My thanks to Marilyn for giving this several looks.

Hogan strode for the emergency exit, his conversation with Kurt rattling around in his head. Grimacing, he pushed it out of his mind, relegating it to another time. His head had to be on the mission, his thoughts focused. Anything else was an invitation for trouble.

His stride slowed as he came within sight of the emergency exit. Someone waited in the shadows below the hatch, arms folded and feet braced comfortably apart. Drawing nearer, details grew clearer and he was able to identify Braveheart as the solid barrier between him and the freedom above. His expression must have given away his irritation because a smile flickered over the Native American's face.

"I'm not here to stop you, Colonel; just to give you this." Braveheart unfolded his arms and held out his hand, uncurling his fingers. A narrow strip of knotted leather was wrapped around his fingers and on his palm lay a carved eagle with backswept wings and talons thrust forward. "It's a talisman. For luck and protection."

Bitter comments about luck swelled in Hogan's throat, his face flushing with heat. He was instantly shamed of the reaction. The carving was a generous gift, made with obvious care and thought. Wanting to be respectful of the effort and Braveheart's beliefs, he attempted a smile.

"Thanks." It was weak, and the best he could do. Braveheart graciously nodded and pushed his hand out just a little farther, his intention clear. Containing a sigh, Hogan lifted the talisman from his palm, then faltered, uncertain what to do with it. Braveheart's lips took on a slight upturn.

"It must be worn to work, sir."

Hogan slipped the loop of leather cord over his head and dropped the talisman down the neck of his shirt. It settled against his chest, slightly lower than his silver crucifix and the false set of dogtags. The wood and the extra weight felt odd against his skin.

With a nod, Braveheart turned aside, leaving a clear path to the ladder. Hogan brushed by and went up the ladder and once the area above was clear, left the tunnel without a single look back.

Outside and feeling as if he could breathe again for the first time in weeks, Hogan crouched beside the stump concealing the entrance and lowered the hatch. Ostermann and Malfus had just passed by. That left him five minutes to clear the area before they made another pass on their route. The searchlight's beam was swinging around again, would reach him in only seconds. Hogan pushed to his feet and left Stalag 13 behind.

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

"Come in, Mutter."

Romie ignored Josef's quiet demand, her eyes never leaving a particular copse of trees. Robert always chose to come from that direction, for reasons he had never shared when asked. His response, as with any question that touched upon something he thought should remain unknown, was always a smile and deft change of subject.

With a sigh that carried the length of the porch, Josef left the doorway and walked to her side. A blanket fell upon her shoulders and was gently tucked close about her. Josef brushed a kiss to her temple. Romie nestled against him, warmed more by his presence than the blanket.

"At least sit down," Josef insisted. She nodded, tore her gaze from the silver-brushed landscape and joined him on the porch swing. Josef draped another blanket across their legs and with a nudge of his foot, set the swing in motion.

"Do you think he will come?" Romie's voice was soft and wistful. The swing rocked slowly several times before Josef answered.

"Perhaps soon." Josef stared at the trees, looking for movement, knowing he would see none even if Robert were there. The shadows were too deep and Hogan was too skilled at hiding.

Romie glanced at Josef, sadness warring with hope. "The message said he was going out tonight." Kurt had stopped by before leaving for Stalag 13. He had refused the sandwich she had prepared, explaining he was in a rush to get to the camp before Robert left. Romie had been thrilled Robert was finally strong enough to go out.

Josef nodded. "On a mission. There may not be time for more."

For us, hung unspoken between them.

Romie's gaze returned to the deep woods. Josef reached over and took her hand.

"It is growing cooler, Mutter. Let's go inside and light a fire."

Romie nodded reluctant agreement, and rose at Josef's gentle tug on her hand. Just before the door closed behind her, she threw one last look at the dark stand of trees.

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

The night had turned cool, but not unpleasantly so, considering it was mid-October. Moss cushioned him, evergreen bows hung above him and rock walls protected him from behind and to his left. The location – long a favorite - was high and isolated, the only access the narrow trail at his right.

Sheltered in deep shadow on the outcropping of rock, Hogan sat motionless; breathing air scented with pine and wood smoke, and the faint musk of rotting leaves. There was no breeze to speak of, only the occasional eddies and currents that curled up and over the ledge. From his position, he was far enough from the edge so as not to be seen from below; yet close enough to have a mostly unobstructed view. He stared down at a land painted in silver and black, rendered by the full moon's light into glistening forms and cut-edged shadows.

Lifting his eyes from earth to heaven, Hogan blinked in surprise. The last time he had looked, the moon had not yet reached its zenith. It was well past it now, hovering closer to the western horizon. He glared at the celestial body with a mild sense of betrayal. Its descent urged him back to Stalag 13, while the pouch resting on the ground against his hip reminded him there was no reason to stay out any longer.

He leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees; drinking in the moonlit landscape, loathe to replace it with drab buildings, guard towers and wire fences. Ground fog floated over clearings and above the river like gauzy, silver spun sugar, evoking memories of late summer nights at the family lake house. He let himself sink into simpler, safer times, putting off his return to camp just a little while longer.

He remembered the slow crawl of the mist off the water and onto shore when night fell. His brothers' laughter and yells as they wrestled on thick green grass dotted with yellow dandelions. His sister calling him in for supper while loon song floated over the water, crickets harmonized and the sun sank in a blazing goodnight of color. The heady scent of pipe smoke that wreathed the air above his father's head as he squinted down at newsprint smudged by younger fingers. The delicate tilt of his mother's face, ruddy from cooking, as she monitored the emptiness of everyone's plates and the fullness of their bellies. The sparkle that lit her green eyes when she laughed at punch lines or stories that only a child would find funny.

Other images surfaced, the warmth they called forth enticing him to take a longer trip down memory lane. Rather than give in to the temptation, he pulled free of the rose-colored nostalgia and refocused on the present, old habits coming to the fore. He scanned the silver and black terrain for threats, paying particular attention to areas leading to the path he had taken.

Habit and duty had long been his way of 'getting through'. Almost from the moment he had stepped through West Point's hallowed gates and gazed in reverence and awe at the grounds, his widowed mother hovering a short distance away, trying not to intrude. When he had pulled on his first uniform and heard an almost audible 'snap' in his mind, he had thought, This is me. This is what I was born for. Before he knew it, the military and duty had become his life.

Through the years, duty and habit had kept him sane, kept him strong, and . . . since he had apparently decided this was a good time to be brutally honest with himself - had insulated him. Refuge, Hogan mentally snorted, labeling it for what it was. And with that admission, he slammed the door on that train of thought. Heaven knew he had followed those tracks enough times while stuck in camp.

He leaned back slowly, drawing in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet scents of the night. His eyes fluttered closed but the muscles across his shoulders remained tense, on edge even now, even here. His eyes opened again, narrowed and dropped, taking in the black of clothing, shadows and the night.

This place had always brought him a tremendous sense of release – of relief. Up here, troubles temporarily fell away and calm – serenity, for a better word - descended. By the time he left, it was always with a feeling of being refreshed, energized from head to toe, ready to take on whatever life had for him, his perspective clear once more.

It was not happening this time. He had been up here for hours and that quietness of spirit, of being 'right' with himself had yet to return. He was starting to fear it never would again.

Another memory popped out of his unsettled mind and his lips quirked in bitter amusement. His mother used to drag out jigsaw puzzles on rainy days, when the weather was too bad to send her rowdy brood outside to 'Go! Burn it off, boys!' He and his brothers and sister would reluctantly sit down around their kitchen table, dump the pieces in the middle of it and then half-heartedly start picking at the jumble of colored cardboard. All of their puzzles had missing pieces, and it was hard to summon enthusiasm about assembling a picture that would never be complete. Piece by piece, a farm scene, city or whatever was shown on the box's front cover would become recognizable. When there were no more pieces lying on the table or hiding under the box or on the floor, they would sit back and stare at the picture with a sense of sadness. Their eyes were always drawn to those places where the missing pieces had once fit, and the table's top now showed through. Colored pieces of paper inserted into the holes could not hide them. The puzzles were still incomplete.

Hogan dropped his chin to his chest, his breath slowly escaping from between parted lips. He felt like one of those puzzles. He had missing pieces, scattered to who knows where. What was left had gaping holes, where the emptiness showed through.

Just like the holes in those childhood puzzles, he did not know how to replace the missing pieces.

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

Kinch looked up from his book, glanced around the small locker room and sighed. Folding the page's corner over (and silently apologizing to his mama for the disrespect shown the book), he laid the book aside and got to his feet. All eyes turned to him, but he said nothing, just shook out his shoulders and sticking his hands in his trouser pockets, walked across the small room. The spot where he stopped effectively blocked Newkirk's line of pacing, and drew a sound that was a mix of irritation and askance.

"You going for some sort of record?" Kinch asked; lips slightly curved in a smile. Newkirk blinked at him, puzzled. "Near as I can figure," Kinch added by way of explanation, "you've gone three, maybe four miles already."

The confusion drained from Newkirk's face, and was replaced with a flash of genuine amusement. "Feels more like six."

"Ten," LeBeau huffed, arms tightly folded and back ramrod straight in his chair. Olsen, seated beside him in a chair balanced on two legs, glanced his way, then went back to slowly twiddling his thumbs.

Carter stretched his arms over his head, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks for stopping him, Kinch. My neck was getting sore from watching." He glanced from Kinch to Newkirk, a thin smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Usually it's me doing the pacing."

Kinch studied Carter for coping methods and found none. "So why aren't you? Not that I think you should be."

Carter hitched a thumb at Newkirk, who seemed similarly bemused by the exchange of mannerisms. "He beat me to it and was doing enough for the both of us."

Olsen teetered his chair forward and back several times, then shook himself, and peered down at his watch. He frowned, tapped at the watch with a fingernail. "Anybody have the time? I think this thing finally gave up the ghost."

LeBeau checked his own, then leaned forward and sideways to get a look at Olsen's. "That's the right time."

Olsen brought all four legs of the chair down to the ground, lurched to his feet, and threw his arms wide. "Everybody out of the way. My turn to pace."

Carter's head fell back against the wall, a quiet groan escaping.

Kinch swept the room's occupants with a glance containing equal parts amusement and empathy. "Would you take a look at us? We're acting like a bunch of worried parents with a kid out past curfew."

Furtive glances flew about the room. Tight expressions eased and sheepish smiles broke out. Kinch could almost feel the tension level drop. It did not disappear completely, but the stifling atmosphere of before was gone.

Olsen took his chair again, immediately leaned it back onto two legs. "Guess he's done this a few times before, huh?"

KInch smirked. "A few."

"Could probably teach us a thing or two?" Newkirk drawled, finding a wall and propping a shoulder against it.

"Perhaps." LeBeau threw a small smile at Kinch. He returned it then quickly sobered when a thought occured to him.

"Maybe all of us shouldn't be hanging around like this when he gets back."

Newkirk glanced around, confusion evident. "Why ever not?"

Carter looked around as well, seeing nothing unusual. "We're not doing anything we haven't done before, Kinch."

LeBeau shrugged. "We are just waiting here rather than up there."

Olsen's rocking stopped. "What's the problem, Kinch?" he asked quietly.

"When was the last time we all reacted like this when he went out on a simple pick up job?" Kinch waited for them to provide an example. After several moments of watching them trade glances, he said, "So he comes back, finds us waiting around, and maybe starts to wonder if we think he's lost his edge and isn't good enough to go out on his own anymore."

Newkirk snorted. "You're worrying too much, mate."

Kinch suddenly noticed Olsen's blank expression and pierced him with a hard gaze. "Olsen. Tell me you're not doubting his capabilities."

Olsen's gaze sliced back and forth between LeBeau, Carter and Newkirk, then fastened upon Kinch again. "Ah . . . Pardon me for playing devil's advocate, but . . ." he paused, huffing out a breath. "He's not the same man he was before . . . You know. Before."

Carter gaped. "Olsen --"

LeBeau's features darkened, an angry retort poised on his lips.

"You can't be bloody serious!" Newkirk ranted at Olsen.

"Serious about what?" Tivoli and Benson strode into the room, Jones, Lyons, Maddux and Broughton not far behind.

"Oh, lovely," Newkirk muttered under his breath, glaring at the group of new arrivals. The room filled up in a hurry and Kinch felt a prickle of unease. Now, instead of finding five men waiting up for him, Hogan would discover a roomful. Kinch warily eyed the tunnel, hoping no one else planned to join them, and that Hogan would take just the just a little longer to return. Longer as in the amount of time it took for Kinch to clear the room.

"What's going on?" Tivoli's gaze made a quick pass over everyone.

"Nothing," Olsen proclaimed, straightening out of his slouch. He liked the 'goon squad', as they had come to be known, but their timing in most occasions was typically bad. Like now. "Not a thing."

Benson caught Kinch's eyes. "We just thought—"

"We'd see if Hogan— OW!" Maddux rubbed the back of his head where Lyons had cuffed him. "If the colonel had made it back yet." He cocked his head, sent a squint-eyed glare over his shoulder at Lyons.

"Not yet." Kinch made a vague gesture toward the doorway behind them. "We'll let you know if there's any trouble."

"Whoa," Tivoli growled. "You kicking us out? Why can't we stay here like the rest of you?"

"We were just about to leave." Carter took a step toward the door, but found his way blocked.

"That we were." Newkirk moved forward, flattened a hand on Jones' chest and pushed. Or tried to. He might as well have been pushing against a large boulder. Jones barely swayed on his feet, vague irritation creasing his face. Newkirk's lips thinned and he threw his weight into another push. "Let's go then. Turn about. Hi-ho and all."

Jones swatted him away with the bored air of an elephant swatting at a bothersome insect. Newkirk uttered a strangled sound, caught his balance, and braced to go at him again. Jones' eyes narrowed, while Maddux's sparked with anticipation of an impending fight. With the pained air of having done this many times, Broughton stepped forward to intercede, while Benson did the same.

"Don't even think about it." Kinch's soft order rang with an implicit threat. Everyone stopped in their tracks and the room went suddenly still. Tivoli's head canted toward Kinch and their eyes locked. Benson returned to Tivoli's side and nudged the Italian's shoulder with his own, encouraging his friend to do the right thing. Kinch appreciated the show of support. Barking orders was never his choice and in this case, might rekindle animosity that in the past months had all but disappeared.

Tivoli's breath whooshed out in a rush and he pivoted toward the door. One by one, everyone filed out behind him, Benson tossing off a nod to Kinch before leaving.

Kinch took his seat again, but left the book where it lay. Like a moth fluttering about a flame, his thoughts kept circling back to the last several minutes and the worrying subject of Olsen's doubts.

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

Hogan worked his way down the hill, moving slower when the trail grew steeper. The light was fading with the moon's descent, and one misstep would likely result in a broken limb. Feeling a moment of guilt at staying out so late, he risked a little speed despite the danger.

He was half way down when he heard it.

Gunfire.

TBC . . . Thank you for reading!