No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater. Thanks.

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Carter and Hogan watched as Le Beau and Kinch ran circles round the courier about to hand the mail bag over to Schultz for delivery to the Kommandant's office.

"Are you sure this is going to work, Colonel?" Carter asked.

Hogan's eyes narrowed as he tried to see the moment Kinch slipped the large envelope into the sack. "I've never seen those two fail before," he answered distractedly.

"Oh, I don't mean Kinch and Le Beau," Carter clarified; "I mean this whole thing about Klink writing a great fairy tale. Do you think he'll really fall for it and go back to being his old self?"

Hogan grimaced and hugged himself a little tighter. "I never thought I'd be saying this, Carter, but I would just love to have Klink go back to being his soft-headed, indecisive, stubborn self. That Klink is someone I know how to handle. This Klink is just begging to have his head knocked off." His eyes followed as Le Beau quickly hid something passed to him by Kinch. "And there it is," he said softly.

"Now what, Colonel?"

Hogan turned to the Sergeant, already warming up to his own task. "Now, Carter, you get ready for your entrance, Kinch will make sure everything is ready for tonight with the Underground, and I'll go listen on the coffee pot for the perfect time to make my entrance into Klink's office."

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"Schuuuuuuuuuuuuuuultz!"

The Sergeant of the Guard had almost made it out of the Kommandant's outer office when he heard his name bellowed from within. For a split second he considered pretending that he hadn't heard it, but when the door to Klink's office opened behind him, he knew he was stuck.

"Schultz! Schultz, come in here!"

He turned reluctantly. "Yes, Herr Kommandant?"

"Come here, Schultz; I want you to look at this."

Schultz sighed heavily. Klink had already disappeared back into his office. Schultz followed. "What is it, Kommandant?" he asked, not out of any desire to know, but out of duty.

He was surprised to see Klink so animated. "The mail came today, Schultz."

"Yes, Herr Kommandant. I delivered it."

"Well, did you look? Did you look?"

Schultz shrugged. "It was not my mail, Herr Kommandant."

"Well, I will show you this anyway, Schultz," Klink said, waving a piece of paper in the guard's face. He could not hide a most triumphant smile. "It is from the local newspaper!"

When Schultz's face registered no understanding, Klink added more strongly, "The newspaper which had the writing contest!" Klink was disappointed when Schultz's reaction amounted to no more than raised eyebrows. "The contest, Schultz! For the five hundred marks!"

Now, Schultz nodded. "The one where you wrote I hid under a desk."

"That's right!" Klink replied, totally missing Schultz's tone. "And I won, Schultz. I won!"

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Smiling, satisfied, Hogan nodded at Carter. "Okay, Carter, it's time. He'll be expecting you."

"Right."

"Make it good. We need this to be over with once and for all."

"You got it, Colonel."

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Klink was still crowing about his glory when Hogan walked into his office. "I'd like to talk to you, Kommandant."

But Klink was too busy to think about anything his prisoner had on his mind. "Hogan—I'm so glad you're here. You need to see this."

Hogan's eyebrows furrowed. "See what?" he asked.

"This." Klink thrust a letter toward the American. "I won!"

"Kommandant, what are you talking about?"

"The contest—the five hundred marks—I won!"

"You?" Hogan didn't even have to fake his surprise. Every time he thought about Klink winning a contest with that piece of drivel he'd written, he shivered.

"Yes, Hogan. Me! I told you it was a brilliant piece of prose. A representative of the newspaper will be here any minute to bring me the prize. There's a certificate that goes with it, as well," the Kommandant added.

"Really?" Hogan asked.

If there was any sarcasm in the American's voice, Klink missed it. "Yes!" He was about to continue when a sudden thought brought him to a thoughtful, wishful pause. "You know, Hogan—this might even help me get a promotion!"

"A promotion!"

"Yes, Hogan—after all, my story is about how Stalag 13 has never had any escapes, even though all the other POW camps have. Once everyone knows it, how could General Burkhalter possibly leave me off the list of those heading for General?"

It was Schultz who answered quietly. "That may not work, Herr Kommandant," he said.

Klink frowned fiercely at the Sergeant. "Why?"

"Because you wrote that the General is fat, Kommandant. He may not like that."

"But Schultz, he is fat," Hogan put in.

"Yes, Schultz, he is fat," Klink echoed unthinkingly. "I cannot help that he—" He cut himself off suddenly. "Oh, dear," he said as his face fell. "The General will read that, and he will think I called him that!"

"You did!" Hogan declared.

"Oh, shut up, Hogan; you didn't even read it." Hogan shrugged. Klink looked worriedly at Schultz. "Oh, Schultz, what shall I do? Should I tell the newspaper that I don't want the prize?—Oh, but what about the five hundred marks?"

Schultz had opened and closed his mouth with each question from Klink's mouth. Now, he said, "Herr Kommandant, is five hundred marks worth—"

But he got cut off as Hilda entered the room. "There's a gentleman here to see you, Kommandant," she said.

"Who is it?" Klink asked.

"He says he's from the Hammelburg Times."

Klink's eyes widened. "He must be here about my essay. Oh, Hogan, what do I do?"

Hogan grinned. "Learn to ski?"

Klink didn't have time to respond as Hilda moved out of the way and a slim fairly young man who seemed lost inside his large overcoat came into the office. "Which one of you is Wilhelm Klink?" he asked, his mouth not quite visible under his moustache.

Klink didn't move. Hogan, beside him, shoved him hard. "Uh—I am," Klink finally said.

The moustache curved upwards in a smile. "Ah—Kommandant," the young man said. "What a pleasure, to finally meet you. I have read your account of life here at Stalag 13, and I must say, I was very impressed."

At this, Klink openly and willingly smiled. "Well, thank you, Herr—uh, Herr—"

"Mueller," said the man. "But there is no thanks necessary. I always get great pleasure out of reading a good piece of writing."

"You are very kind, Herr Mueller."

"Indeed," Mueller continued; "I was most intrigued by the style you used. I saw many different approaches to the subject, but never once did I even imagine that someone would use fiction as a way to portray the greatness of the German people."

Klink was still smiling. "You're very kind, Herr Mueller," he said again. "I wrote the way I—" He stopped as Mueller's words finally caught up with his brain. "I'm sorry, did you say fiction?"

Mueller's smile got even bigger. "Yes, of course! The prisoner, standing there about to cry; the guard, hiding under a desk; the General, coming to pull a common jailor from his POW camp to work in Berlin because he has stopped a single escape. It was all quite laughable—and so enjoyable to read!"

Klink's laugh and smile were clearly false to Hogan and Schultz, but the Kommandant kept them up anyway. "Oh, yes, Herr Mueller, yes," he agreed. "You know, I thought, well anyone could tell a straight story about wartime and how heroic everyone is being. But I thought... well... I thought..."

Hogan plowed in to help the faltering German. "He thought that by exaggerating the facts and turning everyone into caricatures that he could get people to focus on the point of the piece—that it takes more than one man to run a POW camp and have it be successful, and Colonel Klink works with his men to make sure things happen as they should—even if it means that innocent prisoners like myself never get to make it out of our enemy's hands."

Klink had listened intently to Hogan's declaration, amazed that the American was turning his honest, straightforward story into this twisted fiction. Still, he turned a frozen smile toward Hogan and nodded. "Exactly," he said. "Exactly!" The smile thawed as he realized that Hogan was actually saving him from possible trouble with Burkhalter, and Klink laughed. "I hope no one took what I wrote seriously!"

Herr Mueller smirked. "That would be impossible," he answered. He looked at Hogan. "This would be your broken senior POW, Colonel Hogan?" he asked.

Hogan arched an eyebrow. "That's right," he said pointedly. "But of course, I'm not as broken as Klink wrote me to be."

"Of course not. You would have to have been a complete mashed potato to be like that in real life. Not unlike—" Mueller turned his eye on Schultz—"you. You would be Sergeant Schultz?"

Schultz straightened. "Jawohl, Herr Mueller," he replied.

Mueller smiled again. "You are the one who hid under your Kommandant's desk!"

Schultz shifted uncomfortably. "That's right, Herr Mueller," he said.

"Impossible," Mueller countered. Schultz smiled. "You could never fit under a desk." The newspaper man looked at Klink. "You have done well, Colonel. No one seeing Stalag 13 could ever believe that it is really as you say. And yet your story still shows the bravery and resilience of the German people. I remain impressed."

Klink smiled ingratiatingly. "Thank you, Herr Mueller."

"It is time for me to present you with your prize."

Klink's smile got impossibly wide. From underneath his large coat, Mueller pulled out a scroll neatly rolled and tied with a red ribbon, and an envelope. "Your certificate of award, Colonel Klink," he said, handing the scroll to the Kommandant. Klink accepted it with silent glee. "And... your money." This, Klink took even more quickly. "Five hundred marks."

"Thank you, Herr Mueller."

"Well earned, Kommandant. Spend it wisely."

"I will, sir."

"There's a little fräulein in town that he can afford to take out to dinner now," Hogan said helpfully.

"That's right!" Klink almost sang. Then he realized Mueller was still standing there. "Hogan, don't help me," he amended.

"I must go," Mueller said. He drew himself up straighter. "Colonel Klink, it has been a pleasure. Perhaps you should write more fairy tales."

Klink smiled. "Perhaps," he agreed with a false laugh.

"I'm sure you have much to do. I will leave you to get on with running your delightful prison camp. Try not to make the prisoners laugh too hard, Colonel—you might attract more than you can fit in the stalag!"

With a laugh and a farewell, Mueller left the office. Hogan turned to Klink and said, "I think I'll leave you alone, too. I don't think I can handle your kind of humor."

"Very well, Hogan," Klink said dismissively, still distracted by his good fortune. Suddenly he recalled what was happening before Mueller had come in, and he added hastily, "And Hogan—you do know I was only joking about General Burkhalter being fat and you being a cowed, sniveling prisoner." He laughed nervously. "Don't you?"

Hogan paused on his way out the door. "Of course I know, Kommandant. The idea that you run the camp the way you wrote it had to be pure fantasy."

And he was gone, leaving Klink nodding, until the Kommandant realized that Hogan had insulted him yet again.

Outside the office, Hogan crossed back to the barracks. Passing Mueller, who was about to step inside a car, he touched a hand to the man's elbow. "Nice work," he said without stopping.

"Thanks," said a distinctly un-German voice in return.

Hogan came back into the hut to the grins of Le Beau, Newkirk and Kinch. "Well done, sir," Newkirk said.

"Oui, you and Carter were superb!" Le Beau agreed.

Hogan smiled back, satisfied. "You fellas would have loved Klink's face when Carter told him his work was a wonderful fairy tale. I thought it was going to slide right off his skull."

The men laughed. "Where is Carter now?" asked Le Beau.

"Heading out of camp in the car we borrowed from the motor pool. He'll come in through the tunnel."

"Quite a guy, our Herr Mueller," Kinch chuckled.

"That he is," Hogan said. "Now all we have to do is watch the mail for the next few days to make sure Klink never finds out he's not really the winner."

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Two days later, Carter was watching the door while Kinch reported in after his radio contact with the Underground. "And Othello says the best part of all is that the munitions factory is apparently going to stay out of business. The Krauts are looking at razing what's left of it and using the land for farming."

Hogan let the side of his mouth curl up in a smile. "A much better way to use any land," he said. "Then Le Beau can pilfer what he needs to make us even better chow."

"Here it comes, Colonel," Carter said suddenly from the door. "Schultz is heading toward Klink's office."

"Don't let him get there," Hogan ordered. "Le Beau: you know what to do."

"Oui, Colonel." The Frenchman moved away from the stove and poked his head out the door. "Schultzie!" he called in a conspiratorial voice. "Schultzie, come here!"

The guard, heading toward the Kommandant's office, paused when he heard Le Beau's call. He looked toward the barracks, then all around him to make sure no one was watching, then he scurried toward Barrack Two.

"What is it, cockroach?" Schultz asked, his face pulled into a frown.

"Schultzie, I need you to test something for me; come in." Le Beau pulled the guard into the common room. Kinch and Carter immediately came up on either side of him and moved him toward the table. "It is a special recipe that my grand-mère taught me, and I finally had the right ingredients to try it here."

"And you want... me... to test it?" Schultz asked incredulously.

Le Beau shrugged. "Why not? You have a better sense of taste than almost anyone else in camp—especially the English."

Newkirk made a face at Le Beau. "Now that's not very nice, Louis." Le Beau just shrugged. "But in the interest of good international relations, Le Beau, I'll let it pass, and I'll happily bypass those concoctions you try to call food. Schultz—it's all yours."

Newkirk put his hands on the guard's shoulders in a friendly fashion, pulling off the guard's mail bag and handing his rifle to Carter. Schultz began to protest. "But Newkirk, I have to bring the mail to the Kommandant—"

"Never mind that, Schultz," Kinch said. "When's the next time you'll get a chance to have something special like this?"

"Not for a long time, Schultz!" Le Beau answered for him, his voice tempting.

"Oh... well... all right," Schultz said. "But just a little bit. I have to bring the Kommandant his mail. He hates it when I am late."

Newkirk laughed heartily. "You won't be late, Schultz; you'll be on your way in no time."

As Kinch and Carter crowded in and Le Beau got the guard's attention with the pot he had sitting on the stove, Newkirk pulled away from the group and looked carefully through the mail bag until he found what he needed. Replacing the bag behind Schultz, he moved slowly toward Hogan's office, where the Colonel was at his desk, patiently waiting.

"How'd you go?" Hogan asked.

Newkirk handed the Colonel the local newspaper and the mail addressed to Klink. "All here, sir."

Hogan nodded as he took the offerings. "Good." He flipped through the envelopes, stopping to pull one out and handing the rest back to Newkirk. "Here. These can go back. Now let's see..."

"Who's that from, sir?"

Hogan didn't answer. He opened the envelope and scanned the letter quickly, his face getting more and more dismayed. "I don't believe it," he practically whispered.

"Sir?"

Hogan shook his head and read again, then he put the letter down and opened the newspaper, rapidly turning pages until he found what he was looking for. "I don't believe it!" he said again.

Newkirk was getting worried. "Colonel, what's the matter?"

Hogan looked up. "Never in a million years, Newkirk," he said. Then, his voice still full of disbelief, he announced, "The letter is from The Hammelburg Times about the writing contest. Klink won!"