maybe we should leave it be. That is why you didn't tell Big Bad Wolf he was alive, right?"

Hogan looked up in surprise and shook his head, "I didn't tell Bad Wolf because we weren't sure." He leaned down and put his elbows on his knees then sighed and attempted to rub the headache out of his temple. "We'll get him back… I just have to come up with a different plan."

TOH~HH

Gallagher grimaced in pain as he stretched down into a lunge. He held this position for a count of sixty before he straightened. He sat down on the cot in his cell and rubbed his knee. He didn't like how it kept stiffening up. If he ever did have the chance of escape, he wouldn't make much of a go of it.

Greve had taken him to the hospital for most of yesterday. He'd paraded Gallagher through the bevy of patients like some sort of trophy. Most of the patients had various injures from the parachuting, like broken or sprained ankles, knees, wrists… some had been shot, either on their way down or when they attempted to evade the patrols. The worst of the lot were those who hadn't made it out of their planes and had been torn up and burned in the wrecks.
Joe shook hands and offered a few words of encouragement to his men. They were angry, scared, and in pain, but the worst part was that there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Greve had been sickeningly sympathetic. 'How distressing this must be for him to see them this way,' he'd said, all the while assuring him that they were receiving the best of care. However, the man in black – Metzler, if he remembered the name correctly – was smiling proudly. It had taken all of Joe's restraint, and the ever present threat of gun play, to keep him from removing that smirk with extreme prejudice.

Much too soon for Joe's liking, Greve declared visiting time over and he was taken back to their headquarters. Only this time, instead of the nice, comfortable office, he was deposited in a real interrogation room… complete with old bloodstains and broken teeth. As he'd been worked-over, Joe couldn't help but think that whoever their cleaning lady was, she left a lot to be desired.

Today, he'd spent all of his time in the cell. Obviously as punishment for breaking his word about answering questions. He grinned remembering how absolutely furious Greve had been when he'd refused to answer questions. His conscience had bothered him for only a second when he remembered the lies Greve had told him before… All's fair in love and war, as the saying goes. Besides, he hadn't truly lied… was it his fault if Greve got the impression that he knew details about the invasion?

As he sat with nothing to do, but think… a strong feeling of dread grew within him that, for all his lies, Greve had told the truth about one thing. His crew had perished when the Lily had crashed. For, although he'd spotted many of the men from his group, he hadn't spotted any of his own crew.

He's still lying to you… none of it makes sense, the rational side of him argued. If the Lily crashed you'd have still been on board. You'd be dead now.

Then doubt – bless her miserable, mean-spirited heart – had to put in her two cents, unless you abandoned ship; left them behind as you scrambled out of that metal death trap. General Savage was so sure he'd cured your yellow-streak, guess he was wrong…

Forgetting his knee, Gallagher got to his feet and paced the length of his cell… all seven feet of it. If only his memory wasn't so fuzzy… why couldn't he remember?

The door at the end of the hall opened and shut, causing Gallagher to turn toward the door expectantly. It was Metzler, with all of his charm, grace, and of course the schmeisser on hand. Gallagher backed away from the door as the cell was unlocked. He held his hands up, waiting for Metzler to lock him in the cuffs.
But Metzler stayed at the door and waved him out. Cautiously, Joe passed him and stepped into the hallway. Metzler jammed the barrel into his back to press him forward.

This is it. Joe felt sick. Greve's gone through with it and told the Gestapo that I'm a spy, he thought. He wasn't sure what to do next as he took the long, painful march up the steps.

Should he try to escape? With his bum knee, it would be suicide to try; but he was hard pressed to say that he'd be in worse shape than he was in already.

Pray? He wasn't deeply religious. He had been once, as a kid and even a young man, but after the telegram came about his brother… well, let's just say he wasn't on good enough terms with God to be begging for help now.

He set his jaw in determination as they reached the lobby. It might be suicide, but I'll have to try.

Metzler jabbed him in the side and pointed to the door leading to the street. It was pitch black and almost frighteningly silent outside. Joe barely had a chance to look around before Metzler gestured to the car parked at the curb. "Steig ins Auto," he said gruffly.

Gallagher opened the backdoor of the long, black vehicle and slid inside. The younger man from before - the one who'd spoken English - was in the driver's seat. Metzler climbed in beside his prisoner keeping the gun pressed into the American's rib cage.
The inside of the car was plush with leather upholstery, it was almost luxurious. Ten times more luxurious than the jeeps used in London. Joe almost felt honored to be riding in this to... wherever they planned to shoot him. He chuckled at how ridiculous that thought sounded, earning him a sharp jab from Metzler's gun.

Because there were no other cars or people on the streets, they reached their destination quickly. One of the tall buildings he'd spotted from the window and had passed during the trip to the hospital. The driver opened Gallagher's door and told him to get out. Gallagher tried to read the sign above the doors, but he was promptly escorted up the steps and through the doors. To his surprise and confusion, it appeared to be a dimly lit, hotel lobby. Dark curtains hung over the windows to keep light from seeping outside. The usual desk sat to the left of the door with the key cubby and a small switchboard behind it. Out of habit, Gallagher turned toward the front desk.

"Pardon, Colonel," the young driver said, "Oberst Greve is waiting for you in the dining room."

Metzler pointed his gun toward a doorway across the lobby. Gallagher crossed the room and entered the equally small, but brighter cafe. There were about ten tables in total and only three were in use. Greve was sitting smack in the middle, as if he wanted to be the first thing seen as you stepped in. To add to his surprise, Greve had two women, one on either side of him. Joe walked over, noticing that that Greve's man and Metzler stayed at the door.

"Ah," Greve stood and motioned to the seat across from him. "Joseph, this is Luisa and that is Wilma."

Gallagher frowned at Greve's use of his Christian name. He looked around the dining room. Greve's table was obviously set to the officer's tastes. The surrounding tables all had white, linen tablecloths, while Greve's had a dark-blue, silken cloth. The place settings were delicate and intricately designed instead of the basic settings on the other tables. In place of the simple vase of flowers which adorned the others, Greve's table had a heavy, crystal ashtray with a polished brass base. Joe noticed the tray was full of ash, stubbed out cigarette butts, and a half-smoked cigar.

"What am I doing here?" he asked, bluntly and steeled himself just in case this was another game.

Greve smiled, cheerfully and poured a glass of wine from a bucket on the cart beside him. Gallagher stared at the dark, red liquid that filled his glass and resisted the urge to lick his lips. "This is a little – how do you American's say it – goodbye party?"
Greve snapped his fingers and a waiter hurried over. He muttered something in German and the waiter vanished with a nod. "I find my work here is done and I will be returning to Berlin in the morning."

"I thought we were in Berlin."

Gallagher's sarcasm didn't put a dent in Greve's cheery mood. "Don't be silly… this little hovel cannot compare to the majesty of Berlin," he tilted his head. "But, you would be surprised how many Americans fall for that line."

The waiter re-appeared, this time at Gallagher's elbow. He placed a plate of food on the table in front of him. Gallagher studied the dish, but aside from recognizing a few vegetables, he wasn't sure what he'd been served. However, it smelled amazing and since he'd refused to eat the soup served this morning – as he was almost positive it had been made with either rotten potatoes and/or soured milk – he was distinctly aware of his rumbling stomach.

"Eat," Greve urged as he played with Wilma's reddish-blonde curls. "I don't know when you will be fed next, so you should enjoy it while you can."

Joe went from frowning at his plate to frowning at Greve. "What do you mean?" he asked, ignoring the coy smiles Luisa kept sending his way between her sips of wine.

"Just what I said," Greve answered, simply. "I am going back to Berlin. You're being turned over to the Gestapo for further interrogation tomorrow morning when Albert and I leave."

Gallagher turned halfway in his chair to look at Metzler and Greve's man, Albert. From the look on Metzler's face, Joe figured that last night's session was just a warm-up. Remembering what Greve had said during their first meeting in his office, he asked, "is this you becoming my enemy, Oberst?"

"Harald, please," he insisted, reluctantly pulling away from Wilma's attentions. "And, no, it is not. Since your visit at the hospital, your men have… clammed up. My superiors in Berlin feel that my techniques would be more successful and useful to the Reich elsewhere."
He reached for the cigar and puffed on it, all while observing how his prisoner ate his food. Slow, controlled, and with as much etiquette as one could expect from an American. "I do feel sorry for your men, though."

Gallagher paused with fork held aloft, "why?"

"They will be removed from the hospital and taken to interrogation," Greve shrugged. "It is how the Gestapo do things."

"You said they would receive the best medical treatment," Gallagher said. He set his fork down and shoved the plate away from him.

Greve held up both hands and tutted, "and they would've, if they remained under Luftwaffe control. Once transferred into Gestapo custody..." he trailed off and scratched the bottom of his chin. "If only there were a way to convince Berlin that my methods are effective; they'd probably keep me in charge. Perhaps if you were to give me a bit of information of moderate importance..."

Gallagher crossed his arms over his chest, "another game, Oberst?"

"I assure you it's not," Greve said, ignoring Gallagher's scoff. He set the cigar back onto the ashtray and reached for his wine. He brought it to his lips then hesitated. "I wonder how long Sergeant Brewer would last under Gestapo questioning," he said before draining the glass.

Joe bit his lip as he remembered Brewer's injuries, a dislocated shoulder and several broken ribs. The Germans hadn't given him painkillers due to a shortage – or so they'd claimed – and the kid was barely hanging on to his sanity. It wouldn't take long to break him and then there were others in the same shape or worse…

"Alright, Oberst, you win," he said, slowly. "What do you want to know?"

Greve snapped his fingers and Albert hurried over. Wilma and Luisa, right on cue, stood and vanished out the side door. To where, Joe didn't know, nor did he care. Albert pulled a notebook and pencil and took Wilma's seat. He told Greve that he was ready. Greve smiled triumphantly, "I'll take everything."