A/N: So sorry for the long delay between updates. Harvest is upon us and we've been experiencing equipment failures.

Big thanks to Marilyn Penner for all her help. As always, all mistakes are the property of the author, who owns nothing related to Hogan's Heroes, nor is making any profit from this or prior stories.

This chapter contains some graphic and possibly disturbing imagery.

Now on to the chapter. I hope you find it worth the wait.

Chapter Eleven

Kurt paused just inside his parents' home, soaking in the warmth and love that he always felt each time he walked through the door. He had a place of his own in Hammelburg, a small, two room flat. But it would never feel like 'home'.

"Kurt? Is that you?" his father called, walking out of the kitchen. Kurt hid his concern behind a smile of greeting. The lines in his father's face appeared to have deepened overnight.

They met in the middle of the room and embraced.

"How are you," Kurt murmured, resting his chin upon his father's shoulder.

"I am well, Meine Sohn, as is your Mutter."

Kurt pulled back, searching his father's eyes. "Where is she?"

"Sleeping." Josef went to his rocker and eased himself into it, wincing as stiff joints popped and cracked. Settling back with a sigh, he turned his head and looked out the window at the deepening twilight. "Karl was here, earlier. He wished to tell us of what he had done."

Kurt frowned, fearing the worst. "What did he do, Vater?"

Josef looked back at him, his expression grave. "He reported Marta's death to the Gestapo."

Kurt's legs went weak. His hand shot out, grabbed the fireplace mantle for support. "The Gestapo?"

"Yes." Josef set the rocker in motion, the slow creak and squeal of the old wood as familiar to Kurt as his own name. "Do not worry, Kurt. He did not mention me to them at all."

Kurt moved a chair closer to his father's rocker and sat down. "What did he tell them?"

"That he had been the one to find Marta after she slipped out of the house to look for Mozart."

Kurt had completely forgotten about the little dog. He looked around the room, but saw no sign of him.

"He is with your Mutter," Josef said with a wan smile. "He has not left her side since we returned home. They seem to be a comfort to each other."

Kurt was glad for that, but did not wish to talk of Mozart. "Continue, Vater, bitte."

Josef's gaze went distant, the rocker slowing slightly. "Karl told Major Hochstetter that he had been searching for Marta when he heard shots. He found Marta and the three soldiers, all dead."

"Hochstetter believed him?"

"Karl thought so, yes. Hochstetter even offered his sympathy, then asked if Karl had seen anyone else. Karl explained finding his daughter's body had put him in a state of shock. He noticed little else after that."

Kurt nodded slowly, relieved and grateful to Karl.

Josef's expression hardened. "The Gestapo kept Marta's body, Kurt. Karl and Margaret can not even lay her to rest."

"It is procedure, Vater," Kurt murmured, the words bitter in his mouth. He winced, envisioning the Gestapo treating the little girl's body as if it were evidence. "Once the Gestapo have completed their examination, they will release Marta to Karl and Margaret."

Josef shook his head, loosely clasped his hands upon his lap. "So much pain. So much," he whispered.

Kurt sighed, feeling exhaustion poised to strike. Without thinking, he closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose with a forefinger.

"How long has it been since you slept?" Josef asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

Berating himself for adding to his father's burden, Kurt got to his feet and went to the window. "Do not worry about me, Vater. I am quite used to going without sleep."

"It is every parent's right to worry about their children," Josef countered, a smile in his voice. A long pause followed, and then Kurt heard his father leave the rocker and approach him. Gentle, callused hands came to rest upon his shoulders, offering support and comfort.

"You are going to check on Robert again?"

Kurt nodded. His father's hands massaged his shoulders, working to release the tension knotting them.

"You were angry when you left last night," Josef prodded.

"Very angry," Kurt corrected with a thin smile. His father's silence indicated his willingness to listen. But Kurt heard the mantle clock's soft chimes, and knew he would have to hurry to make it to Stalag 13 and back before daybreak.

He turned to face his father. "But now, I am only afraid." His chin lifted, his voice gaining strength with the force of his resolve. "Once Robert is better, I intend to ask that he arrange for you and Mutter to be taken to safety. Out of Germany."

Josef gazed at him in surprise. "We would not leave you or Robert. Our place is here, with you both and with the Underground."

"I agree."

Romie left the bedroom - Mozart at her feet - and made her way to stand beside Josef. Her face was pale, but her eyes were alive with love and determination as she met Kurt's gaze. She took his hand, curling her fingers to squeeze it tightly.

"We are staying."

"Mutter--" Kurt stayed his protest as she gave him a severe look. He nevertheless caught the slight twitch of her lips, telling him she was fighting hard not to smile.

"Do not argue with your Mutter, Kind."

He snorted with laughter. She had not used that reprimand since he was sixteen. Josef chuckled as well and putting an arm around her waist, pulled her close.

"The matter is settled, then, Kurt." His smile faded. "Give Robert our love when you see him."

Tears welled in Romie's eyes. "He needs you now - your love and understanding as much as your medical skills."

"He has them," Kurt promised fervently, gathering them close, cherishing even this brief time together. He had been shown yet again how short life could be, and how quickly loved ones could be lost without warning.

Mozart looked up at them, whining softly, one paw lifting into the air. Kurt broke the embrace with his parents and glanced down at the little dog. The soft, brown eyes held a plea that he could not ignore. He bent down and scooped Mozart into his arms, rubbed his cheek against the soft black and white coat. Mozart's tongue whipped out, swiping a sloppy kiss across his face. Kurt let out a watery chuckle and held him close, picturing Marta. She was beyond his help now.

But Robert was not.

HH HH HH HH HH HH

"Try, Colonel! You've got to try!"

Hogan dragged his head up and somehow found the strength to reach for Kinch. Their hands locked, a high-pitched chortle ringing out. The flesh over Kinch's skull rippled and crawled, changing color and shape until Hogan found himself staring into Major Wolfgang Hochstetter's leering, black eyes.

Hochstetter's grip tightened to painful extremes. His fingers stretched like taffy around their joined hands, coiled up Hogan's arm and around his shoulders, then slithered greedily down his torso and legs. Only Hogan's neck and head remained free of the grotesque restraints.

The hot, fleshy coils pulsed and constricted, exerting pressure that snapped his ribs and crushed his lungs to pulp. Blood flooded Hogan's throat, poured out his mouth and nose in thick, vermillion streams. Hochstetter's hideously distorted face loomed over him; strident laughter drowning out Hogan's wheezing attempts to breathe.

"It was you! You were responsible!"

Hogan choked and writhed within the merciless coils, dizzy from lack of oxygen. Dancing, black spots obscured his vision, Hochstetter's fetid breath washed over his face.

"It was you!"

HH HH HH HH HH HH

Kinch jumped as a loud gasp sounded from the bed. Hogan twisted and writhed as if fighting something, his breathing loud and hoarse. Kinch leaned forward, resting his hand upon Hogan's chest, holding him down.

"It's all right, Colonel."

There was a knock at the door and Lyons poked his head into the room. "Sir--"

"Get O'Malley!"

The medic appeared within seconds, looking like a man torn from sleep. He bent over the bed, bumping shoulders with Kinch. The other men crowded into the room behind them, jostling to see what was happening.

"No . . . her," Hogan rasped, his eyes barely open and staring. His struggling intensified, his strength surprising O'Malley and Kinch.

"Looks like you got your wish, Ben," Newkirk said quietly, watching their fight to keep Hogan still. "He's awake."

"This is'na awake," O'Malley bit out through clenched teeth, pressing Hogan's shoulders to the bed. "This is delirious! Colonel," he pleaded, staring into eyes glazed with confusion. "Sir, you'll hurt yourself if you keep this up. Kinch, watch he doesn't kick you."

"What can we do?" LeBeau asked, feeling helpless.

"Just stay out of the way!" Kinch shot back, leaning his full weight upon Hogan's thighs. The lower bed frame was not meant to hold the weight of three men. The over-stressed wood groaned, warning of a possible collapse.

Hogan suddenly quit fighting them. He lay still, his breath coming in small gasps, his body quivering with fever.

"Thank heaven," O'Malley breathed. He reached out, tilting Hogan's head to a more comfortable position. Hogan did not react to the touch at all.

"What happened?" whispered LeBeau, hesitantly approaching the bed. Carter was right behind him, white as a ghost.

O'Malley frowned at the fresh blood spotting the bandages at Hogan's shoulder. "It's the fever. It's getting dangerously high. It keeps climbing and he could have seizures."

"Seizures?" Carter's voice cracked with fear.

Lyons raised his hand from the doorway. "Sir?"

"Or worse," O'Malley sighed, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

Newkirk pushed a hand into his hair, his eyes locked upon Hogan. "Worse as in how?"

"Sir?" Lyons called again, waving his hand higher in the air.

"Brain damage," Kinch whispered, as though to himself.

Hogan shifted, his lips moving. Bracing his hands on either side of Hogan's body, O'Malley leaned close, tilting his ear toward Hogan's mouth. He looked up at Kinch a few seconds later.

"All I could make out was something about Hochstetter."

Lyons pushed through the men gathered around the bed. "How'd he know about Hochstetter?"

Kinch's head snapped toward him. "What are you talking about?"

Lyons looked startled at the sharp question, but recovered quickly. "Hochstetter called Klink this morning and asked about the colonel. Baker sent me to tell you earlier, but you were asleep and you looked like you could use it, so I decided to wait until you were awake."

Newkirk leaned toward Carter. "As he been hanging much with you, Andrew?" Carter frowned, clearly nonplussed by the question.

"That was thoughtful of you, Lyons," Kinch said, eyes hard with suppressed anger. "But when Baker says to deliver a message, he means now, not when you think it appropriate."

"Yes, sir," Lyons acknowledged with a crisp nod. "Sorry, sir."

Kinch sighed, his anger already gone. Briefly wondering why Lyons still insisted on calling him 'sir', he turned to O'Malley. The medic was sponging Hogan's face with one hand, while fussing with the blanket with the other.

"Ben? How's he doing?"

O'Malley threw a quick glance in his direction. "Quiet for now, but this fever's a worry, that's for sure. LeBeau, get that fresh bucket of well water and help me wipe him down again."

Kinch motioned the rest of the men out to give O'Malley and LeBeau quiet and room to work. After casting another worried glance at Hogan, he left as well.

Lyons was waiting for him near the table, standing easy in parade rest. Kinch accepted a cup of coffee from Newkirk and headed that way. For once, he was glad Newkirk brewed coffee strong enough to peel paint. He needed it, since the few hours of sleep he had managed had done little for his exhaustion. Taking a careful sip of the hot liquid and wincing at the bitterness, he directed his attention back to Lyons.

"Give me the rest of the message."

Lyons nodded once. "Klink told Hochstetter the colonel had been in his office after morning roll call. Hochstetter hung up on him right after."

Kinch's fingers tightened on the tin cup's handle. "When was this? Exactly?"

"Just before lunch."

"Why would Klink lie for the colonel?" Olsen wondered, staring at the floor, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

"And to Hochstetter, to boot?" Newkirk added, eyebrows arched in surprise. "That'd take backbone, which we all know ol' Iron Pants doesn't have."

Carter suddenly dropped onto one of the benches at the table, as if his legs could no longer hold him. "Klink lies to Hochstetter, then he comes to see Colonel Hogan, but makes sure he sees him alone."

Braveheart rolled over in his bunk, propped his head on his hand. "And when he comes out again, he acts like nothing's wrong."

Carter's round eyes rolled toward Kinch. "Are you sure he hasn't figured everything out?"

"Klink?" Olsen laughed, dark eyes dancing. "No way."

Lyons shifted his weight, fingers flexing behind his back. "Tivoli and Benson said Klink did his usual nothing all day, and according to Baker, he didn't make any calls to anyone, either."

Kinch considered the coffee in his cup, then took a healthy gulp. "I have no idea why Klink would lie to Hochstetter, but I don't think it was because he's on to our operation." He paused, lips pressed into a hard line, thoughts turning inward as he stared into the distance. "Still, he was acting strange, even for him."

"Maybe he did it just because he likes the colonel," Olsen shrugged, still chuckling. He laughed outright again when incredulous stares were directed his way.

Lyons' broad smile faded and he softly cleared his throat. "Sarge? Baker got another message a little while ago. Metzger's coming back to check on the colonel sometime tonight."

"He better have his head screwed on straight this time."

All eyes turned to Paxton. He sat on the edge of his bunk, forearms upon his thighs, lantern jaw set in a hard line. "The colonel doesn't need anyone standing in judgment of him."

Olsen sauntered over to the table. There was no trace of humor in his expression now. "He's right, you know. The last thing Colonel Hogan needs is to wake up and see the doc glaring down at him."

Carter threw a quick, pleading look around the room. "Kurt wouldn't do that. Even if he is angry at the colonel, he won't let him see it."

Paxton surged to his feet and stalked to the table. "You sure about that? His feelings seemed pretty plain when he left here."

Braveheart smoothly sat up on his bunk, his black eyes intent and locked upon Kinch, waiting for direction.

Kinch held his silence and stayed watchful, ready to step in if tempers got too heated. For the moment at least, he thought it best to let everyone air their feelings. Like his mama said, it was better to lift the lid off a simmering kettle every now and then, rather than let it boil over and cause a mess.

Carter met Paxton's steely-eyed glare head on. "I tell you, he wouldn't show it to the colonel. Especially now, when the colonel needs all the support we can give him."

Paxton's mouth tightened. "Well I still say he should make himself scarce after he's done checking on the colonel. We can take care of him just fine, and we won't be cramming our feelings down his throat doing it, either."

Kinch bowed his head with a sigh. How many in camp felt the same way?

Newkirk slapped a palm down on the table. "Look, mates. Give the doc a break. He was still reeling when he was here last time. And even so, he did right by the colonel, didn't he? He came soon as he heard the news, got the bullet out, helped steady poor old Ben's nerves and made certain we knew what to do for the colonel while he was gone." He paused, his gaze traveling around the room. "He's had a shocking loss and deserves our understanding, too."

Kinch was about to say his own piece when the bunk entrance rattled open and Kurt climbed the ladder into the barracks. One look at his face and Kinch knew their voices had carried into the tunnel. How long were you down there, Doc? he wondered, watching Kurt close the entrance. The room had gone very quiet, the men's expressions ranging from embarrassment and guilt to thinly veiled hostility.

Kurt turned toward the room and nodded in greeting. "Gentlemen."

HH HH HH HH HH HH

"Shhh, Colonel. You're safe. Hochstetter's no' here."

"It is just us, colonel."

Icy fingers skimmed over his face, down his neck and chest, over his arms and around his sides. He shivered, alternately burning and freezing. Each touch was torture, each sound bringing a curl of nausea.

His groan scraped an already raw throat. The icy fingers returned, gently wrapped around his hand. There were more sounds, oddly warped, unrecognizable. Stomach roiling, he concentrated, but quickly gave up trying to understand. It hurt too much and he was just too tired.

He drifted in the blazing heat for a time, vaguely aware of being touched and moved, of more sounds, still badly garbled.

Something touched his lips, pressing insistently. Cool water trickled over his tongue and down his sore throat. He swallowed reflexively once, twice, then turned his head away as the water brought another surge of nausea.

Leave me alone. Why can't you just leave me alone?

He was so tired.

When would it end?

TBC . . . Thank you for reading!