No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

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RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk's head appeared from the tunnel below Barracks Two at Stalag Luft 13, sweat-streaked and covered with dirt. Still, the grime couldn't hide the broad smile lighting up his face. "We've broken through, sir," he panted.

US Army Air Corps Colonel Robert Hogan reached out his arm to help Newkirk back into the room. "Good job," he praised, as Newkirk brushed himself off. "What's happened to the dirt?"

"Mostly spread around outside the wire, gov'nor. Carter and Kinch are putting a bit more of it around the garden beds outside the huts. Le Beau is distracting Schultzie with strudel."

Hogan smiled at the thought of the tiny French Corporal trying to force-feed the large German Sergeant of the Guard. In his few months at this Prisoner of War camp in Nazi Germany, Hogan had learned that not all Germans were as tough as they appeared to be. In fact, Hans Schultz, a middle-aged bulk of a man, seemed to be trying to do his best to avoid taking any partisan part in World War Two whatsoever. Something that made life as a prisoner a bit easier for Hogan and the other thousand men at the camp. And something that Hogan took full advantage of as senior POW when it came to getting privileges for the men under his command. "Sounds like Le Beau got off with light duties."

"You're not wrong. Though I worry about poor Louis getting swept up when Schultz inhales the food."

Hogan offered a small smirk as he headed for the stove. "Yeah, well, he always was a man willing to sacrifice everything for a cause." He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Newkirk. "So tell me our status now," he said.

"We've broken through to Klink's quarters. It was a bit rough going at first because when we were about to move the stove, the old blighter came into the room, didn't 'e? Leave it to Klink to take unscheduled breaks during the day."

"Privilege of being the Kommandant," Hogan shrugged. "Any problems?"

"No, sir. We just waited until we heard him start bellowing at Schultz again and then moved in."

Hogan shook his head. "Too bad Schultz has to be the fall guy all the time. Well, at least this way we always know where he and Klink are."

"What's next, Colonel?" Newkirk asked.

Hogan considered, then headed to his quarters. Newkirk followed, and watched as Hogan started pulling a large, rolled-up sheet of paper from a tiny hole underneath his bottom bunk. He gingerly coaxed it out, being careful not to tear it, then unrolled it on his desk, putting the old tin can that held his writing utensils on one side to hold it down. "This is the map that Olsen drew up for us," Hogan said. Newkirk nodded respectfully; this map had on it what appeared to be every building, every guard tower, and every road just outside of camp drawn to scale, including fences, guards, and even trees. In red, Hogan had marked in the changes that the prisoners had made: a tunnel under Barracks Two leading to a hollowed-out tree stump outside the camp, now dubbed "the emergency tunnel"; a radio antenna, on the flagpole on top of Kommandant Wilhelm Klink's office; a listening device planted in Klink's office, attached to an old coffee pot in the barracks; an additional tunnel to Barracks Five, where the camp's medical man, Sergeant Joseph Wilson, was housed; a radio transmitter, right underneath their feet, at the start of the emergency tunnel; several other just-begun endeavours. Now, Hogan pointed to the map. "Show me where we are now."

Newkirk ran his finger along the diagram, starting at the beginning of the emergency tunnel, then branching off till it got to Klink's quarters. He tapped the section of the drawing that separated Klink's building into rooms. "There. Right in his living room. Under the stove near the wall."

"That's great," Hogan said. He pulled a red marking pen out of the can and carefully traced where Newkirk's finger had travelled. "The cooler's next," he said, straightening. He started rolling the map back up to put back in its hiding place. "And another exit out of here, in case we can't use the emergency tunnel. Maybe under the dogs."

Newkirk nodded, and momentarily felt overwhelmed at the undertaking. Here they had been, everyday, ordinary prisoners of war in a Luftwaffe camp, living life from day to day—with a few aberrations, like trying to start digging a tunnel, and trying to get a radio working to help them get out—when along came Colonel Hogan a few months ago and everything changed. Hogan had been extensively questioned by the Nazis, abused and held for an inordinate amount of time before being sent to Stalag 13. And then, lo and behold, he had actually agreed to accept a command from London, operating a sabotage and intelligence unit right out of the camp. "Can't be done," was Hogan's first thought. But he had seen possibilities, and had instituted a "No Escape" policy at the camp to help keep Klink firmly in place as camp Kommandant. Then he and his new recruits arranged it so escaped prisoners from other Stalags, as well as downed Allied flyers, could move through the camp and back out of Germany in what was becoming a standard, smooth transition. The next step, Hogan knew, was to be able to sabotage German war efforts. And that involved a lot more supplies, some of which were being dropped regularly by the Allies outside the camp. And it also involved a more elaborate tunnel system, which the men of Stalag 13 were working on every day. How any of this was even possible was beyond Newkirk's imagination. And yet it was happening, and he was heavily involved in it.

"Herr Schnitzer has said he'd be happy to use the dog truck to help," Newkirk said now.

Hogan thought of the elderly veterinarian in charge of the guard dogs used at the camp. With an appreciative smile, he remembered being in the dog truck himself when Oskar Schnitzer had once brought him back to Stalag 13, secretly carrying the final piece needed to complete the prisoners' radio transmitter. A fine man, Hogan thought, then and now. We sure could use more like him. "Then that's definitely the place. It helps that the fine Herr Schnitzer is training his dogs to recognize—and like—Allied uniforms," Hogan grinned.

"They sure don't care for German ones!" Newkirk grinned. "Old Schultz has nearly lost a few fingers trying to wrestle away the leftover bones from them!"

Hogan smiled briefly, then rubbed his eyes. I was never trained to plan underground networks, he thought fleetingly. "There's another drop tonight," he said. "Nitro this time, and some charges. It's my turn to go; I'll take Carter."

"Right, gov'nor," Newkirk nodded.

"London must be getting anxious to do some real damage to the Germans. That's the third lot of explosives they've sent in less than two weeks."

"Have they given us a job yet?" Newkirk asked.

"No," Hogan answered grimly. "That's what worries me. They've been unusually quiet. Aside from the heads-ups about the drops, and acknowledging the fellas that have made it back to London…nothing." Since they had started aiding escaped Allied prisoners to get back to their units, Hogan had counted up to twenty-seven before he decided keeping track was going to be a nightmare. He couldn't think of the men in terms of numbers: he remembered their faces. Scared. Exhausted. Bewildered. All too young to be caught in the middle of a world war, and all too young to tempt death. But these last two, who had come through just four days ago, took the cake—they were mere children, Hogan decided. He suspected they had lied about their ages to join the RAF; their voices had barely cracked, and they clung to each other like lost puppies, turning their big eyes to Hogan like he was some sort of saviour. He didn't want the worship, and still wondered why he had agreed to the responsibility. But he hadn't slept a wink until London had confirmed the pair had made it back to England safely; and then he slept all day. "So much for their directive to harass the enemy in all ways possible."

"Don't worry, gov'nor," Newkirk assured easily; "when they're ready, they'll go full steam ahead, guaranteed. We'll probably look back on this time with longing."

Hogan offered a rueful smile and nodded. Shaking himself out of his melancholy, he said, "You're probably right. Let's see what's going on outside."

Hogan walked out of Barracks Two and into the compound. Looking out on the flat, barren expanse, he couldn't help but be reminded that even though he was in Stalag 13 on assignment—with routes available to get outside the fence when he needed to—he was also, truly, a prisoner. Guard towers loomed over the camp, casting long shadows over the men who walked by, heads still sometimes bowed, hands dug into pockets, the uniforms of their various military units faded and sometimes torn. In those towers stood men with rifles at the ready, scouring the camp, watching the fence line for any sign of attempted escape. The barbed wire atop the twelve-foot fences glinted in the bleak sun, and the dogs were pacing restlessly in their cage. Well, at least there's one thing on our side, Hogan thought, looking at the biggest of the German shepherds, whom Schnitzer had told him was named Fritz. That big baby couldn't harm a fly… unless it was a German fly! Hogan shook his head. I'm going stir crazy…. I've got to step things up a bit or I'll go insane before this war is over. Time to make London keep their promise of letting us injure the enemy.

Hogan redirected his thoughts as he saw Sergeant James Kinchloe approach. The sturdily built, black American had turned out to be one of Hogan's staunchest supporters, and Hogan found it surprisingly easy to talk to this soft-spoken radio man. Kinch always seemed to know when something was on his commanding officer's mind, and somehow always seemed to be able to get Hogan to work through his self-doubts to get the job done. How many times had Hogan nearly screamed in frustration when escapes from other Stalags hadn't gone to plan? when avoidance of German searchlights was too close for comfort? when delays in the digging of tunnels meant a bigger chance of the escapees being caught? But Kinch would simply smile and stand by, punctuating Hogan's – fearful, if he wanted to admit it – raving with an occasional "Yes, sir," or, which seemed to have a more calming effect, "You're doing the best you can, Colonel. They still all have a better chance than they would have without us."

"Last load of dirt is gone, Colonel," Kinch said now.

"Good," Hogan said, wishing he could shake his mood. "Any trouble?"

"Heck, no," Kinch grinned. "Corporal Langenscheit even helped when he thought we were going to plant marigolds. His mother's favourite, he said. Forgot he was supposed to be guarding us and nearly handed me his rifle."

Hogan let a smile squint his eyes. "Ah, a boy who loves his mother. So they're not all bad after all, eh?"

Kinch laughed. "If he picks through the flowers, Carter will kill him. He's really proud of his little garden."

Hogan nodded. "Then we'll have to make sure the flowers stays intact. This is war, Kinch; we can't have any strained relations between us and the Krauts." Hogan paused. "Are we due for any contact today?"

"No, Colonel; nothing other than the drop tonight." Kinch studied his commander for a moment. "What's wrong, Colonel?"

Hogan shook his head. "Nothing. I think I'm going strange, that's all. Been here too long. We've gotta do something before I lose my mind."

Kinch nodded. "I understand," he said. You want to go home, but you're not going to say it. Too many people are taking their lead from you. If you're despairing, they will be, too. "Maybe London will fill us in soon on why they're sending all this stuff."

"It won't be too soon for me, Kinch. It won't be too soon." Sticking his thumbs in the pockets of his brown bomber jacket, Hogan wandered slowly away.

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"There is not enough strudel in all of Europe to satisfy that man," Corporal Le Beau complained that evening. "How am I supposed to keep up with the meagre rations we get here?"

Sergeant Andrew Carter looked up from his bunk, where he was darning his socks—again. Sighing, he realised his feet were now being covered more by the thread used to sew the socks back together than by the material they were made with. "Maybe Schultz would go into town to get the stuff for you. I mean, if he wants it so bad, wouldn't he do that?" he asked.

Newkirk shook his head wearily from his bunk above the young American. "Blimey, Carter, that's rich. Send the fat Kraut on an errand to the market? 'What shall we get today, Hans?' 'Oh, how about three pounds of strudel? That ought to get me through the rest of the afternoon, anyway, dear.'" He tossed an errant sock down onto Carter's head.

"Well it was just an idea," Carter defended himself.

The bunk above the tunnel rose up and Hogan and Kinch climbed out. Hogan looked grim. "What was an idea?" he asked.

"Carter 'ere thought the Krauts might do us a favour and get Le Beau what he needs to make Schultz more strudel to keep him distracted the next time we go digging," Newkirk said.

Kinch shook his head. "I'm sure he would if he could," he said with a small smile. He stopped smiling when Hogan pulled his jacket straight and sighed, heading to the stove.

"Let's hope he doesn't get any ideas to do that Tuesday night," Hogan said. "I'd hate to run into him in Hammelburg."

The others gave Hogan startled looks. Le Beau started by rambling in French, then finally switched to English when he realised no one was answering him. "Colonel, what are you talking about?"

"London finally got in touch," he said, swirling the coffee in his cup and turning reluctantly toward his men. "They've been going heavy on the ammo lately because they want us to blow a couple of bridges and an ammunitions dump nearby."

Newkirk let out a low whistle.

"What's that got to do with Hammelburg?" Carter asked.

"An Underground agent is holding the information on guard postings, planned troop movements, that type of thing," Hogan explained. "And we can only get it by going into town."

The others all began talking at once. Hogan stopped trying to make out the words as a headache started behind his eyes. But he knew the men were angry, and he couldn't say he blamed them.

"Going into town?" Le Beau burst. "Have they forgotten we are prisoners? How are we supposed to go into town? We get spotted by one German and it's curtains!"

Hogan nodded thoughtfully. "Exactly. That's why I'll be going. I'm not taking a chance on any of you fellas being caught. If anything goes wrong, it's on my head alone; you know nothing. Got it?"

"I don't like it, Colonel," Newkirk said. "London's gone barmy. Tell them we can't do it."

"So what's the point of this operation then?" Hogan shot back. "I agreed to do whatever it took. And if I can't get out of here myself, then I can make damned sure the Krauts are uncomfortable for as long as possible." He stopped to regain the composure he was sure he was losing. "I have to follow orders. I'll get in there somehow."

The others fell into an uneasy silence. Helping escaped prisoners was one thing; when they brought a man up through the tunnel or handed him over to the Underground for transport back to England, they felt triumphant, like they had won a small victory over their captors. But this was something different. London was asking them to walk straight into enemy territory, unprotected, and completely exposed.

"But you will be in uniform, Colonel—you'll be captured immediately," Le Beau said quietly.

"London's thought of that," Kinch said, unhappy himself with the whole idea. He empathized with the protests of the others, but he could see how hard it was for Hogan already, and chose to support him not by declaring the injustice of it all, but rather by keeping silent. "They're sending down a civilian suit with tonight's drop. We'll just have to tailor it to look right."

"Even worse," Le Beau muttered. "Being caught out of uniform."

Hogan's continued silence stopped Le Beau from saying more.

"Why so many hits at once, Colonel?" Carter asked. "I mean, we're only starting out. Shouldn't we start small?"

"It's simple, Carter: there's a lot of work to be done. If we pull it off without a hitch, great. If we don't, and we face the firing squad, at least they'll have accomplished something before we're blindfolded and put up against the wall."