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

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Note: After a long absence, we have finally managed to touch base again, and although this story was written some time ago, we both wanted to see it shared with the Hogan's Heroes community. This is the one and ONLY post-war fic we have written, and it makes some significant references to LJ Groundwater's trilogy that starts with "Welcome to Stalag 13" and the prequel, "Once Upon a Time: Papa Bear." It can be read without having read those stories, but does link into them.

Thanks for having us back....

Wordybirds

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The things we fear the most have already happened to us.

—Deepak Chopra

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Peter Newkirk came out of the baggage claim area at Washington National Airport with a fairly large garment bag slung over his shoulder and carrying a small case in his hand. The Englishman was smartly dressed in a carefully tailored dark blue suit worn over a cream-colored sweater, and as he walked through the concourse, the overhead lighting picked up a scattering of grey mixed in with his dark brown hair. He looked around, shrugged a bit and headed for the lounge, figuring it was as good a place as any to wait for his ride.

"You planning to get back to my place via the lounge, are you?" came a voice from behind.

Newkirk wheeled around with a grin on his face. "Not exactly, gov'nor. I just thought a weary traveler might find a bit of rest in there before movin' on out to explore the Colonies."

The twinkle in Robert Hogan's eyes remained as bright as Newkirk had remembered them, but his expert survey told him a few other things had changed. The American's dark hair was now tinged with grey at the temples and sides, and Hogan looked more tired than he had when the two had last met, though that had been well over a year ago. The other thing that had changed was the number of decorations Hogan was wearing. Another two full rows of ribbon bars adorned his chest, and Hogan was no longer the Colonel that Newkirk had come to admire and respect—he was now a Brigadier General. But in name only, the Englishman thought with fondness. To Newkirk, Hogan would always be "the gov'nor."

"No time for rest now; we've got places to go and things to do."

Newkirk set his bags on an empty chair and the old friends shook hands firmly in greeting. Then Newkirk pulled Hogan into a rough embrace. "Good to see you again, sir."

"No more 'sir,'" Hogan corrected him as the men parted. "You're not under my command any more. A simple 'Rob' will suffice."

"Well, Rob, old habits do die hard, and with all that tin you're sportin' these days, it still seems sort of natural." Newkirk reached over and lightly tapped the block of ribbons on Hogan's jacket. "It's about bloody time they showed their appreciation anyway."

Hogan offered a lopsided smile. "Yeah, well, it's a bit too heavy to carry around for my taste," he said, shrugging off the compliment. "Sometimes I miss being plain old Colonel Hogan. Life was less complicated somehow—even running an espionage operation out of a POW camp!"

"None of that now, mate. You deserve all that, and more. It's just too bad the rest of the world doesn't know the truth yet." Newkirk shook his head, then shrugged as he picked up his bags. "Might be better that way, though."

Hogan furrowed his brow. "How's that?"

"Half of it they wouldn't believe, and the other half I'd just as soon forget."

Hogan laughed softly. "I'm with you there," he said. "Come on, let's talk in the car. I'm parked in a rather unforgiving little loading zone right outside." Newkirk gave him a surprised look. Hogan shrugged. "There have to be some privileges of rank. Who's going to tow a General?"

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Newkirk gave the vehicle a thoughtful glance as Hogan put the luggage into the trunk. "Nice-looking car you have here. Jillian and I haven't owned one since we moved into the flat over the shop last year. I miss it every now and then, but in the middle of London, we actually walk a lot more than we'd ever drive."

Hogan closed the trunk of the shiny blue Ford Coupe, ignoring the sideways glances of the taxi drivers nearby and opening the passenger door for Newkirk. "At your service," he said with a sweeping gesture.

Newkirk laughed as he slid onto the passenger seat. "Careful there, gov'nor. I might get used to that sort of thing."

"Don't worry; you won't," Hogan said, getting into the driver's seat and putting the key into the ignition. "If there's one thing I learned in This Man's Army it's that if someone's waiting on you hand and foot, it's just so they can push you headlong into something absolutely insane from the rear."

"So, what is it you've got in mind for me?"

Hogan looked out behind him to make sure he could pull out safely, then moved out into traffic. "Nothing much," he said. "But we do have a party to go to Friday night."

"The retirement thing for General Barton, you mean?" Newkirk leaned back in his seat, looking out the windows with interest. "You're absolutely certain you want me along on that? I mean, I'll be the only Englishman in a room full of Yank officers, after all."

"Please," Hogan said sarcastically. "You'll be the only source of decent conversation all night." He turned left and onto a highway, merging easily with the other cars on the road. "I don't think I could take another evening of discussions about constructing Officers' Clubs and how it was all the finely tuned strategies from London that got us through the war."

Newkirk shifted in his seat to take a long look at Hogan. "Now why is it, gov'nor, that I've got this sudden feeling Barton doesn't know I'm coming?" He watched Hogan's face closely, expecting to see the little grin that always meant that the American was up to something clever and underhanded.

He saw a chagrinned look instead. "Because he doesn't." Newkirk started to protest, but Hogan continued. "Well, I didn't know you were coming until after I'd already agreed to go to this thing. And I don't think he'd have been very happy if I pulled out at the last minute. I didn't want you not to come just because the brass is getting together, and I didn't want to leave you at home either, so…" Hogan glanced at Newkirk and then back at the road. "It'll give you a little taste of why I can't wait to retire to civilian flying."

"Honestly, I wouldn't mind if you went on alone, but I have to admit, sir, that I'm interested in seeing the look on his face when I walk in with you." He grinned smugly for a second as he remembered the dressing-down he'd given the General just before Barton had been taken out of Stalag 13 to be traded back to the Allies in a prisoner swap.

Hogan furrowed his brow. "It wouldn't be totally out of place to have you along. Old colleagues are never turned away."

"Relax, mate. I don't mind going. In fact, I remembered to bring something along to wear for the occasion."

"Good. Much as I like your sewing skills, a bit of military decorum is appreciated, even from you."

"From me? Might I remind you that it's strictly Peter Newkirk, Esquire, these days?"

Hogan shook his head. "That's what frightens me. Whenever you look like you're on the up and up, you're usually really into something down and dirty." He grinned. "And that's just the way I like it."

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Newkirk left the guest room and went into the living room, taking a look around as he headed for one of the chairs drawn up near the fireplace. A photograph on the wall caught his eye, and he nodded to himself as he realized it was a copy of one he had back in his flat. It was of himself, Hogan, Louis Le Beau, Andrew Carter and James Kinchloe, taken on the first night they'd gone out together after getting to London. He wasn't surprised to see it, knowing that each of them had one of the five copies that had been made.

Hanging next to that was another photograph, this one of Hogan in the company of Generals Dwight D. Eisenhower and "Hap" Arnold on the day the Colonel had received his promotion to Brigadier General. Newkirk smiled for a moment, remembering how embarrassed Hogan had been to be put into the spotlight that way, and how proud Newkirk and the others had been when the Colonel's eagles had been replaced by a General's star. Of course, they'd all had their turns up front later on, but that night had belonged to Hogan.

Newkirk moved away from the photographs, putting two wrapped packages on the coffee table before taking a seat. He looked around the comfortable, but somehow far too neat, room, and sighed softly. All too solitary. He may live here, but it's not home.

Hogan emerged shortly after from the kitchen carrying two mugs brimming with hot coffee. "Made yourself comfortable, I see," he said, offering a cup to Newkirk and taking a sip from the other himself. "Not as strong as what we got used to a few years back, but miles more drinkable."

After taking a sip from the cup, Newkirk nodded. "You're right there, mate. Most of what we had back then was only called coffee as a courtesy to the pot it was made in."

"And even that was American," Hogan said ironically. He shook his head. "It didn't take me long to get used to something else once we got home."

"The hardest thing for me to get used to was having a whole pot of real coffee on the stove, and not having to share it with fourteen other guys." Newkirk smiled, thinking of how everyone in the barracks would pool the coffee packets from their Red Cross packages, and how Le Beau would then ration it out, making the coffee last as long as possible. "In fact, it took me a couple of months to realize that you weren't going to come out of your office looking for a fresh cup."

Hogan let out a short laugh through his nose. "The most impossible mission of them all. If Louis didn't bring me one in my office once in awhile I'd have never known what a fresh cup tasted like." Hogan took a sip. "Still, every now and then I marvel at what we got used to there. A bunch of men, all together, and all needing privacy and dignity, ending up sharing the scrapings at the bottom of the pot."

"We did what we had to in order to survive." Newkirk shook his head and took another sip from the cup he had cradled in his hands. "I'm still amazed that we did what we did and, as they say, lived to tell the tale."

"'Live' is a relative term," Hogan said, shrugging. "Some fellas came back physically, but not mentally." He shook his head. "Some things were just too horrible to face. We were lucky most of the time."

"That we were, gov'nor." Newkirk spoke softly, staring into his coffee cup without really seeing it. "That we were."

Hogan's posture almost mirrored Newkirk's, but when he looked in his cup, Hogan saw things. He saw things he didn't want to see, and heard things he didn't want to hear, and felt things be couldn't bear to feel. He pushed them out of his mind and blinked himself back to the present. "So," he said, straightening in his seat, "how's my girl?"

Newkirk gave Hogan a look of indignation, though it was spoiled by the grin trying to break out on his face. "Your girl? Now see here, mate! I hear it from Louis all the time because he says she's too short for me, and now I've gotta hear it from you as well? I'll have you know that she's my girl, and that's that."

Hogan raised his eyebrows innocently. "No one said we weren't willing to share, Newkirk," he said as a smile lifted one side of his lips. "Louis should leave you alone now that he's romantically involved… but the least you can do is loan your bachelor commanding officer your best girl once in awhile. Besides, she's too feisty for you; I can handle her—if she doesn't deck me first."

The mental image of his five-foot tall wife going up against his six-foot tall Colonel was too much for Newkirk; he burst out laughing and couldn't stop for several long seconds. When he finally did get himself back under control, he grinned at Hogan and shook his head. "Cor! Tell you what, gov'nor, if you think you've got a snowball's chance in Hell with her, you just go right on ahead and give it your best shot! Just don't come complaining to me when you wind up pickin' yourself up off the floor with a broken jaw."

Light danced in Hogan's mischievous eyes. "I've gotten pretty good at ducking and weaving. And I always did like a spirited woman." He paused, his thoughts clearly dragged away from this conversation to God-only-knew where, and then shrugged. "Okay, okay, you can have her—for now. But you still haven't answered my question: how's Jillian?"

"'For now,' he says. Wait until I tell my darling wife about this bit." Newkirk rolled his eyes at Hogan, then settled into a fond smile. "Jillian is the only way she'll accept herself: perfect. We spent Christmas at home, then went up to her family place in Scotland for Boxing Day and stayed over for a spell. It's a slow time at the shop for me, and I finally convinced her to take some time off work herself for once. She's staying in Scotland a couple more days, then it's back to London for her, unfortunately." Newkirk sighed softly. "We tried to work it out so she could come with me on this trip as well, but we just couldn't pull it off this time around."

"Maybe next time," Hogan said with a small smile. "Make sure you give her my love."

"I will, Rob." Newkirk took a sip of his coffee and nodded. "And I'm to deliver a message to you as well: you're to get your office squared away and get yourself on a plane to London as quick as you can, no arguments accepted." He laughed softly. "That's the order I was given by my new commanding officer, gov'nor, and in this case, I'm afraid you're outranked."

Hogan chuckled. "Yes, sir—I mean yes, ma'am," he said, downing the rest of his coffee. "Far be it from me to disobey a direct order." He shook his head with a smile. "She's a good woman—heck, she'd have to be to listen to some of your jokes."

"That's charmin', that is." Newkirk laughed, relaxed, and took a long drink. "Seriously, Rob," he said, "it can get hard living on your own all the time—and we've a spare room at home if you ever find yourself wanting a change of scenery."

Hogan sighed and glanced around the room. "What, and leave this paradise?" he asked. "Thanks, Peter. I'd like to see a change of scenery from the air about now, but the brass is a little too interested in keeping me grounded." Hogan stopped. He had always wanted to go back to Europe one day—but not on his own. He wanted to go with someone else, preferably a wife, so he could get a different, more pleasant, perspective on the place than his own patchy memories allowed.

Looking up at Hogan in surprise, Newkirk studied his friend's face for a long moment. "They're still not letting you back in the air? Blimey, mate, why don't you just tell them what they can do with that and go find yourself a squadron somewhere if that's what you want?"

Hogan smiled and shook his head. "That's not how it works, Peter. Once we got home they wanted to know everything about the operation and how it ran and what we did and what I ate for breakfast. Then they pointed at my stars and said, 'And by the way, Rob, we need you in Strategic Planning back at the Pentagon for awhile. You'll be happy to do that, won't you?'" Hogan sighed. "They promised me a swift return to the skies. I get up there once in awhile… but with things the way they are in various places around the world at the moment, I haven't quite made it out of the office for good yet."

"You can't have told them everything, else they'd have taken one look at my passport and told me to shove off. As for the rest, just give them the old run-around the way you did the German General Staff on more than one occasion." The Englishman grinned briefly and held up a hand to forestall any comments. "I know, it's not like that in your army any more than it was in mine. That's why I gave myself a promotion to civilian just as soon as I could."

"I hear you," Hogan said, nodding. "One thing I could do without is this notion of pat-yourself-on-the-back parties. Seems like I'm getting dragged to something at least once every couple of weeks. And it's usually the same group of people, talking about the same bunch of clever things they think they've pulled off." Hogan shook his head. "I haven't told anyone this yet, Peter, but when the time comes for me to re-sign, I'm thinking of getting out."

"That's a ruddy shame, gov'nor, with how much you actually like being in the Army. Can't say I blame you in the end, though."

"It suited me for awhile. I appreciate the discipline of the service, but I just went through too much to…" Hogan paused, thinking, then abruptly changed tack. "The civilian aviation industry is exploding now. I'm ready to get back in the air again. I need to move on."

"Well, when you're ready to chuck it all, give me and Louis a ring. Just be sure to give us enough time to make the trip over, and we'll help you throw a party like this town's never seen before!"

Hogan smiled again, with just a touch of sadness touching his eyes. Newkirk noticed it but said nothing as Hogan seemed to banish it almost instantly. "Anyway, what's this?" Hogan asked, pointing to the parcels on the table.

"When I happened to mention to my little mate Louis that I was heading across the Pond to visit with you, he insisted that I bring along something for you to remember him by." Newkirk leaned forward, picking up one of the packages and handing it to Hogan. "Just do me a favor and don't drop it."

Hogan turned the package over in his hands. "What is it, a glass strudel?" he asked lightly. He carefully, thoughtfully, started to untie the ribbon. "You see Louis a lot, from the sound of it."

Newkirk shook his head and chuckled quietly at Hogan's joke. "Louis and I visit back and forth with each other at least once a month," he said. "It's just a long train ride down to cross the Channel, then another train ride to Paris, and we take turns, so he's due to come up to London in a couple of weeks. Of course, with me being here in the Colonies for awhile, Louis is just gonna hold off until I get home."

Hogan nodded and finished unwrapping the gift. He held up the bottle of fine wine, his eyes seeing both this bottle and all the drinks they had poured in the past that sometimes were not of such fine vintage. "It's good," he said roughly. "It's good stuff." He cleared his throat. "We'll share a glass before you head home, eh?" he suggested. "A toast to old friends."

"Right, gov'nor," Newkirk said quietly.

Hogan once again shook himself back into brightness as he put the bottle aside. "And what's this?" he asked, taking the other parcel in his hands.

"That's from old Schultzie. Turns out he was able to get his toy factory back after things settled down some in Germany. He had the building, and the workers, and I... well, I kicked him over a few quid from all that back pay I had piled up in London to help him get it started up again. He's finally able to start paying me back a bit here and there. When he came up to the shop a couple of weeks ago, I must have mentioned coming to see you because a few days later, that arrived in the post with a note saying to bring it the rest of the way and deliver it to you for him."

Hogan nodded. Another link with his past—and with an enemy, no less! Well, Stalag 13's Sergeant of the Guard, Hans Schultz, could not in all rights be called an enemy—not a real one anyway. Often it was due to the burly guard looking the other way that Hogan and his men were able to complete their espionage and sabotage missions safely. And while occasionally Schultz did like to show the men whose side he was supposed to be on by waving a rifle in their faces, most of the time he could be counted on to show his more gentle side, and he vehemently declared that he knew, saw, and heard "nothing!"

Now, Hogan carefully opened up the box before him, and let a light laugh out through his nose when he moved back the tissue paper. "Did you know what this was?" He didn't wait for an answer, but ran his eyes over the gift top to bottom, finally letting his eyes rest on the label on the leather bomber jacket that the big brown teddy bear was wearing. "Papa-Bär," he breathed, shaking his head slowly. "Papa Bear." He pulled the soft toy out of the box and stared hard at it for a moment, once again his eyes almost troubled. "I wonder when he made the connection with the name." A small smile lifted the edges of Hogan's mouth as he thoughtfully turned the bear over in his hands. "Leave it to the head of the Schotzy Toy Company to give a grown man a teddy bear." He put it back in the box and laid it on the table. "I'll have to send him a big thank you. I haven't spoken to him in a long time. I guess I've been neglectful."

"He understands, Rob." Newkirk spoke softly. "In the letter he sent along with that, he asked that I tell you that he knew you were doing your duty, and he hopes that one day you can forgive him for doing his."

Hogan's eyes softened. "I never held it against him," he said, regretting the idea that the man might think his silence had anything to do with anger. "We all did what we had to do." He paused. "It was a barbarous time."

"That is was, mate, that it was." Leaning forward, Newkirk caught Hogan's eyes with his own. "Never forget that everything we did was to carry the war right into the Nazis' own back yard. How did the orders go? 'You will assist escaping prisoners…"

Hogan joined in as Newkirk continued the mantra that Hogan himself had often used to remind his men of their duty when faced with unusually high danger: "'…cooperate with all friendly forces, and use every means to harass and injure the enemy.'"

Hogan nodded uncomfortably. "Well, we did that!" he said a little too brightly. He stood up. "I've been a terrible host, but then that was never my strong point as you might have noticed. You've had a long trip. Are you hungry? Tired?"

Nodding thoughtfully, Newkirk leaned back in his chair, accepting the change of subject, as he knew Hogan needed time to get his feelings back under control. Truth to tell, the Englishman needed the time, too, as the conversation was bringing up far too many unpleasant memories of his own. "I could do with a bite, as they don't exactly serve high tea while you're twenty thousand feet over the Atlantic." He smiled, hoping Hogan would be able to pick up the humor he was trying to put into his words. "Of course, if they did, it really would be a high tea, now wouldn't it?"

Hogan grinned thankfully. "I can't promise real tea unless we go out to dinner somewhere; I'm afraid I can't drink the stuff. But I can grill you up the best steak you've had in months! Why don't you go have a rest and I'll rustle something up right now. I don't often get to cook for anyone other than myself; it'll be quite an experience, for both of us!"

"That sounds grand, gov'nor. You know, the last time I went to Paris, Louis tried to get me to eat something he called escargot. Fancy way of sayin' snail, as I learned when he brought the plate out. Imagine eating snails, of all things!" Newkirk finished his coffee and shook his head. "Told him I'd rather take a chance on his ruddy fish stew than something that was just crawlin' in the garden that morning."

Hogan's eyes brightened now with his smile. "There's no accounting for taste," he said. "I promise—dead cow is all I serve here, no garden slugs."

"I'll have mine medium rare, if you don't mind. I'm not much help in the kitchen, but I can follow directions fairly well if you need a hand."

"Thanks, I'll manage. And then I'm afraid it's an early night for me. Good little Generals have to get up early so they can find their way through their paperwork mountains before they relax with their visitors."

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Newkirk's eyes came open, staring into the darkness as he tried to work out what had woken him up. Too many years of sleeping in a prisoner of war camp with one eye open and both ears tuned for trouble had turned him into a very light sleeper. He pushed back the blankets and sat up on the bed, not moving any further when he heard footsteps going by the door of his room. Listening closely for a moment, he shook his head when he realized it was Hogan. Of course; who did you think it was gonna be, Peter? Someone breaking into the shop?

Feeling a little foolish, Newkirk started to lay back down when he heard the footsteps move into the living room and change tempo. Six steps, a pause, then six again with another pause before repeating the pattern. I'd know that sound anywhere. Why is the gov'nor up pacing at this hour? He's got something on his mind, that's easy to tell from the way he's moving. What's got him going?

The Englishman sighed softly and lay back on the bed again, knowing that Hogan needed time to himself to work through his feelings; he wouldn't mention hearing this midnight wandering to his friend. Newkirk pushed the pillow aside and drew the blankets up over his shoulders. The sound of Hogan's measured footsteps going slowly back and forth across the living room, and concern about what was causing them, kept him awake the rest of the night.