Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while.

In a way, Karl Langenscheidt supposes he needn't really have worried so much. Not about the things he did worry about, at least.

After all, the takeover and subsequent liberation of Stalag 13 by the Allies was a peaceful affair. No shots were fired, and no one got killed or even wounded.

He remembers looking at the cheering prisoners – no, make that ex-prisoners – swarming the tanks that had just rolled into the compound, thinking for them it's over. For us Germans, it has just begun.

He and the rest of the former camp guards were then herded into the barracks where they nervously awaited their fate, speaking quietly among themselves, some lightning cigarettes and inhaling deeply, as if this were to be their last smoke. They didn't have to wait for very long before they were ushered out again, though, and onto the trucks that were now waiting in the compound. As Langenscheidt stood in line waiting for his turn to hop on, he threw a last glance at the liberated prisoners who had gotten what looked like a party started at one end of the camp. He envied them, because at least they were going home.

Then there was suddenly a hand on his shoulder, and as he turned around in surprise, he saw one of the former prisoners standing there, a somewhat sheepish smile on his face. Hey, take care of yourself now, he said as he shuffled his feet, hands stuck deep into the pockets of his jacket.

You too, Carter, Langenscheidt replied before an American GI ordered him aboard the truck with a wave of his rifle. Not long after, the trucks started moving, the little convoy slowly rolling out through the gates that those Sherman tanks had rolled in through not long ago.

And so began his life as a POW. After a rather unpleasant, seasick journey across the Atlantic he ended up in a camp in Louisiana, where he spent his time picking cotton on the white-dotted fields that seemed to stretch on endlessly towards the horizon. He'd never seen cotton fields before his arrival in America, but after a few months he began to wonder if he would see anything else ever again.

But all in all, it wasn't too bad. The guards were friendly enough, and so were the local townspeople at the farm he worked at. The food was better than he was used to from Luftwaffe rations, particularly towards the end when the infrastructure destroyed in the Allied bombings prevented what little supplies there was from being distributed.

It took a long time before the first letter from home got through, though, nerve-wracking time that he spent worrying and imagining the worst. He still remembers it clearly, how his fingers were shaking as he opened the envelope adorned with his mother's neat handwriting, afraid of what he would find out. But it turned out that – amazingly – his parents and sisters were all well, under the circumstances. His older brother was a POW somewhere in England while their younger brother had been wounded in battle and would walk with a limp for the rest of his life, so the doctor had said, but at least they were both alive.

It was with great relief that he put the letter aside after having read it over four times, savouring every precious word from home. He had thought, then, that maybe things would turn out alright from now on. His family was safe, the war was over, and Germany had been liberated from the Nazis who had brought so much grief to their country. Now he only needed to be patient and wait until the Americans saw fit to repatriate him, so he could go home and start his life all over again.

And once more do what he loved the most – writing. He had missed that, during the war. But the dreariness of wartime Germany had halted his inspiration badly, as had the constant worries and fears weighing on his mind. But now that things were looking up again, he felt inspired again.

And just like in Stalag 13, he spent a lot of time quietly observing the interaction between the guards and the prisoners. Once more, he found enjoyment in watching people and analyzing human nature for use in his writings. When he was back in Germany again, he would return to being a full-time writer, of this he was certain. There was so much he had learned, both in Stalag 13 and in this camp that he could put into his novels.

Then one day, the prisoners were all ordered into the rec hall to watch some movie or the other. This wasn't by any means an unusual occurrence – their American captors would occasionally showcase movies as part of their de-nazification program, short propaganda pieces that highlighted the virtues of democracy. It was usually a rather dull experience, but the camp guards would hint that refusing to participate in these showings might affect how long they'd have to wait before being repatriated.

Besides, it wasn't as if he could really argue with the message brought forth in those movies, however boring they might be.

However, as it turned out, this particular movie was something else entirely.

Of course, he'd known about the labour camps – they all had, at least towards the end of the war. But this? This was completely different, something he wouldn't have been able to conjure even in his wildest nightmares. Such cruelty, such blatant disregard for human life; he couldn't wrap his mind around it. So he only stared in shock as the horrifying pictures played out on the screen, hardly believing what he was seeing.

As the footage ended, he realized there were tears rolling down his cheeks.

How could this have happened, and in his home country no less? How could anyone be capable of such atrocities? He had no answer, and he wasn't sure if he even wanted to find out.

The sight of those emaciated, wretched bodies only barely recognizable as human beings haunted him for a long time afterwards, as did the corpses of skeletal men, women, and children – children! – that had been ruthlessly shoveled together in shallow trenches. While he had seen his share of horrors and tragedy during the war, he had never realized before just how ugly human nature could be.

Once, he had enjoyed exploring that nature and writing about those observations, but now he only feels disgusted by the realization of what humans are capable of doing to their fellow men.

And now, as he sits on his bunk, absentmindedly flipping through the notebooks where he's jotted down ideas and drafts for his stories, he realizes that he no longer wants to write again. Probably not ever again.

Because if this is what human nature can be turned into, he doesn't want anything to do with it anymore.