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.

Author's Note: I know chapters have been very slow in coming and that makes it hard to keep interest. I sincerely apologize for that. I've had a bad case of writer's block for awhile now and it's not easy to get over. [Posting before you actually finish the story is a rookie move, but I'm an impulsive one by nature] The good news is, I'm seeing a bit of light at the end of the tunnel - hence why I've resumed posting. This one's short but the next couple chapters are longer, so it makes up for it. Thanks for sticking with it and me. Enjoy.

"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."

ACT VIII

LeBeau set down the pot containing breakfast and watched as their guests and the men from camp organized themselves in a neat line. It had been two days since Newkirk and Komansky's ruckus and - after Hogan lay down the law - life in the tunnels settled into a normal routine.

Hogan's crew worked around the clock; though, there were always enough men in each barracks and outside so that the goons wouldn't become suspicious. Newkirk delegated the clothes-making to Olsen's team, while he worked exclusively on the identification papers. Word had come in the night before that the krauts were widening the search and moving westward toward France. Hogan took this as a good sign and prepared to move a small group of three or four out tonight.

The fliers stayed mostly to themselves and tried not to interrupt or disturb their hosts as they worked. What few games that did occur were mostly gin rummy or go fish and had thus far remained friendly. They were taken above ground to get a breath of fresh air every once and a while, but only when Schultz was on duty. Through Wilson's dedicated ministrations, O'Brien had finally turned a corner. He'd regained consciousness and was, for the most part, stable. Ever since the fight, Komansky stayed out of the way of everyone. His pride was wounded and he fussed over O'Brien while it healed.

O'Brien shifted, eliciting a small groan. He watched the man lower the pot as a line quickly formed. A taller, lean man in an RAF uniform, tried to cut line and was soundly reprimanded by the cook in a rapid mixture of French and English. "Who's that?" he asked.

"Name's LeBeau," Komansky said softly, "he's in charge of the mess. Do you feel up to eating something?"

O'Brien sniffed the air and finding the aroma not an unpleasant one, nodded. The sergeant stood and made his way to the Frenchman. The men in line, including many of his own crew, shot him dirty looks at another perceived line-jumper. "Uh, Corporal LeBeau?" he asked, awkwardly. The little cook was obviously close the Newkirk and hadn't been very civil toward Komansky since the fight.

"Back of the line," LeBeau said as he ladled porridge into Olsen's mug.

For once, Komansky decided not to argue. He trudged over to the back and fell in behind the radioman, who was engaged in a quiet conversation with Newkirk. Komansky grabbed two mugs from the pile and stood just close enough to indicate that he was in line. He hadn't intended on eavesdropping, but when Baker mentioned Colonel Gallagher, he couldn't help himself.

"It's going to be hard," Baker said, attempting to keep his voice low. "The Colonel's been racking his brain the last couple of days, but with Greve there, I'm not sure if we can actually pull this one off."

Newkirk appeared unconcerned and chuckled softly, "we've had harder. Don't worry, the Guv will sort it.. he always does."

"But how?" Baker insisted, "and who's to say that Gallagher hasn't broken all ready?"

"He hasn't," Komansky said, cutting in to their conversation. Newkirk turned to see who was behind him and snorted. Baker shifted uncomfortably as Komansky continued, "I know the Colonel, he's as straight laced as they come. They could do anything to him and he wouldn't crack."

The three moved forward as Newkirk sighed, "look, it's not what anyone wants to think, but it is possible. Colonel Hogan is the smartest bloke I know, but even he admitted that Greve got to him."

"Fine, it's possible," Komansky agreed reluctantly, "but not likely… and if this Greve is as bad as he claims, why doesn't your colonel get my colonel out of there."

"Sure, we'll just waltz up to Gestapo Headquarters and ask nicely." Newkirk put on his best posh accent, "good day, old bean… I say, you have one of our colonels. Go on and hand him over, now there's a good chap."

Komansky couldn't help a smile, in spite of the sarcasm. The line moved forward again and he said, "okay, that won't work, but there has to be a way."

"Not with Greve there," Baker repeated.

Komansky fell silent. Everything in him screamed that they should just go get Colonel Gallagher; but that brain everyone kept telling him to use, agreed with the Heroes. Gallagher was at the tips of their fingers… just out of reach. Newkirk turned to the silent yank and laid a surprisingly gentle hand on his arm, "as I said, Colonel Hogan will get an idea…"

"Is that all you do, wait for him to get an idea?" Komansky snapped in frustration. "Don't you ever come up with your own?"

Instead of being annoyed, Newkirk smirked. "You should hear some of Carter's gems," he said. "He wants to blow the whole train station as a distraction."

"Wouldn't that work?"

Baker shook his head, "the explosion would pull Gestapo away, but Greve is an interrogator. There's no guarantee that he'd even leave the building, let alone leave for long enough to break Colonel Gallagher out of his cell."

They finally reached the front of the line and LeBeau ladled the cereal into Baker's mug. He said a quick 'thank you' before heading back to the radio. Newkirk's mug was filled as he told Komansky to just be patient. Grinning at the porridge, his absolute favorite, he said, "thanks, Louis. You're a gentleman and a scholar."

LeBeau pulled a face as Newkirk headed back down the tunnel. He muttered something about barbarians who ate paste for breakfast. Komansky held out the two mugs and the chef glared disapprovingly. "One mug per person," he said stiffly.

"The other's for Captain O'Brien." LeBeau filled the second mug, but the scowl remained. Komansky thanked him and took the mugs back to O'Brien. Setting them down on a cask beside the cot, Komansky helped his captain into a more upright position. He sat down on his stool and gave the porridge a stir before trying to feed the officer. He was met with lips that tightened into a thin line and a firm objection.

"I've been feeding myself for a long time now. I don't need help." Komansky relinquished the mug, but kept an eye on him. O'Brien slurped the thin porridge slowly, "Mm, that's good."

"So, when are you going to tell me what's eating you?" he asked, noticing the the sergeant was aimlessly mixing his cereal instead of eating.

Komansky frowned and explained the current predicament. Gallagher's capture, Colonel Hogan's hesitancy, and more importantly, this interrogator which seemed to strike fear into the hearts of allied soldiers everywhere. "I don't see why they don't just go in and get him. Or if they're too scared, step aside and let me do it."

O'Brien shook his head, "use your head, Sandy. They're trying to keep this place a secret."

"We can't just leave the Colonel where he is!"

O'Brien set the half-empty mug back on the cask and shifted down to relieve the pain in his side. "Joe shouldn't have been on this trip," he muttered. "Colonel Dane was perfectly capable of leading it."

Komansky smirked, saying, "and give up a dangerous mission to a subordinate?"

"I bet even General Britt couldn't have made him give it up." O'Brien laughed. He sucked in a sharp breath and pressed a hand to his side. He reminded himself not to laugh... laughter hurt too much. "I can't tell you how many times I sat and listened to the Colonel argue with some general or other about whether he could—or should—go on a mission."

Komansky's brows scrunched together as something Baker said clicked and pieced together with what O'Brien said. "Of course… he's an interrogator," he said, mostly to himself. He jumped up and looked around as O'Brien frowned.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, wincing as he tried to sit up. He didn't get an answer as Komansky hurried over to LeBeau. They talked for a little while then Komansky disappeared through one of the tunnels. O'Brien sighed and tried to relax on the cot, hoping that whatever his sergeant was planning wouldn't get him into too much trouble.

TOH~HH

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Group Captain Sherburne said slowly.

He sat in General Pritchard's office with his superior, Commodore Dennell. General Pritchard was at his desk, while General Britt stood just to his right, leaning heavily on his cane. A younger man with blond hair, who did not introduce himself nor was he very talkative, sat beside the file cabinets.

Sherburne had been on guard since the reports and rumors had slowly trickled down about the mission; and when the American MPs, along with RAF police, had come knocking at his door, he'd insisted that the Commodore be present.

"Yes," Commodore Dennell said, his annoyance was obvious. He'd heard how badly the mission went and knew that somebody had to be sacrificed to the brass. "What the devil is this about, Bill? And who is he?" he asked, pointing to the blond.

The man indicated stood, smiled pleasantly, and then introduced himself as Bob Kinney before apologizing for his ill manners. "You're here at my request," Kinney explained, settling onto the edge of Pritchard's desk. He addressed the Commodore, "you see, sir, there have been some things that don't quite add up about the mission over Hammelburg."

Sherburne scoffed, "what is there to not add up? You yanks bodged it up and got paid handsomely for it, too."

This earned him dirty looks from Pritchard and Britt and a quick chastisement from Dennell. Kinney, for the most part, was not fazed. "Indeed," he chuckled. Reaching for the cigarettes in his breast pocket, he said, "according to Major Stovall, you were pretty adamant that Colonel Gallagher not run the mission… why?"

"Because," Sherburne ground out, his dislike for the aforementioned officer was plain, "Joe Gallagher is too busy licking boots and playing the mighty hero to be worried about his men or the men in that prison camp." Britt gave a snort of displeasure and Sherburne glanced sideways to gauge his commodore's reaction. Receiving no rebuke, he continued, "it was an ill-conceived mission from the start."

Kinney offered him a cigarette and a light. "And, yet, you helped plan it out, Group Captain," he said, pointedly. "If you were so against it, why drive up from London and participate in its conception?"

Sherburne stared at him in disbelief, "you're really something. You're looking for a scapegoat, well, uh-uh." He started to shake his head as he stood and paced the room angrily. "You can't lay this at my door. You think Gallagher gave my opinions a second thought? No, sir! This is his mess and it's not going to stain anyone, but him."

The room went silent as Sherburne came to a stop directly in front of Kinney. They stared at each other for several, long moments. Finally, Sherburne broke eye contact and resumed his seat. Kinney dropped his cigarette in the ashtray on Pritchard's desk and cleared his throat.

"Nobody is blaming you or the RAF," he said calmly. "I just have a few things to set straight… some inconsistencies, if you will." He picked up two folders and held them up. "This is the report from your last mission to Hammelburg," he said, flipping it open and reading silently.

"What about it?"

Kinney flipped through the pages as if searching for something. When he found it, he grabbed a pencil and circled a portion of it. "Here, in your last report, you wrote that the refinery was located at fifty degrees, six minutes, and thirty-nine seconds north by nine degrees, forty-five minutes, and two seconds east."

Kinney handed the report to Sherburne. The Brit glanced at the paper then licked his lips and squirmed in his seat, obviously not liking where this was headed.

"I spoke with the ground exec and he overheard you telling Gallagher's navigator that the target position was wrong," he said, opening the second folder and circling another portion. "That it was actually, fifty degrees, seven minutes, and four seconds north by nine degrees, forty-three minutes, and fifty seconds east. Can you tell me why that was changed and who authorized it?"

Sherburne took the second folder handed to him and looked to Dennell for support. When he was met with none, he closed the folders and placed them on the desk. "I had felt for sometime since that last mission that the reason we were having little success was that the position was off and I convinced Gallagher to change it."

"So, it was Joe Gallagher's decision to change the longitude and latitude?"

"Yes."

Kinney nodded, scratching the back of his neck. "There's another thing that bothers me. All of the recon films and intelligence gathered on the ground suggested that the first two missions were consistently hitting the refinery too far north." He smiled with satisfaction when he spotted beads of sweat on the Group Captain's forehead. Couple the sweat with the man's lack of focus and constant fidgeting, and Kinney felt sure he was on the right track. "And you can correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this second set of numbers even further north and east than the ones you used on the previous two missions?"

Dennell grabbed the reports and studied them closely, while Sherburne closed his eyes and bowed his head in defeat. "This has to be a mistake," Dennell said, directing his comments to Pritchard. "I know it looks bad, but that's all it is, looks. Tell them, John… John?"

"I think it's time to call my solicitor," Sherburne whispered, without raising his head.