A/N: I wanted to contribute one more story for the challenge this year to help toward the donations to charity, so I started writing this yesterday, and was able to finish it in time. I'd just like to say again that it contains a major character death, so for those of you who have a difficult time with this kind of story, I won't be offended in the least if you decide not to read it.

It was an average mission; nothing they hadn't done a dozen times before. Carter passed out the explosives, Newkirk and Kinch placed some of them on one end of the bridge, Hogan and LeBeau placed theirs on the other. Carter set the timer, and they all smiled at each other; another job well done.

Once finished, they headed back to Stalag 13, Hogan leading the way. They hurried as fast as they dared through the woods, keeping their ears attuned for any sign of trouble.

And then it happened; shots rang out from close by, and bullets began whizzing through the air – some of them going wide, flying off into the darkness, others embedding themselves into the closest trees.

And one of them hitting its mark.

Hogan's eyes flew wide as he felt the bullet slam into him, hitting him squarely in the chest, and the next thing he knew he was falling, sinking toward the ground in slow motion, powerless to stop himself from landing on his back.

The others saw him fall. They rushed over to their Colonel and, guns drawn, fired back at the patrol, hitting more than one of them as the Germans dove for cover. There was a lull as the soldiers stopped to regroup, and Hogan's men knew they couldn't wait.

Hogan felt arms underneath him, lifting him up, carrying him, hurrying him to someplace safe, someplace where they could save him, make him whole again. As they hustled him through the forest, a swirl of whispered voices met his ears, hushed and worried;

"It looks bad, Kinch, he took one right in the ruddy chest."

"I know, Newkirk, I know."

"Guys, don't talk like that, he'll be okay; he just has to be."

"Oh Andre, I know you're scared; we all are."

"Scared? I'm too frightened to be scared. What if he doesn't make it?"

Hogan knew they were talking about him. Somewhere deep inside, he felt his own fear begin to grow, and a single thought flared in his mind.

Fellas, don't let me go.

When they reached the emergency entrance, Hogan groaned as he was jostled and manhandled down to the tunnel below. He felt the men carry him farther in, setting him down on a cot near the table containing the radio equipment.

"I'll go get Wilson," he heard Carter say, followed by footsteps hurrying toward the ladder leading to the barracks above.

Something pressed against his chest; a wad of cloth being pushed by a firm hand down onto the wound, attempting to stop the bleeding. Pain pulsated there, under the cloth, deep and spreading. He hitched a breath, noticing it was becoming more difficult to get air into his lungs.

Hogan felt a hand grasp his, and a shaky voice reached his ears; "C'mon, gov'nor, you've got to hang on, we'll not be havin' you leave us, yet. Who else can we trust to get us through this ruddy war?"

Another voice, this one sounding farther away; "Newkirk, I can't stop the bleeding."

"Blimey, Kinch, you've got to! Here, let me help…"

Hogan felt his hand being released, followed by more pressure to his chest. Another voice, or was it the same one, this time even further away; "Wilson better bloody be here soon."

He tried to take another breath, but it hurt too much. He thought he heard footsteps running toward him, thought he heard more voices, but he couldn't make them out anymore.

Gradually the pain started to lessen, and he opened his eyes. He could see Wilson bent over him, looking worried, the medic's hands a blur over his chest. Newkirk stood next to Wilson, and Kinch was on the other side, his anxious eyes staring at the work being performed by the medic.

Guys, I'm feeling better, Hogan tried to tell them, I'm okay, you can stop now. Guys?

"They can't hear you."

I know that voice, Hogan thought and turned his head. There, just visible beyond the shadows, a figure appeared. It moved closer, gliding toward him until it hovered just beyond the cot where he lay.

"Dad?"Hogan couldn't believe his eyes, "Is that you?"

"Yes, Rob, I'm here to help you."

Suddenly Hogan found himself standing in front of his father. Visions of moments he'd spent with him flooded his mind – his dad taking him fly fishing when he was five, tossing a football in the backyard with him during the summers of his youth, having the girl talk with him when he was a teenager, teaching him to drive, standing tall and proud when he graduated from the academy… And, the most recent, his father throwing him a crisp salute as Hogan left home to go fight in the war.

"What are you doing here, Dad?" Hogan asked when the barrage of memories stilled.

"I'm here to tell you that it's time to go."

"Go?" Hogan asked, confused, "But I've got work to do here, important work… I can't leave just yet."

"I'm sorry, son, but you don't have a choice."

"But my men, they need me!" Hogan pleaded.

A wistful smile appeared on the elder man's face. "They'll go on without you, Rob, don't worry. They'll be all right; you've taught them well."

A thought entered Hogan's mind. "Dad, how can you be here?"

The smile disappeared. "A few nights ago I became sick, Rob… Very sick. It's my time to go, too, but I couldn't leave without coming here… I knew you needed my help."

"What about Mom?" Hogan asked quietly.

"She doesn't want to let go, just like your men don't," his father replied, sweeping his hand toward the activity going on behind them.

Hogan turned around to see his own still body lying on the cot while Wilson worked frantically, the rest of his men huddled over his lifeless form, their voices full of fear as they shouted and cajoled him to wake up, just open his eyes, just breathe, just take a breath, just one breath… Just please, please, don't die.

Hogan felt sorrow as he watched; a deep sadness to see his men struggling so hard to save him, their fear palpable as they hovered there, panic and dread filling their eyes.

But then a calm passed over him as a feeling somewhere deep inside came bubbling to the surface; a surety that the guys would survive this, that they would get past this, that, soon enough, they would be all right without him. He knew now that it was his time to go, and he wanted to tell them somehow, wanted to reassure them, wanted to let them know that everything would be okay.

Fellas, you can let me go.

The men surrounded his body still, refusing to give up, shouting at their Colonel to fight, refusing to believe that he could die, refusing to believe they could actually lose him… But most of all, refusing to believe he was already gone.

Confused, Hogan tried again.

Fellas, you have to let me go.

"Rob, you don't understand," his father's voice floated over to him, "You're the one who has to let go."

Hogan turned around. "What do you mean?"

"You have to say goodbye, Rob… Only then will they be able to accept it."

Hogan turned back to his men; so many words on his tongue, so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to tell them, but there was no way he could. The only way he could help them now was to release them, and he knew it.

Fellas, I have to go.

The men slumped, their fruitless attempt to save him at last abandoned. Hogan's heart sank at seeing the grief forming on their faces, and he found himself wishing there were some way, any way he could spare them the pain they felt, the pain they were going to feel for some time to come.

"They'll be all right, Rob," his father's voice was calm and assured, "You have to believe that."

Hogan turned to his father and smiled. "I do, Dad."

His father returned the smile with one of his own. He gestured to Hogan and said, "Come on, Rob, let's go."

The two men drifted away, out of the tunnel, out of the barracks, away from the camp, floating further upward, on their way to a place where pain and sadness were no more, a place where they could wait for their friends and loved ones to join them for all eternity – a wait that, for them, would seem like the blink of an eye.