To Serve and Protect

By: Dusha

Disclaimer: Hogan's Heroes and all associated names, plots, etc. belongs to Paramount and CBS.

Chapter 1: A Problem Arises

In which timing is everything and it's always bad.

Snatching his hat from a rusted nail on the wall, Colonel Robert Hogan yawned dramatically and opened the door from his office into the common room of Barracks 2. It was T-minus-10 minutes until morning roll call and the internal clocks of some of his more AM-oriented men had them shuffling towards readiness in various states of wakefulness.

"Good morning, mon Colonél," Lebeau, always one of the early risers, greeted him and brought forward a half-filled cup of ersatz coffee. A more substantial serving would have to wait until after roll call but Hogan knew he desperately needed the caffeine if he wanted to parlay with Klink at six o'clock in the morning.

A quick glance around the room showed the Senior POW that he would need all the energy he could muster to dissipate any suspicion from his men's 'midnight stroll' the night before. Carter and Newkirk, still deeply asleep despite the growing ruckus in the barracks, had engaged in a very fruitful night of mischief from which they were still recovering. A smudge of soot visible on Carter's right cheek, barely seen above the thread-bare blanket he had snuggled into, stood testament to the success of their primary objective.

Hogan's musings were, as usual, rudely interrupted by the boisterous, but never unexpected, entrance of Sergeant Hans Shultz shouting, "Raus, raus, everybody raus!" Pounding on the bottom of Newkirk's bunk he continued, "Roll call!"

"Shultz!" Newkirk complained, continuing the same routine they went through every morning, "Why can't you let us sleep in for once or, even better, get fräuline Helga to wake us up?"

"With a kiss!" Someone from the other side of the room fantasized.

"Or at least give us an alarm clock!" moaned Carter from the bottom bunk as he dragged his blanket over his face, conveniently hiding the black soot. "One that we can turn off and ignore."

As much as he enjoyed the exchange, Hogan knew that some things were non-negotiable when trying to avoid suspicion. Throwing a friendly arm around the portly guard's shoulders (or what he could reach of them) he said, "Sorry, Shultz, the boys had a long night. You know how cranky Newkirk can be when he doesn't get his beauty sleep."

"And why did they not get enough sleep?" Shultz glanced around the room with dread growing in his stomach. He had a feeling he was about to see something he did not want to see.

Hogan smirked. "Do you really want to know?"

"No! I want to know nothing! Nothing! Colonel Hogan, please, just get your men out for roll call."

"Anything for you, Shultz," smiling his trademark swashbuckler grin, Hogan ushered the sergeant towards the door. "We'll be out as soon as we're decent."

"Decent, Colonél? Them?" Lebeau quipped from beside the wood stove. "I think you ask too much."

"Oh, you're a ruddy riot early in the morning, Louis."

"Oui, I know. I should get you up earlier in the morning to more fully appreciate my humor," the Frenchman ribbed his friend.

Newkirk grunted in response, knowing that he could not win a battle of wits against the perky Frenchman before noon. Instead, he focused on grabbing his trousers from their perch over the end of his bunk, jumping down from his bed without landing on Carter's head and slipping his pants on under his nightshirt. Substituting his striped nightshirt for his moth-eaten turtleneck and short jacket, Newkirk scrounged around for his cover while commenting, "Hey, where's Kinch?"

"Probably still down in the tunnel," Carter replied, stomping into his boots and lacing them tightly. "When we gave him the Düsseldorf troop movements from 'Little Boy Blue' he wanted to encode and send them last night." He paused in the middle of double-knotting his left boot and looked up. "Hey Newkirk, did you notice Kinch acting a little strange last night?"

The Englishman paused, looking thoughtful. "The poor bloke hasn't slept in more than two days, what with preparing for the mission, organizing the distraction and sending the plans. But now that you mention it, he was looking a bit more peaked than normal."

"Well, there's no rest for the weary until after roll call," Hogan zipped up his bomber jacket in anticipation of the bitter German winds. "Lebeau, get Kinch. Promise him that we'll set him up for an 8-hour nap as soon as our illustrious commandant is done."

Newkirk opened the door as his fellow corporal triggered the bunk-hatch and slid down the ladder to the tunnels below. He smiled back at his Colonel over the cries of 'Shut the door, Newkirk! Stop letting the cold air in!' "I wouldn't make any promises you can't keep, Gov'nor. I don't think Kinch has had that much sleep since the day he got here." Carter nodded sagely in agreement as he stood.

Hogan laughed at the good natured rub, but the truthfulness of the statement could not be denied. The only time he had seen his second in command not working on the day-to-day coordination of the operation was when he was writing to his family, usually by the dim glow of a dark-lamp after lights out. Even when he was reading his indulgent mystery novels down in the radio room the sergeant's mind was shattered into a dozen pieces vying for his attention. Parts were with the men outside the wire, Goldilocks in London, and focused on catching the first taps of an incoming message from the Underground. If anyone deserved a break, it was James Ivan Kinchloe. After morning appell, Hogan promised silently, he would get it.

"All right, gentlemen, time to put in our appearances," he announced. "Make sure you put your dress shoes on."

The undercurrent of tired laughter his comment elicited was abruptly interrupted as Lebeau clambered up their secret ladder noisily. One glance of the Frenchman's distraught face changed the atmosphere of the barracks completely. Taking five quick steps across the room to the trap door, Hogan squatted down and put a hand on the obviously shaken man's shoulder. "Louis, what's wrong?"

"It's Kinch, Colonél," Lebeau gasped as he took a hold of Hogan's arm to steady himself. "Something is wrong!"

Without waiting for an explanation, Hogan immediately began issuing orders. Of all the times for something to go awry, two minutes before roll call was not the best. "Merrick, get everyone outside and tell Newkirk to stall for time. Do whatever it takes. We need time to get Kinch outside."

"Yes, sir." It was a testament to his men's confidence in his quick thinking that they asked no questions. With common purpose they headed en masse towards the door.

"Scovel, stay here. I may need you if I can't get Kinch out of the tunnels by myself."

The bulky Norwegian assented, a private first class in that country's resistance who was shot down three weeks prior. He was just beginning to get a sense of the secret operation coordinated at the POW camp and he knew he wanted to be part of Stalag 13's organization. He thought it would help him regain the sense of stability he felt with his previous underground unit and the feeling of safety that came from having comrades who were closer than brothers.

Nearly tripping down the ladder behind Lebeau in his haste and concern, Hogan demanded, "What happened?"

"I began to worry when he didn't answer my call," Louis explained, "but I only thought he had fallen asleep, considering what Newkirk and Carter said. When I went to wake him up though," Lebeau's voice rose in pitch and intensity as his emotions grew, "he wouldn't. His face felt so hot, Colonél…."

Rather than reply, Hogan sprinted down the tunnel, grabbing a support beam to swing himself around a corner, and catapulted into the radio room. One look at his radioman stopped him in his tracks.

"Oh Kinch…."

The casual observer might look at the scene before him and think only that the over-extended African American had finally succumbed to his exhaustion, laid his head on the radio table and fallen asleep. In his fatigue, others might reason, he carelessly knocked his Morse key to the ground. But the Colonel knew his second in command better than that. Kinch would rather spend 30 days of quality time in the cooler than risk breaking his Morse key. It was too valuable as their tenuous link to the outside world and the genesis of all of their success.

Closing the distance between himself and his subordinate, Hogan gently shook the radioman's shoulder. "Kinch? Kinch! Wake up, Kinch!"

"Kinch, mon ami, please! Open your eyes!"

Time was running out, Hogan knew, even as he placed two fingers on Kinch's neck to find a feathery pulse on overdrive. Heat radiated from the black man and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. "Kinch!" he tried again in his most authoritative command voice, "This is a direct order—wake up!"

"Colonel Hogan…? Wha …?" A muzzy, almost unidentifiable voice crawled out from underneath Kinch's collapsed form.

"You're very sick, Kinch, but we need you out at roll call," Hogan didn't waste time mincing words. "Do you think you can make it up the ladder?"

Rather than wasting valuable energy with a response, Kinch focused his mental fortitude on trusting his commanding officer and his physical strength on pushing himself up and away from the table—before promptly collapsing.

"I—I'll be okay, Colonel," Kinch mumbled weakly, even as Hogan knelt down and maneuvered his shoulder under his subordinate's arm. In the back of his mind, the Colonel acknowledged how strange it felt to support this perpetually strong, confident man. Lebeau wrapped his own arm around his friend's waist, helping to guide him unsteadily to the base of the ladder. Three sets of eyes, two clear, one blurry, glanced up at Scovel's concerned expression.

Pushing Kinch forward, Hogan spared another look at the sergeant's face. Beads of sweat were stuck in his mustache and his eyes kept blinking frantically as if trying desperately to focus on something. "I hate to tell you this, Kinch, but you have to make it through roll call. If you're missing it won't take a genius to realize you might have something to do with last night's sabotage. Klink might even figure it out. That means the minute you resurface you get a complementary one way ticket to visit the Gestapo."

"I know, Colonel. I'll make it."

No hesitation, no debate, nothing but acceptance of the mission—so like Kinch. Stalag 13's radioman grabbed the first rung of the ladder at eye-level and, with Hogan close behind to catch him in case he should fall, began to climb. Though it felt like a like a small eternity, in reality it took only a few seconds for Kinch to haul himself up high enough for Scovel to reach his arms. Grasping the black man's forearms securely, Scovel used every ounce of strength in his burly arms and back to drag Kinch out of the secret tunnel. With a resounding thump they landed in a tangle on the floor. 'Thank God for the strength of the Aryan race,' the PFC thought bitterly as he got to his feet. 'Hitler'd go ballistic if he knew I was using it to save someone from an "inferior race".'

Hogan and Lebeau scampered up the rest of the ladder and, despite their almost laughable difference in size and strength, the French corporal offered a hand to Kinch to help him up. "Come, Kinch, I will help you."

"Thanks, Louis," Kinch could offer no more than an exhausted smile.

Herding everyone outside was not difficult and within another thirty seconds the four of them took their rightful places in the prisoner's line up. "Look after him, Carter," Hogan whispered as he walked by.

"You betcha, boy," Carter said, his worry overwhelming his usual awareness of the informality.

With difficulty Hogan turned his attention from his fellow Americans to the British non-com currently making a nuisance of himself by encouraging the men to pass the camp soccer ball over the frustrated heads of the Germans calling for order. "Oy! Over here, Douglas!"

"Newkirk, how many times have I told you not to play with the Krauts?" Hogan chastised. "You don't know where they've been."

Immediately, the Englishman settled down, catching something in the undercurrent of Hogan's voice despite his joking words. Shultz's relief was audible as he began to count the men who had finally stopped shuffling around like rambunctious schoolchildren. What he wouldn't give for the respect of the men that Colonel Hogan wielded!

As he trundled down the double line of men, counting as he went, the German sergeant debated with himself concerning weather or not he would question Hogan about his late arrival. "Dreizen, Vierzen, Fumfzen," he breathed. Looking up at Hogan he smiled, deciding that he would feign ignorance because everyone was there; in the end, that was the only thing that mattered to him. His smiled faltered, however, when he caught sight of his fellow sergeant, Kinchloe, standing behind the suave American commander. Though he considered his exposure to the demeanor of Africans (or so he considered Kinchloe to be) as limited, even he could discern that the man was suffering.

"Colonel Hogan," he whispered, "what is wrong with Sergeant Kinchloe?"

Knowing that Schulz meant to show nothing more than honest concern, Hogan answered truthfully, "He's sick, Shultz."

The portly German took a step back. "Is it something I could catch?"

"I don't know," Hogan admitted, "but…could you do me a favor, Shultz? Hurry things along here so we can get him back inside."

For once it sounded like a favor the Sergeant of the Guard could fulfill without eventually regretting it. "Jawol, Colonel Hogan. I will see what I can do." Turning towards the commandant's office he bellowed, "Kommandant Klink!"

Whether he was already on his way or was summoned by Shultz, the supposed leader of Stalag 13 swung open the door to his office, slapped his riding crop under his arm, and marched down the stairs. "Repooort!"

"Herr Kommandant," Shultz saluted, "I beg to report that all prisoners are present and accounted for!"

"Yes, yes," Klink waved a gloved hand dismissively as he stood an appropriate distance away from the center of the Allied men, "Of course. That is because no one has ever escaped Stalag 13."

The men jeered and Hogan thought with a smile, 'That you know of,' Aloud he shouted, "Come on, Commandant. Can't we hurry this up? I think I left the iron on."

"Oui," Lebeau chipped in, "If I leave the pâté sitting too long it will completely ruin the consistency."

Shultz raised his eyebrows in interest while Klink fidgeted with his monocle in annoyance. With an air of superiority he reminded the assembled men, "You and your men have no where to be except where I tell you to be, Colonel Hogan. That's why you are prisoners and I am the commandant."

"Is that why it is?" Hogan feigned innocent surprise. "I thought we were here for the free room and board."

"Hogan…" Klink shook his hand threateningly.

A shuffling sound from behind him reminded Hogan that, for once, the daily sport of Klink-baiting was trumped in importance. Shifting his posture slightly he was able to catch a glimpse of Carter taking a step out of line to catch Kinch's arm before he could collapse again. The young sergeant looked close to tears with concern.

"Come on, Commandant," puffs of white escaped with his words into the cold air. "Can't we wrap this up early today? One of my men is sick and needs to be back inside."

Turning to his subordinate Klink demanded, "Is this true, Sergeant Shultz?"

"Jawol, Herr Commandant." Shultz's eyes softened in sympathy as he looked down the line of men. "It is Sergeant Kinchloe."

Following Shultz's attention, Klink sauntered down the line of shivering prisoners, ready to berate Hogan for using a mild or completely false excuse of sickness as a ploy to truncate morning roll call. An hour in the brisk German air wasn't demanding very much. To cover the fact that he had no idea who the aforementioned Sergeant Kinchloe might be he asked, "And just where is this sick man of yours, Colonel Hogan? They all look fine to me."

Annoyed at Klink's disbelief, and ignoring the fact that there was certainly plenty of precedent for the Luftwaffe man to distrust him, Hogan took a step aside to reveal the man under discussion.

"Colonel Hogan! What is wrong with this man?"

"I told you," Hogan's exasperation was palatable, "he's sick."

Klink pinched his chin thoughtfully as the gears in his mind sluggishly ground into motion. Despite his announcements to the contrary he did not have the natural animosity necessary to enjoy seeing the prisoners in his camp suffer, even if they were the enemy. Letting a smile break out on his face at his own benevolence he turned to Hogan and said, "Colonel, because I am a humanitarian I am going to shorten appell today. Additionally," Klink pointed at the sky dramatically, "I will personally put in a call to the local hospital to set up an appointment for your man."

"Don't worry, Commandant, I'll make sure to tell the Protecting Powers about your generosity after Germany loses the war," the American replied, only half-jesting. Not only was Klink making a generous offer, but Hogan had decided a long time ago that he would argue for as much clemency as possible for Klink, Schultz, Langenscheidt, and many of the guards at Stalag 13 after the war. After all, without their help winning would have been much more difficult.

As these thoughts entered Hogan's mind, along with the fact that he was sure Klink would hold this incident of kindness over his head for a long time to come, his men were in motion. With a stony serious expression that only catastrophes brought out of him, Newkirk darted back to offer a hand to Carter in supporting their comrade, back inside.

"Guys, put Kinch on the bottom bunk in my office. That way we can keep an eye on him—we'll make a schedule so that someone is with him at all times." It went without saying that, in any other circumstance, Kinch would have been the one creating the schedule. "Lebeau, we need something to keep Kinch from becoming dehydrated. Someone, I don't care who, go get Wilson."

A chorus of 'yes, sir's followed him into his private room as the men instinctively scrambled to do what was necessary to take care of one of their own. Newkirk and Carter had already stripped the sergeant of his cap and fatigue jacket and were trying to force him to sit down as the colonel had instructed. The cold air must have shocked him into rallying slightly and he resisted their efforts weakly but emphatically.

"I'm fine guys," he protested.

Hogan sighed. There were very few times when his radioman was unreasonable, but when he was sick was apparently one of them. "No you aren't, Kinch. You were incoherent less than a half-hour ago—"

"Colonel, there's too much to do…"

"Nothing we can handle, right Carter?" Newkirk interrupted, finally pushing Kinch down to sit on the bunk forcefully. The English flyer held no delusions about the seriousness of the situation or the stubbornness of his friend's personality. If he needed to use a little force for Kinch's own good, he was willing to dispense it.

"You betcha!"

"You guy's can't—" the argument was interrupted when the black man grabbed his head in both of his hands and grimaced.

By this point Lebeau had also entered the room. He stood at the entrance of the room, a frightened expression on his face and the mug of hot, sweet tea shaking in his hands. He, even more than Carter, seemed to be the most disturbed about the situation. Rather than concentrating on his French subordinate, Hogan sat down on the bunk and put a hand on Kinch's shoulder. "What's wrong, Kinch? What's going on?"

"I don't know, Colonel," for a moment the four of them could hear a catch of uncertainty in his voice, "I…"

It was as far as Sergeant Kinchloe got before he slumped forward, unconscious.

Author's note: Any and all reviews are greatly appreciated. If anyone would like to beta the rest of this story (because it hasn't been yet, unfortunately), please leave a review.