Schultz started his third lackluster march around the camp, staring at the giant crater that still sat empty near the wire. The bomb that the crashing plane had dropped had set fire to the wooden posts of the fence when it landed, and what remained of them stood charred at half their original height, leaning forlornly. Like dead stalks of corn sprouting from the snow. The wire around the posts sagged uselessly, but the prisoners still remained chastely in their barracks.

Schultz passed slowly behind Barracke 2 wishing there would be the smell of something wonderful on the breeze, the sound of Newkirk's bright cockney, or perhaps Colonel Hogan leading the glee club in a song, but there could be none of those things.

LeBeau and Carter were presumed dead, killed by the bomb that had landed in camp, nothing left of them but ash. Newkirk was probably frozen to death somewhere in the German countryside, and Hogan. Poor Hogan.

Schultz shook his head sadly remembering how badly the colonel had looked all those months ago. Captured by the Gestapo major and carted off to Berlin. Schultz could hardly hope that the colonel had survived in all that time. If only Hogan were here, he thought. He would set things right.

But Hogan was not here, and neither really was Colonel Klink. The man was nothing more than a shell these days. He had stopped eating, and sat in his office most afternoons staring at miles of paperwork that would never be completed.

Klink had tried at first, of course, to get supplies from Hammelburg. He had pleaded with the burgermeister in town, begged the business owners for money, and even tried selling some of the stores of champagne, caviar and nice things he had set aside for himself.

The money was barely enough to cover the repairs on one of the bombed supply trucks. Klink had tried forcing the prisoners out into the forest to cut down trees, but they didn't have the tools to turn the trees into lumber.

The prisoners were overcrowded, living together in the handful of buildings that hadn't been affected by the crash. Some of the guards had deserted and those that had been wounded by the disaster had been transferred north to recover.

Most days Schultz patrolled the grounds by himself, only dropping in on the barracks to warm himself up from time to time. For once, he was too depressed to sit around and do nothing.

Stalag 13 hadn't been his favorite place in the world but, for a military man, it hadn't been the worst either.

As he passed the guardhouse near the gate Schultz shook his head at his own morose thoughts. He was even imagining that curious little song that the prisoners sometimes liked to whistle when they were marching. It had a nice tune, and he could easily remember the faces of poor Carter and little LeBeau as they sometimes sang the words that went with it.

Schultz found himself humming along with what he at first was sure was in his head, his helmet knocking back and forth on his skull as he swayed to the beat.

He became a little confused when the melody actually got louder. To his surprise the prisoners from Barracke 2 began to spill out of the building, unannounced, forming up as if they had been ordered for roll call. Mouth hanging open Schultz turned in a full circle, watching the other barracks coming alive, emptying into the compound, creating a cacophony of sound that roused the commandant from his office, but did nothing to quell the whistled song.

Barely dressed, shirt and uniform blouse hanging open over his dressing gown, Klink polished off his monocle for the first time in three weeks and stepped out onto the porch in time to see a Gestapo car round the corner on the road outside the gate, moving at a walking pace and leading a slow parade of people and vehicles toward the camp.

Behind the car was a supply truck, then another, and a third. Then…oh then!

"Colonel Hogan." Schultz breathed.

The American looked battered, worn and tired. What that mean Gestapo man had to have done to him, but he was walking and smiling that curious, proud smile. Still alive.

And right behind him.

"Newkirk." Schultz declared brightly. The Englishman also had bruises on his face and was walking with a slight limp, but he was alive too and flashed a bright grin to the man walking beside him.

"Carter?!" Schultz had already begun moving toward the gates, not even waiting for Klink's order to open them and let the small parade in. The always bright and cheerful American sergeant was alive and well. Not blown into ash by a bomb. Not nothing more than a wisp of snow in a giant crater. And he was talking to someone. Someone that Schultz couldn't see yet.

The Gestapo car pulled through the gate and Schultz snapped a salute, but he wasn't looking at the small major, or the men in the car, when he did. His salute was for Colonel Hogan and the men with him. Three in total that included…

"LeBeau!" Schultz nearly wept with joy at seeing the little Frenchman, and instead found himself laughing wildly as the parade and the whistled song swelled to a crescendo, then gradually overtaken by the noise of the camp.

He didn't recognize any of the dozen or so men that had entered Stalag 13 behind Hogan and his boys. Nor did he wonder why Hogan would have returned to the stalag along with fifteen Russian prisoners. He didn't care.

He knew nothing, and he hoped to always know nothing for the rest of the war.

As soon as Klink got a good look at who had been marched into his camp, and at who was riding in the back of the staff car, he quickly disappeared into his quarters, rushing to his room to dress. Terrified and exhilarated at the same time. His fear that General Burkhalter had arrived early to send him packing to the Russian front had been assuaged when he recognized the pinched face of Major Hochstetter through the car window.

Hochstetter's arrival wasn't necessarily a good thing, but Klink had known only hopelessness in the past few weeks and this was at least a change.

By the time he returned to his office, Hochstetter and his four men were standing in the outer hall, looking impatient and on edge. Klink gave flustered apologies as he led the way into his office, appalled at the mess that he had managed to completely overlook and apologizing yet again for it.

"I must confess I'm very surprised to see you, Major Hochstetter. I…I…I'm even more surprised to see Colonel Hogan and…and…"

Hochstetter gave an odd glance toward one of his men, then sighed and said, "Yes, Colonel, I imagine this is so. I…have been surprised myself."

"Eh…" Klink paused, his smile waning, but he nodded and agreed, "Yes. Would you like to sit-"

"No." Hochstetter said, before he produced a sheaf of papers that he slapped on Klink's desk. "This is the official transfer of my prisoners into your custody. Colonel Hogan, Sergeant Carter, Corporal Newkirk and Corporal LeBeau were all arrested by the Gestapo…by mistake." The last was ground through the major's teeth.

Klink's jaw dropped open, and he sat with a thud on his chair, his stare going from the fuming major to the stack of folded papers, investigating each one hurriedly. "By mistake?" He breathed.

"Yah…a case of mistaken identity. My men were…hasty, and arrested someone who looked like Hogan only to have him escape."

"But, but, but I thought that-"

"It was a mistake, Klink. And that is all!" Hochstetter snapped and Klink nodded, shoving the papers away from him as if they had suddenly ignited.

"A mistake. Of course sir. But…surely General Burkhalter informed you, this prison camp is about to be dismantled. The prisoners transferred. Why would you bring them back here?"

"I have brought you supplies." Hochstetter said, beginning to look like he had swallowed a balloon that was slowly choking him to death. "And some Russian prisoners transferred from another camp that will help your men with the work. Hogan has agreed to convince the men under his command to also help with the rebuilding. Burkhalter has…conceded to give you a temporary extension on your deadline."

This time Klink said nothing, unable to believe any of what was being said, and knowing, somehow, deep down in the very pit of his being that this…all of this…was Hogan's doing.

"I will send and officer in two weeks to recover the additional prisoners and return them to their stalag." Every phrase Hochstetter uttered seemed as if it were being pulled from him, like a deeply rooted tooth.

And the men with Hochstetter were smiling. Klink caught them once or twice out of the corner of his eye. It didn't make sense that they should be smiling but Klink didn't question it.

He had his stalag back. He wasn't going to the Russian Front. He wasn't looking at the end of his career and every one of his prisoners were now safely returned. His perfect record, once again restored.

"Please believe me when I say…" Klink began, rising to his feet, in awe of the momentous sequence of events that had granted him back all that he held dear. "That this is one the most incredible-"

Hochstetter screamed a furious, unintelligible sound, cutting the commandant off before he spun on one heel and left the office.

Once he was certain he was alone Klink moved to the door, shut and latched it, and began to dance.

Outside the prisoners had formed several lines, talking loudly and working together to empty the supplies from the trucks. The men of Barracks 2, however, were not excitedly greeting their returned comrades quite the way Schultz expected them to. They were all happy of course, but none of them seemed all that surprised to see Carter and LeBeau risen from the dead, or Colonel Hogan and Newkirk, survivors of the vicious Gestapo.

But even as he pondered, Schultz reminded himself that he was going to see and hear nothing, and be glad that the snow he was standing in did not also contain dead German bodies and Russian blood. He had his favorite Americans back, his favorite Brit making sly comments and happily smoking a cigarette, and his favorite Frenchman promising that for Christmas, Schultz would get a celebratory apple strudel, all to himself.

Hogan had to admit that he'd felt a jolt when his men had rounded the bend and the main gates of Stalag 13 had come into view. They had already technically been in the stalag forty-eight hours ago but the official return had felt victorious in a way. The silly marching song had been LeBeau's idea, and a good one according to the prisoners who had fallen out to watch their return.

Hochstetter had looked hopping mad when he marched back out of Klink's office, but a nod from one of the SS men, four of the civilians from Werner's farm wearing the frequently traded Gestapo uniforms, had reassured the American colonel that the major had done his part. Hogan watched the car as it drove out of camp and sent his best wishes with it, hoping Hochstetter eventually made it back to Berlin safely. He wanted the man to see what would be waiting in his mail as quickly as possible:

Copies of pictures that Werner had taken at the farm after Hochstetter had driven the truck into the clearing. Photographs that clearly and absolutely linked Hochstetter to the act of aiding and abetting the enemy. Extra insurance as it were, to keep Hochstetter in line for as long as possible. Especially until Stalag 13 had been rebuilt and Hogan had managed to get Hochstetter's family, and the civilians from Werner's farm, out of Germany.

As he stood surveying the damage, shocked that more of the prisoners and guards hadn't been injured by the disaster, LeBeau jogged up to the colonel with a clipboard that held an official tally.

"That's everybody?" Hogan asked, and the Frenchman nodded.

"Some of the men took a little more time than others, but oui, that is all of them."

Hogan felt a thrill flip through his chest, reluctant to look at the paper. Terrified of what it would represent. A yay or a nay. An escape, or a fresh start. A long conversation with London, or a short one.

"Thanks, LeBeau." Hogan said, but the Frenchman stayed by his side.

"Aren't you going to look, Colonel?"

"Personally, I'd be dyin' to have a look, if I were the colonel, Louie." Newkirk said, stepping up behind the Frenchman and throwing his arm around the shorter man's shoulders.

"I sure wanna know." Carter said sidling up on LeBeau's other side. Kinch, Olsen, Wilson and Sumner, and a dozen other men had begun to collect behind Hogan's personal staff, murmuring their own eagerness at knowing the final answer.

"I…I can't look. Kinch." Hogan said finally, and handed the clipboard to the tall staff sergeant that now held ten times the respect of the men in Stalag 13 as he'd had before. Those that had spent the past few weeks under his command, turned to him attentively, hiding various smirks and smiles.

"Colonel…I know this will come as a shock to you, but for once in our lives, we managed to be unanimous."

"We're stayin', Colonel." Newkirk said.

"Oui. The war isn't over. We have a lot of work to do." LeBeau said, starting to jitter eagerly.

"A-and we can't leave Nesting Doll out there on their own, sir." Carter added.

"Wouldn't be right giving up before we're done." Kinch put in, and on cue the men around him agreed with murmurs and nods.

Hogan dug down deep into the emptying well of self-control to keep himself together. As good as 'home' had sounded, this sounded ten times better. This was right, and his men clearly thought so too or they wouldn't have agreed to stick around with him.

LeBeau was right, they had a lot of work to do, in and out-side of the wire, but there was no doubt in Hogan's mind that they would accomplish it.

"Alright." Hogan said, softly, then took the clipboard back from his second in command and said, "You men know what to do. First priority is the barracks, and the emergency tunnel. Kinch, let's see if we can't get London on the horn."

A dozen confirmations met Hogan's ears and the men scattered, some flipping cursory salutes before turning to the tasks ahead. Before he followed Kinch into Barrack 2 Hogan turned to see Klink watching him from the porch in front of his office. The moment Hogan looked his way the German stiffened, snapping his heels together and giving the slightest of bows to the colonel.

Hogan gave him a nod in return, then turned his attention back to the clipboard in his hands, finally willing to look at the votes of every man in the camp. He couldn't stop the smile when he realized that the paper held only a drawing and a signature.

The drawing was of a hand, the thumb curled inward and the pointer and middle finger raised.

V for Victory.

The signature below it was barely legible, but Hogan could easily see that it started with an 'N'.

Das Ende

Thank you for your support and readership. I hope you enjoyed it.

And a giant thank you to all the men and women who have served and are serving now.

This story is dedicated to a particular A1C of whom I am very proud.

Cheers

-Gunney