The Ties that Bind by boasamishipper

Summary: In a strange turn of events, Private Tully Pettigrew is captured on a mission and sent to Stalag 13, rumored to be one of the toughest POW camps in Germany. The guards are fierce, the punishments are ruthless, and no prisoner has ever escaped. But is everything what it seems?

Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Thanks so much for giving The Ties that Bind such a warm welcome. Shoutout to Undomiel5 and tullyfan for their favorites, 2lieutenant, Undomiel5, and Whitepine2 for their follows, and Meg, Brosmom, 2lieutenant, Undomiel5, and tullyfan for their reviews. You guys rock!

Disclaimer: I am not nor have I ever been in the military, so some of the procedures described may not be accurate. The German used in this chapter comes straight from Google Translate, so I can't be sure regarding its preciseness. And although it pains me, I unfortunately do not own Rat Patrol or Hogan's Heroes. I'm just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.


"The ties that bind us are stronger than the occasional stresses than separate us."

Colin Powell


Tully was sick of travel.

For two days, he had been unceremoniously transported across North Africa, away from all recognizable territory, away from Captain Dietrich, away from Troy and Moffitt and Hitch. He'd traveled by foot and by jeep, getting sand everywhere and barely stopping for a break. Then he'd been forced onto a plane which seemed in danger of falling apart or getting blown out of the sky at any moment, landing in Germany―of all the places to go!

The entire experience felt like a nightmare, and not once had he left the company of Major Hochstetter, a man that Tully had come to regard as both supremely dangerous and supremely annoying. Tully had been analyzing his situation and knew that the major wouldn't kill him for asking questions (otherwise he wouldn't have been carted across the ocean), but he still had to be careful. All he had asked was where he was being taken, and Hochstetter had answered something about a Luftwaffe POW camp before snapping that it was none of his business.

Great man, Tully thought. Real swell.

On the sixth day of his kidnapping, Hochstetter had shoved him into a car and snapped something at the driver, who had muttered some curse words in German before acquiescing. The destination was probably the POW camp that Hochstetter wanted to stick him in, and although Tully wanted nothing more than to make a run for it now, he knew that there was no way he could make it out of Germany and back to North Africa without help. As much as it pained him, he had to wait.

The sun had just begun to lighten the sky when the car pulled up to a gate. The driver spoke to someone that Tully couldn't make out before driving the car inside and stopping just outside a building—that had to be the Kommandantur. Suddenly the car door opened and Tully was yanked out by two guards, who then stepped aside to let Hochstetter exit.

While Hochstetter spoke to a fat sergeant, Tully took the chance to look around. Big camp, bigger than others that he'd seen back in North Africa. Seven barracks, at least that he could see. Lots of prisoners milling around. One man with a leather jacket and slicked-back brown hair caught his eye, but Tully didn't have the chance to do more than nod before the two guards grabbed his arms and led him up the steps to the Kommandantur, Hochstetter leading the way. When they reached the inner door, Hochstetter didn't even bother knocking, just walked right in.

A bald colonel with a monocle looked up from the near mountain of paperwork on his desk and the annoyed expression on his face faded instantly when he saw them. Standing up, he said, "Herr Major, danke für das Kommen, es ist eine Ehre—"

"Shut up, Klink." Tully was surprised but thankful that Hochstetter had spoken English. "This is Private Pettigrew, your new prisoner."

Klink (that was a stupid name if he'd ever heard one) barely spared him a glance. "Yes, yes. Major, can I offer you anything? Refreshments? A cigar?"

"No, Klink, I have no time." He sounded like he wouldn't have stopped for refreshments or cigars even if he had had time, and Tully wondered why Klink was so deferential to Hochstetter when he was of a higher rank. Was it a Gestapo thing? "I must be going—I have yet to report to Gestapo headquarters and there are matters demanding my attention that are far more important than you."

Hochstetter turned around, gave Tully one last disgusted look, and left, the two prison guards behind him.

Great. Now we're alone.

"So, Private Pettigrew," his name sounded like a curse word in Klink's mouth, "you were stationed in North Africa. This is Germany."

His cheeks colored slightly. "I'm aware of that, sir."

Klink didn't skip a beat. Either that or he hadn't heard the sarcastic remark. "Tell me, why has Major Hochstetter taken you so far from home?"

Before Tully could respond, the door to Klink's office suddenly opened, and someone that he vaguely recognized strolled through it. Air Force jacket, slick brown hair—wait, now he remembered him. This was the guy that had given him a weird look when he'd been brought into the camp by the major. But what was he doing in here?

The man sidled up next to Tully, making him feel slightly uncomfortable. "Kommandant," he said casually, like they'd just bumped into each other at the grocery store, "why didn't you tell me we were getting a new prisoner? I would've had the men clean up the barracks for the occasion."

"Colonel Hogan, this doesn't concern you," Klink replied tersely.

"You don't have to say anything other than your name, rank and serial, you know," the colonel told him with a wink. Tully found himself preferring this colonel over his colonel back in North Africa. "It's all in the Geneva Conventions."

This guy knows his stuff. Bet he and Moffitt would get along fine. Tully clamped his mouth shut. Hope I can remember my serial number. I always get the last two digits mixed up.

Klink looked at him impatiently. "Thank you, Hogan. I was trying to figure out why Major Hochstetter would drop him off here but now it seems that I will never find out."

Colonel Hogan gave Tully a sympathetic once-over. "Bet it wasn't a fun ride over here," he said with a slight grin. "The major's so secretive he won't even talk to himself!"

Klink pointed at the door and shouted angrily, "Hogan, get out!"

"Aww, but Kommandant…"

"Hogan, you heard me, get out!" After a second of hesitation—during which Colonel Hogan didn't move a muscle and Tully blinked in surprise—Klink sighed dramatically, as though the world rested personally on his shoulders. "And take the boy with you. I'll question him later."

Before Tully could snap at Klink for calling him boy, Colonel Hogan grabbed Tully's arm, told the kommandant "Yes, sir," and left the office.

Tully wished he'd been given something warmer as he and the colonel walked across the yard. He took another quick look around—barbed wire fences, big dogs, bigger guards patrolling the fences—and realized that he was up shit creek without a paddle in terms of escaping. This was going to be harder than he'd previously thought.

"Sir?" he asked, causing the colonel to stop in his tracks and face him. "Where...uh, where am I going, exactly, sir?"

Colonel Hogan laughed. "Only the finest boarding house in Germany. Hot showers, beautiful women, good food, lovely heating system." Tully didn't have to be a genius like Moffitt to realize that the colonel was being sarcastic. "Welcome to Stalag 13, uh...I never got your name, actually."

Tully straightened up and saluted the colonel. "Private Tully Pettigrew, sir. Long Range Desert Group."

Colonel Hogan returned the salute and opened the door to the barracks. He gestured for Tully to go in first, which he did.

At first glance, the inside about as impressive as the outside. Double bunks were lined up crowding the dimly lit space, and there was a woefully inadequate-looking stove in the middle. A sink, a rough table and a few stools completed the decor. Several soldiers lounged on their bunks and some played cards at the table. Everyone was looking at him like he'd arrived amidst fireworks and explosions.

He gave the men a slightly awkward wave and turned to the colonel, intending to ask him which bunk was his, but the colonel had already gone off to talk to a black, mustached sergeant in the corner of the room. From what he could hear it sounded like they were talking about work schedules.

Tully felt very alone all of a sudden. True, he had been in another country for the last two years, but at least he'd had his friends. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but he missed Hitch and Sarge and Moffitt. He didn't want to be here.

"Fancy a game of cards?"

Tully blinked in surprise at the man who'd spoken, a dark-haired British corporal dressed in all blue sitting at the head of the table. "What?" he asked eloquently.

"D'you want to play a game of cards with us, mate?" The corporal slowed his speech, as though Tully had had trouble hearing him rather than understanding. His British is a lot different than the Doc's... "I'm fixing to deal."

Tully shrugged. Why not? At least now he'd have a chance to get to know the others. "Alright," he said.

"Alright, then," the corporal said, and began to deal. "Cop a squat. You know how to play gin rummy?"

"A bit," Tully said slowly, trying to remember and hoping he wasn't confusing gin rummy with euchre or something. "Haven't played in ages though."

"Well, then I'll teach you." He stuck out a hand. "Corporal Peter Newkirk, RAF."

"Private Tully Pettigrew," he replied, filing the name away for later. "Long Range Desert Group."

"Desert Group?" This was from another person at the table, a young man with an innocent boyish face. Didn't even look like he was in the military, but then again, who was Tully to judge? "There aren't any deserts in Germany."

"True," said Tully, taking his cards from Newkirk. As far as he remembered there weren't any deserts in Europe at all. He'd have to ask Moffitt to be sure. "The group I'm in operates in North Africa."

"North Africa?" Newkirk repeated loudly. This statement got the attention of everyone in the room, including the man that Colonel Hogan was talking to. "What're you doing here, then?"

"Same reason as the rest of y'all," Tully snapped, his accent thickening as it always did when he was upset. "'Cept y'all probably got shot down. I had the honor of kidnapped by some crazy Gestapo major with a mustache that rivals Hitler's when he was visiting Rommel's soldiers down in the desert."

"Mon Dieu." This exclamation came from a short corporal whose accent was decidedly French. "Why did Hochstetter take you?"

Tully shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said. Then something hit him. "Wait, do y'all know the major?"

"Oh, he comes around all the time," said the boyish-looking guy who'd spoken earlier. "He's always here to check if we're the ones behind the—"

"Carter," growled Newkirk, "shut up."

Carter—Tully filed away the name for later—shut up and took the cards. After a second or two of extremely awkward silence, another sergeant left and the colonel and the guy he'd been speaking to came over.

Colonel Hogan put his foot on the bench where the sergeant had been sitting. He leaned forward, his arm on his thigh, and gestured to his men. "This is Sergeant Carter, this is Corporal Newkirk, the guy who just left was Sergeant Olsen, I was just talking to Sergeant Kinchloe, and that's Corporal LeBeau," he said, pointing at each man in turn. "Sorry I didn't introduce you earlier."

"Call me Kinch," Kinchloe corrected. Seems nice enough. "It's Tully, right?"

"Yes sir."

Kinch looked taken aback at being called sir, but Tully didn't know him well enough to call him Kinch and he wasn't about to call the man Sarge. "Welcome to Barracks Two. There's an empty bunk above mine you can use. The food's not great, but since we have Louis, here," he jerked his thumb in LeBeau's direction, "we eat well enough. Showers are once a week; no hot water but you'll get used to it."

"I'm alright with that," Tully said, releasing a slight chuckle. "I've been in the desert for the last two years. I'm in need of some cold."

"Last two years?" Newkirk asked, the card game forgotten. "Blimey, how old are you?"

"Twenty."

This elicited more awed exclamations from the other soldiers.

"You're probably one of the youngest soldiers we've got here," said Kinch.

Tully shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention. "Yeah, I bet." He turned to Newkirk, who was taking out a matchbox. "Mind if I bum a matchstick?"

Newkirk handed him the half full matchbox. "Need a cigarette as well?"

"No thanks," he said, waving off the cigarette as he stuck the end of a matchstick in his mouth, instantly calming himself down, and set down the matchbox in front of Newkirk again. "I'm alright."

Newkirk looked at Tully like he'd announced a sudden desire to become a ballerina. "What the bloody hell are you doing, Tully?"

"Chewing on a matchstick," Tully replied, gesturing. It seemed pretty obvious. "Calms me down."

"I think it looks cool," Carter proclaimed. He then took out a matchstick of his own and stuck the end of it into his mouth. "Hey, yeah," he said, his words garbled as he chewed around it like a toothpick, "this is kinda nice. I'm gonna tell my friends back in Bullfrog about this."

"I think you're all barmy," Newkirk announced, and the laughter in the room almost made Tully stop thinking about what Newkirk had stopped Carter from saying.

Almost.


Troy knew that this was a bad idea, but over the last seven days he had run out of ideas on how to solve the problem of Tully's disappearance. Intelligence hadn't found anything and the village (and the villages nearby) had been searched three times over with no sign of Tully anywhere. At this point, he was willing to do anything if it would yield some actual results—even if 'anything' wasn't necessarily on the line of straight and narrow. He wouldn't give up; he couldn't. Not when the alternative was writing a letter to Tully's family to say that their oldest son was missing (not dead, Tully wasn't dead) on account of Troy's stupidity.

Hitch and Moffitt had insisted on going with him once they'd found him at the motor pool the prior evening with a pocketful of weak explanations and information from intelligence, and he couldn't bring himself to tell them to stay behind. If something went wrong and he was captured, he wanted them to have his back. Not to mention that Tully was their friend too.

The three of them arrived at the German campsite at dawn. Hitch's expression was serious as sin and Troy found himself hard-pressed to recall a moment in which the man had looked more determined and focused than now, and Moffitt's grip on their maps was white-knuckled, as though he was afraid someone would take them. They could do this. It was a long shot, but it was the only shot they had.

Troy led the way, stopping just outside the main tent. He poked his gun against the tent flap, raising it slightly so he could see the inside of the tent, and then retracted it. Good. Just as he'd hoped. "We don't have long," he said to the others in an undertone. "C'mon."

He pushed the tent flap open and walked inside, Hitch and Moffitt half a step behind him. A man didn't look up from where he was working at an old wooden desk. "Was auch immer es ist, es sollte besser wichtig sein."

"Don't worry, Captain Dietrich," Troy said, unable to keep himself from being sarcastic. "We won't take much of your time."

He expected Dietrich to reply in the same vein, not to visibly slump like the life was leaking out of him bit by bit. "Ah," he said quietly. "Sergeant Troy. I suppose I should have expected you and the other members of the Rat Patrol by now."

Troy frowned, but his gun didn't lower. Neither did Hitch's or Moffitt's. "You were at the same village that one of my men went missing from," he said, keeping an admirably polite tone. "Tully Pettigrew. Do you know what happened to him?"

"I do."

Moffitt startled. "And?" the other sergeant prompted. He sounded like he was trying desperately not to get his hopes up. "Do you know where he is?"

"No." Dietrich sighed. "Though I suspect knowing his location would not do him any good."

Nausea gripped him tight and refused to let go. Troy didn't want to ask, but the words escaped unbidden. "What do you mean?"

After a moment of hesitation—was Dietrich actually nervous?—the German captain stood up and met Troy's gaze evenly. "Because your man was discovered by a member of the Gestapo."

The Gestapo. Oh, hell. Troy heard someone inhale sharply behind him but he kept his attention of Dietrich, who (much to Troy's dismay) did not seem to be lying.

Hitch managed to speak first. "Why was someone from the Gestapo here?" he demanded. "I thought they were all in Germany."

"Major Hochstetter was sent to assess our campaign and was…how do you say it? Shadowing me?" Troy nodded numbly, and Dietrich continued. "It was the last day of his visit. He discovered Pettigrew sneaking around and interrogated him for information."

Troy steeled himself. "Then what?"

Now Dietrich looked uncomfortable. "Hochstetter was prepared to shoot Pettigrew but then he changed his mind and knocked him unconscious instead."

After being Tully and Hitch's commanding officer for two years, Troy was well adept at knowing when parts of a story were being omitted. "Why'd he change his mind?" He barely managed to keep his voice down. "I doubt it was out of the goodness of his heart."

"As I said," Dietrich said, still looking uncomfortable, "I was there." A pause. "I convinced Major Hochstetter to spare his life at that moment—"

"What do you mean, at that moment?" Moffitt sounded furious, and rightfully so. Troy was too stunned by Dietrich's words to say anything, and Hitch looked like he'd been hit in the face with something heavy. "Did you not bother to convince him a second time?"

"Let me remind you, Sergeant," Dietrich snapped, looking as though he had finally lost his patience, "I am under no obligation to tell you anything, so I advise you to let me finish." Moffitt kept quiet and Dietrich continued. "Major Hochstetter ordered his men to take Pettigrew to his personal jeep and tie him up so once he awoke he could not escape. He said he would take Pettigrew to a POW camp, but then he said that he had a better idea once he was already in the jeep. He did not tell me where your friend was taken, and I have not heard from him since."

Oh no. Troy hadn't felt like this since he'd seen Cotter get hit by enemy fire and slump bonelessly over his machine gun. Bile rose in his throat and he thought he was going to be sick right there in the tent. Behind him, Hitch stumbled backward in shock, and Moffitt was completely motionless. Oh God, Tully.

"Are you saying…" Hitch's gun was shaking in his hands but his voice was remarkably steady. "Are you saying Tully's dead?"

"No," Dietrich said. Troy didn't look up; his hopes had been dashed too many times already. "I am saying I do not know for sure, but knowing Major Hochstetter's character, if he is not already then he will be soon."

Then he's either dead or vanished off the face of the earth, Troy thought numbly. Dietrich's right—I never should have asked.


Tully had nearly fallen off his bed when Schultz, the sergeant of the guard, had raced into the barracks that morning and told them to get outside for roll call—he'd expected there to be a siren of some kind, not a personal wake up call. None of the other men seemed to mind; Colonel Hogan and Newkirk and LeBeau were friendly to the sergeant and teased him about his weight. Instead of throwing them in the cooler, Schultz had rolled his eyes, called them jolly jokers, and escorted all of them outside. Klink lectured them for more than ten minutes about the no-escape record while Tully wondered if he'd die of boredom or frostbite first.

Once they were free to go, he decided to stay outside—he wanted to start planning his escape and smoke a cigarette or two, feeling that would warm him up better than chewing on matchsticks—and headed to the other side of the barracks, where three men were sitting on a bench and talking amongst themselves. "Sorry," he said, holding his hands up when they all looked his way. "I'll leave."

"Nah, it's alright," one of them said, grinning in a way that seemed to exude confidence. "You can stay."

"Thanks." Tully leaned against a wall, digging around the pocket of his pants for one of the cigarettes that he'd won from Newkirk in a game of cards last night. "Any of you have a light?" The one from earlier—a sergeant, he noticed—handed him one, and he nodded gratefully. "'Preciate it."

"Anytime," the sergeant said. "Name's Olsen, by the way."

"Good to meet you, sir."

Olsen snorted. "No need for sirs unless you're talking to the colonel, kid. We're pretty informal around here."

"Fine by me," Tully said, shaking Olsen's outstretched hand before doing the same to the others nearby, a kind-looking man who was fiddling with a crucifix charm in his right hand and a black man with a green cap shoved over his curly brown hair. "Name's Tully. And the rest of y'all?"

"Name's Baker," said the black man.

"Thomas," said the other man, putting his crucifix charm back in the pocket of his coat. Tully vaguely remembered all three of them from the barracks, but Colonel Hogan had introduced him to so many people last night that he was grateful they'd introduced themselves again. "So—we heard through the grapevine that you were in North Africa. What's the fighting like over there?"

He was a little taken aback by the way the question was phrased. "Bloody as usual," he said slowly. "No difference except y'all are fighting Nazis and we're fighting Rommel's guys."

"You've gotta give us a bit more than that," Baker said with a laugh, and continued before Tully could ask why. "You're the first guy in this camp who wasn't shot down fighting in Germany."

"Basically," said Thomas, "you're new. Makes you automatically interesting."

"Well, I won't be here for much longer," Tully said, unsure of why he was even telling these guys his barely-formulated idea but hey, maybe they would agree to help him. "I'm going to escape."

They stared at him, perfectly silent for about five seconds, and then they all cracked up in laughter. Tully's cheeks flushed as some of the guards turned to see what was going on. Schultz in particular looked like a moral conniption was preventing him from walking over to see what was going on. It kind of reminded Tully of when his siblings used to act obnoxious during Sunday services and the people in the booths around them looked like they wanted to chastise them personally but couldn't interrupt the minister's sermon out of an obligation to the Lord.

"Oh, boy." Olsen wiped a few tears from his eyes, releasing a few weak chuckles as he leaned against Baker. "Boy, you've got another thing coming. Escape from Stalag 13. That's a good one."

"It's possible!" Tully protested, slightly offended by their lack of faith in him even though the rational part of him reasoned that they'd only just met him. "I've escaped from POW camps before!" Granted, he'd had help from Hitch and the Sarges, but he had been sure that the others would help. He'd thought that they could all escape together—the news of that would have certainly wiped the annoying smirk off Major Hochstetter's face.

"Kid," said Baker, "lemme reiterate the words of the Iron Colonel." He contorted his body slightly, shook his pointer finger right in Tully's face, and exclaimed in a perfect German accent: "No one escapes from Stalag 13!"

That sent Thomas and Olsen into a fit of laughter again, and even Tully had to bite back a smile at the near-perfect imitation of Colonel Klink. All Baker needed was a monocle and a Luftwaffe uniform. Still, Tully didn't want to just give up. "But if we all work together I bet we could," he insisted. "Don't you want to get out of here and go back to fighting?"

Their faces, once filled with mirth, hardened and became serious. "Of course," said Olsen. "But what we're doing here is more important."

Okay, I've heard all sorts of bullshit from army guys since I joined up after Dunkirk, but that has to take the cake. What exactly are they doing here that's so important? Unconvinced, he simply raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you do here?"

Baker and Olsen exchanged glances, both of them looking unsure of what to say. Thomas opened his mouth and closed it again, clearly unable to come up with anything.

"I see," Tully said, not even bothering to hide his sarcasm this time. "No offense, Olsen, but I think it's better to really give it to the Jerries than sit around here doing nothing." God, I sound like Sarge. His shoulders slumped. If someone had told him a few years ago that he would be wishing to return to an active war zone he would have laughed at them, but now the desire to be back with Hitch and Moffitt and Troy was so strong that it rivaled his usual pangs of homesickness.

"And how did you really give it to the Germans, as you so put it?" Baker asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Spread a lot of mayhem and despondency, mostly," Tully answered with a faint smile, still caught between memory and reality. "The unit I was with really messed up the German operations."

The glance between Olsen and Baker seemed to convey a thousand things, even if Tully couldn't identify what they were. Did it have anything to do with what Newkirk had stopped Carter from saying the other night? He had a feeling that there was something lurking beneath the surface of this POW camp; he just couldn't put his finger on it.

"Enough about that, though," Thomas said quickly. "What did you do before the war, Tully?"

And while Tully explained to Baker and Thomas how he'd used to run moonshine with his cousins back in Kentucky, he didn't notice Olsen getting up to leave to speak with Kinch and Colonel Hogan. Unbeknownst to him, there was a very different conversation going on several feet away.

"Well, Olsen?"

"He's definitely not a spy, Colonel."

"Kinch? Did you find out anything?"

"I radioed London and they did some research. The Long Range Desert Group does exist, and there is a guy in there named Tully Pettigrew. Someone named Colonel Quint filed paperwork to list him as MIA as of a few days ago."

"Alright, that adds up. Do you think he wants to stay and help, Olsen?"

"Doubt it, sir. Seems like he wants to go back to his side of the war but who knows, maybe once he figures out what we do he won't be so eager to leave. He said his old unit was good with messing up German operations; he could be useful."

"I'll ask him myself, then. Tell him I want to see him in my office tomorrow night."