Disclaimer: I do not own Hogan's Heroes, nor do I claim any rights. This probably won't protect me legally, but I've only borrowed them for an outing. I will treat them with the utmost respect and return them relatively unscathed.

GERMANY - SEPT. 1939

"Hans!" Gretchen exclaimed. "Did you hear me?"

Hans Schultz looked up from his desk in the den. He'd been going over the books, evaluating the latest reports on sales and planning the toys his company would produce and promote for the Christmas season. He loved Christmas and gearing up for it meant the offers and prototypes for brand new toys were pouring in. Toys that would bring smiles to all the little children.

He'd settled in a couple of hours ago after his wife, Gretchen, had cleared the supper table. His youngest child, Paul, had tottered in a few minutes later. Hans watched him play with painted wood blocks - one of the Schatzi Toy Company's biggest sellers. The little boy built tall towers and castles then knocked them down in grand fashion. This was what he loved; this was the reason he'd created the company. It was always for the children.

Half an hour later, Gretchen had caught up with her youngest and whisked him off to bed. The little boy waved over her shoulder and received a blown kiss good-night from his papa. Hans immediately felt the quiet and turned the radio on. It was silent for only a few moments as the radio warmed up. He returned to his desk and flipped through the pages, skimming for the important information. The music came on and he hummed a little as he read. Gretchen returned about ten minutes later. He smiled when she'd come in with her knitting basket. All was right with his world. His company, his family, even the fire in the fireplace crackled joyfully.

Then it had all come apart. The music stopped and the announcer introduce the Fuehrer speaking from the Reichstag. He listened intently as his country's leader listed the offenses* committed at the Polish-German border.

'This night for the first time Polish regular soldiers fired on our own territory.
Since 5:45 a. m. we have been returning the fire...
I will continue this struggle, no matter against whom, until the safety of the Reich and its rights are secured…'

Gretchen's knitting dropped into her lap, her eyes growing wider. "It's war," she managed to whisper. "It's war, again." She looked across the room to her husband who sat staring into space. She knew that look. He'd worn it for so many years after he'd come home. Her heart throbbed remembering those painful years.

They'd gotten engaged a week before he left for the Western Front in 1914. She'd written letter after letter and anxiously waited for his. It had been less than a year into his posting before the tenor of his letters changed. He was often short and clipped in answer to questions about how he was faring. He'd seemed unconcerned about the happenings at home. When the war ended and he'd come home, she found that his blue eyes had lost their sparkle. Gone as well was the rolling, jolly laugh that had first attracted her to him. He was quiet and solemn, not at all like the young man she'd dreamed about. They'd split for a few months, before reconciling and marrying at the end of 1920.

So many of her friends' husbands fell into drink and she thanked God that Hans wasn't one of them. He did enjoy his beer and schnapps, but never to excess. And though he wandered for the first few years, he'd always provided her and the children with a roof and food. He woke, went to work, and came home, but there was no spark in him. He worked in a factory that manufactured furniture of all kinds - chairs, tables, all manner of wood working. And in his spare time he would carve little miniatures for their ever growing family and then latter for the children of his co-workers and friends. Hans would create anything a child could ask for and he'd had found a passion that she'd never imagined. As he played with the children, his laughter returned, the smiles became real and his eyes began to sparkle.

The thought of losing it all again, losing him for even a second, scared her more than she could say. He'd be called back up and who knows what would happen then. She gripped the arms of her chair and leaned forward. "Hans!" she exclaimed. "Did you hear me?"

Schultz looked up. He met her gaze, though his seemed dazed, and nodded, "Ja, I heard."

He was only half lying. He'd heard her, but he wasn't really listening. While Gretchen's memories were worrisome, his were horrifying. He'd only been a kid when he joined the Army in the spring of 1914. A kid when the armies began mobilizing that summer. A kid when they stumbled into the French at the Ardennes.

The fog that had settled in the forest disoriented him. He'd felt afraid, so much so that he couldn't eat. Now this had been quite a new feeling for him because ever since Hans had been little, he'd always been hungry. But not today. Today he had a bad feeling in his gut. He leaned against a tree and squinted into the darkness. There were lots of shots and explosions, so he knew there was fighting somewhere. The men around him were tense with anticipation. A rustling in the trees hit his ears and he stiffened. This was it; this was what he trained for. His hands were sweaty as he shifted his gun. Though it was foggy, he could easily make out the French soldiers. Their bright blue coats and red trousers made for quite a target. They'd hit hard and fast. The first shots he took were wide, he couldn't bring himself to aim at them. It felt wrong, more wrong than anything else he'd experienced in these short nineteen years on earth. It wasn't until Leutnant Kammler's* life was in danger that he could bring himself to fire a fatal shot.

That battle hadn't been so bad, he'd told himself. They'd won easily and it was over in a couple days. He was shaken, but everyone told him that it was just because it was his first time. It would get easier the next time.

It didn't.

If anything it had gotten worse. The battles were no longer fought above ground, but in muddy ditches. They no longer won or lost battles in two or three days, instead they lasted months. Months that consisted of agonizing waits spent watching for the waves of British soldiers that came over the lip of trenches - men that he would cut down before they even made it to mid-field. The shells that rained down on them from above. The constant wet chill that he could never shake no matter how close to the fire he got. He listened quietly as his comrades hoped and wished for another British wave. It was much easier to defend a trench than it was to rush over the top of one. They didn't want to be the ones out there waiting to be target practice.

Hans never spoke his thoughts aloud, but in the quiet moments, he couldn't help but think differently. He would much rather have been out of that cesspit and running across the field. That way he wouldn't have to lose a piece of his spirit every time he pulled the trigger. He wouldn't have to wonder what girl was losing the love of her life. What child he was making an orphan. What family would lose everything. If he was lucky, maybe some young Englander would fire the shot that would end it all. He wouldn't have to think about it anymore; he wouldn't have to hide tears and put on a brave face... He wouldn't have to lose a piece of himself with every wave.

And then one day it was over. They took his gun and uniform then shipped him home. Just go back to normal. Marry that girl and pretend that you're okay. Pretend that you didn't spend the past four years watching so many people around you die. Pretend you didn't watch men be carted off minus their limbs, screaming in pain. Pretend you didn't see men lose their sanity and sometimes their very souls.

Just go back to what you did before.

It was hard for him. He woke from nightmares almost every night. He could hear the shells bursting with every vehicle that backfired. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't manage to escape the cries of the dying. He withdrew from his wife and found solace in his work at the factory. He found a sense of peace as he worked his fingers over the wood, smoothing and shaping it into that which would be useful. Creating for once instead of destroying. Perhaps that was why he took up carving toys for the children - children who had already faced so much unpleasantness in their young lives. Perhaps that's why he created the toy company. Perhaps in some small way he hoped to fix the wounds he'd inflicted and make the world - or at least his little bit of Germany - a better, happier place. But now they were at it again. Young men would go off to fight and die, while their wives and children at home grieved and attempted to carry on.

"Hans?"

Gretchen's plea met his ear and shook him out of his thoughts. He could see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. She was frightened. His wife, his Gretchen, was afraid and it was his job as a man - as her husband to make her secure. He stood and turned off the radio, which had already resumed the regular music program.

"Now, now, Mama," he said, forcing a cheery note to his voice. "We have nothing to worry about. It will not last long."

"What if they call you back up?"

He took her hand and gave it a squeeze as he pulled her to her feet. The knitting that fell to the floor between them had been long since forgotten. He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her temple. "I am much too old…" he paused and patted his large stomach, "and too fat to be of any use. I will not be called and the boys are too young. We will be safe here together. I promise."

Gretchen dropped her head onto his shoulder and he wrapped his arms around her tightly. He rested his head against her hair and closed his eyes, wondering if he could in fact keep such a mighty promise. If his war had taught him anything, it was that there were no certainties in wartime. Only time could tell, but he would do everything in his power to keep that promise.

Everything.

* The 'offenses' at the Polish-German border of which Hitler spoke were a series of false flag operations conducted by the Nazi Regime, such as the Gleiwitz incident, in which Nazi operatives would dress as Poles and attack their own countrymen; thus making it appear as if Poland was the aggressor.

* Leutnant Kammler - later General Kammler - is a character from the episode, 'The Rise and Fall of Sergeant Schultz'. He is played by Whit Bissell.

Author's Note: First, I want to give a quick shout out to Abracadebra for suggesting this challenge. It was such a moving experience to write and an eye-opening delve into the history of the First War. (Which to my shame, I realize that I haven't focused on it nearly as much as I should or that it is due.)

Second, many, many thanks to Basketballgirl Kaitlin, Wind-in-the-Sage, and hen_in_the_woods for reading and proofing this for me. I adore you all and really could not have gotten this done without you.

Last, but certainly not least, to any current or former military personnel (of any Allied Army) who reads this, THANK YOU. We enjoy so many blessings and freedoms due to your sacrifices, and I am forever grateful.