A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.

Crittendon's version of "Crittendon's Commandos". Some lines of dialogue from the episode are included.

There I was in London, tied to a desk once more, and fretting about my relative safety whilst so many other chaps remained in harm's way. The Allies had finally landed in Normandy and our gallant lads were slogging through the hedgerows of France, and I longed to be part of it all. I'm afraid I made rather a nuisance of myself with my commanding officer, trying for active duty.

Old Emsworth eyed me rather askance, don't you know, and enquired in a sarcastic tone how I felt I might be of use. He added, "To a man, your superiors have described you as a very correct British officer. However, as one of them put it, you are effective on the parade ground, and totally incompetent in every other field of endeavour. After a meteoric rise to Group Captain, you have remained in grade ever since. Thirteen or fourteen years now, isn't it?"

"That is quite true, sir," I admitted. "But..."

Emsworth growled, "Getting captured by the Germans appears to be your most notable skill."

As a point of fact, I believe I held the record for the most escapes (and the most times recaptured) by an Allied prisoner of war. This did not seem to be a statistic that was wholly impressive to Emsworth, however.

"Sir," I said, "That circumstance has rendered me quite familiar with the German countryside, and..."

"And with German POW camps," the old gentleman said, half to himself. "Including Stalag 13."

"Why, yes," I said, with a doubtful glance at him. "I have had the honour of visiting Stalag 13 several times."

"Good enough," said Emsworth. "Wembley over at SOE has a special project in mind. I'll have you talk with him, if you're serious about going back into action."

"Entirely, sir," I said.

...

Colonel Wembley was rather excited to see me at first, until he realised that I wasn't the Crittendon he had expected.

"Oh, it's you, Crittendon. I thought perhaps they would be sending us your brother! Colonel Crittendon has such marvellous ideas," he lamented. "I had quite hoped he had managed to escape from the Jerries this time."

"I fear he is still at Stalag 2, Colonel," I said.

Wembley sighed, and then gave me a speculative look. "But you've been a prisoner of war, as well."

"Quite frequently, old boy," I agreed.

"And you know Stalag 13," he mused.

"Like the back of my hand," I assured him. "But..."

"You could lead a team of men there if you parachuted into the vicinity?"

"Most definitely," I said. "But...Colonel Wembley, my previous experiences at Stalag 13 were not entirely felicitous. Colonel Hogan may not appreciate..."

"Nonsense, Crittendon! Didn't you and he collaborate successfully during your last venture there?"

"Well, it did turn out rather well in the end..."

"And didn't he specifically request your assistance for that mission?"

"It was a request I could scarcely refuse," I said a trifle grimly, as I recalled being marched from Stalag 12 at gunpoint.

"Well, there you are, then! I'm quite sure he will be delighted to see you again."

I was not convinced of this, but I decided further resistance was futile. "You mentioned a team of men, Colonel. And you wish me to take them to Stalag 13?"

He sighed. "This idea is a long shot, I must tell you. Suicide mission, as it were. And our best commandos are committed to Monty's scheme for the Netherlands, I'm afraid. But if we can pull this off with the team we have available..."

A daunting prospect, indeed. But I reminded myself that whenever duty called, I responded without hesitation, by Jove! So I said, "You may count on me. But what are the particulars of the mission?"

"The head of Naval Intelligence has been captured," Wembley said abruptly. "We want to get him back, and it has been proposed that we force a prisoner exchange."

I blinked. "We must have a jolly high-ranking Jerry in one of our camps then, I should think."

"No, that's the problem. We don't. But there's a chance, a very slight chance, that a team of commandos might succeed in capturing one: Field Marshal Rommel was injured in a strafing attack in France and is presently recuperating in a small hospital outside of Hammelburg." He hesitated. "The team of commandos we have in mind for this mission is not from the top drawer, to be quite frank. In fact, that American chap Garrison rejected them. So did that other American chap Reisman. But I must say this group is very keen indeed."

"There you have it!" I said. "Crittendon's Commandos will succeed on heart alone; we shall not discriminate on the basis of race, creed, class, skill or intellect."

"Jolly good! Here's the plan, then."

...

I presented myself at one of His Majesty's prisons to collect the members of my team, and I must confess I was rather appalled at first by their appearance. They were a rough-looking lot, to be sure, and absolutely lacking in discipline, as one might expect. But to a man they assured me they were behind this project; they were determined to see that Jerry got one in the eye, no matter what it took.

As Tobin said, "I might 'ave a few turn-ups with the bobbies from time to time, but no-one drops bombs on England and gets away with it!"

"We're all behind Winnie, guv'nor," Digby added.

"Jolly good," I said.

They had been given a brief instruction in map-reading and hand-to-hand combat techniques, but otherwise were regrettably untutored. And there was some discussion over the issue of uniforms; SOE was rather reluctant to provide any, as none of my men were actually members of the military, but after Hogan notified SOE that he wanted the team to be wearing flight uniforms as worn by RAF airmen, these were supplied.

Good old Hogan! No doubt he was as cognisant as I of Hitler's Commando Order, and was providing for my men in case of capture. In that highly undesirable instance, it would be critical that they be regarded as downed fliers who would be treated humanely (more or less) as POWs, rather than as paratroopers (or even worse, spies) and subject to execution under the Order.

So the reader might well imagine my dismay when, after my team and I parachuted safely into Germany, Hogan and his men appeared at rendezvous point Area A-11 kitted out in Luftwaffe uniform! The terrible risk they were running...if Jerry discovered what they were about, surely they would all be shot!

I remembered how blithely they had ignored that danger during an earlier adventure, when I had had the honour to assist Hogan and young Carter with the demolition of that Jerry convoy and tunnel. I had been correctly attired in RAF uniform, but Carter and Hogan had been masquerading as Heer officers. And here they were again, in precisely the same situation!

I could not reconcile it with my conscience to endanger Hogan and his men any more than they were already, so I politely but firmly declined Hogan's offer of transport to Stalag 13, saying, "Ah, now I have a much safer idea. You and your men ride in the lorry, my boys and I will follow on foot."

Hogan stared at me and protested, "It's ten miles!"

I hastened to reassure him. "Oho, merely a pleasant stroll for us. You see, if we rode in the lorry with you, wouldn't that be putting all our eggs in one basket, what?"

Hogan, noble chap that he is, resisted my suggestion. I had to pull rank on him, don't you know, to get him to agree. He grumbled, but eventually he and his team got in their lorry and they set off toward the camp.

I led my own team through the woods, and we were making jolly good progress until we found ourselves surrounded by a company of SS. Rather an unpleasant situation, to be sure: all of them were heavily armed, and they appeared most displeased to find us in their vicinity. A quick glance at my men and I knew they were about to do something foolish; perhaps even try to shoot it out with these fellows!

Wilkins said in a low voice, "You scarper now, guv'nor. We'll 'old 'em off as long as we can."

"They'll never take us alive," vowed Tobin, and Digby nodded agreement.

Well, I couldn't have that, could I? I would not allow my men to throw their lives away like that, by Jove! So I did the only sensible thing.

"Cast aside your weapons, men," I said. "There is obviously no chance of escape, and to attempt to fight these chaps would be suicidal. Remember, you are all supposed to be British airmen. Name, rank, and serial number only...your survival depends on it."

Grumbling, they obeyed, and we all got to our feet, hands raised in the air.

"Kamerad!" I called out, as I had so many times before, but never before with such a bitter feeling of defeat.

...

I spoke for our group to the SS company commander, stating that we had parachuted from a stricken bomber. And where was the bomber, he wanted to know. I told him that perhaps the pilot had been able to limp home after all. The commander listened to my story and looked me up and down, and made a comment to an underling about the general inefficiency of the English military man.

And I had the strangest impression that he considered me a prime example.

At any rate, my men were loaded into the back of a lorry, and the SS men conferred among themselves. Finally the commander nodded and strode off in the direction of a staff car. The lorry driver climbed in the front of the vehicle, and two of the SS officers climbed in the back without giving me a second glance.

And then the ruddy lorry took off, leaving me behind! Most extraordinary, indeed. I am not the sort of officer to abandon my men, so I ran after the blasted thing. My men frantically tried to wave me off, shaking their heads and making shooing-away motions, and I could see Tobin slapping his hand to his forehead in apparent exasperation.

But the SS men took no notice of this, nor of my frantic pursuit. I finally had to stop for breath, my chest heaving as I watched them disappear round the next curve in the road.

My shoulders sagged in defeat as I trudged my way to Stalag 13, arriving sometime in the wee hours of the morning. It was so dark I was completely unable to locate the tree stump exit that I had last used when I escorted Lady Chitterly back to England. I hadn't the least notion of how to contact Hogan, and I realised belatedly that this was something else I should have anticipated.

Feeling a bit desperate, I continued to scout the woods, falling over bushes and whatnot in the dark, until I ran into a very strange object that was moving up and down through a hole in the ground.

By Jove! It was a periscope, no doubt constructed by the clever lads under Hogan's command. I tapped on it, tried to talk into it, and shook it, to no avail. Finally I grasped it, and with a mighty heave hauled it upward.

Well, that got a response. In short order Sergeant Kinchloe appeared out of the darkness. "It's you!" he blurted.

"Yes," I said sadly.

"But where are the others?"

I shook my head. "Just take me to Hogan, if you will, Sergeant."

...

When I explained the events of the evening, Colonel Hogan (to his everlasting credit) did not say "I told you so."

Instead, he said gravely, "It's a good thing you didn't try to fight your way out of this one."

I found myself unable to hold his gaze. "I surrendered. And the look I saw on the faces of my command...I'll remember until my dying day. I failed them, Hogan. I failed them."

He cleared his throat. "You saved the lives of your men, Colonel."

I hadn't the heart to correct his use of that blasted title; I said only, "I'd rather you didn't call me that. I'm a disgrace to this uniform. A vital mission has been ruined because I had to do things my way."

Hogan and his men did their utmost to make me feel better about the evening's fiasco, which I could not help but appreciate. However, there was something far more important to address than my personal failure. So when Sergeant Kinchloe emerged from the bunk tunnel with the message that he had established radio contact with London, I stiffened my spine and prepared to do what needed to be done.

"Good," I told him. "They must be informed that a vital mission has been botched."

As I headed for the bunk entrance, Hogan gave me a quick glance, then turned to the Sergeant. "Ah...hold it a minute, Kinch."

I said impatiently, "Time is of the essence, Hogan. They might just be able to fly in a second unit to pull it off!"

Hogan held up a hand. "You have all the details of the mission?"

I said, "Of course. The hospital is just outside Hammelburg; Rommel is in suite 101. I'm to deliver him tomorrow night at midnight to the underground."

Kinchloe asked, "They'll keep him?"

I shook my head. "No, they'll take him to the coast. We have a sub standing by."

A slow smile appeared on Hogan's face. "Then all you need are some expert fighting men to handle the guards, hmm?"

"And they aren't easy to find," I sighed.

To my amazement, Hogan and his crew all voiced a willingness to take the place of the men I had lost. I had to swallow a ruddy lump in my throat before I could respond: "This mission might be a sticky one."

One and all, they assured me that they were ready for the task. As Sergeant Kinchloe commented,"We'd just be sitting around, anyway."

I flushed with gratification. "Fine lads! Hogan, I'll need your lorry again."

Hogan agreed, but said, "I just have one question, Colonel. Why is it we're supposed to grab Rommel?"

I explained the idea of the prisoner exchange, and Corporal Newkirk nodded. "That'd be quite a coup, if we could pull it off."

But I knew with Hogan and his lads on the job, there was no doubt that we should succeed.

...

And the actual caper went better than I could have imagined. At least, it did at first.

Hogan's men managed to steal the lorry from the motor pool the following evening, and shortly five of us were gathered outside the small private hospital. We were all attired in Luftwaffe uniform this time; I was garbed with the overcoat of a Jerry sergeant over my RAF uniform, with the matching helmet of course.

I explained the layout of the hospital, and I overrode Hogan's suggestion that Corporal Newkirk be the one to descend into the basement to cut the power. I had the entire layout of the hospital committed to memory, don't you know, and I was determined to perform the task myself.

"That diagram is tucked away right in the old brain-box," I assured Hogan. "Control system, south wall of basement, metal box, three switches. Left switch—escape alarm, middle switch—air raid siren, right switch—main power. Follow me, lads."

I led the other four into the hospital and we paused in the hallway outside a door.

"That's the doctor's lounge," I said. "It's unoccupied right now, so we'll go in. The light switch is on the wall, to the right." I opened the door, and indeed, everything was just as I said!

I sensed that the lads were somewhat surprised at this, especially as young Carter exclaimed: "Well, I'll be darned. It is a doctor's lounge!"

I checked the window and came back to the group. "Now, the guards won't be making their rounds for another twenty minutes. That gives us plenty of time for our bit of work. Rommel is in Suite 101, down the hall, corridor on your left, third door to your right."

Hogan nodded. "Very good, very good."

I said, "Now, here's the ploy. After I leave, wait 25 seconds, then get cracking. I'll give you five seconds to get to the hall, then I'll hit the lights. Rommel should be asleep; just to make sure..." I paused to pull a syringe out of my pocket "...this syringe contains a powerful sedative. It works instantly; use it if you have to."

Hogan tried once more: "Ah, Crittendon...wouldn't you rather Newkirk go?"

I shook my head. "An officer never sends a man to do a job he wouldn't do himself. There must be no slip-ups." I patted Hogan reassuringly on the shoulder. "Good luck, chaps."

I hurried down the nearby stairwell, and at once found the bank of switches I was seeking. I flipped the left switch, and then, seized by a horrid suspicion that I had chosen the wrong one, flipped the middle switch as well, and turned to climb the stairs again.

Disaster! All at once I heard an air raid siren, and a light in the stairwell began to flash red. I rushed up the stairs and through the door, where I promptly encountered Colonel Hogan. He had exchanged his Luftwaffe uniform for a surgeon's gown: not part of the plan, of course, but that scarcely mattered at the moment. In the tumult of sirens wailing and lights flashing and people rushing about, the scheme had to be abandoned, and at once.

"Hogan!" I said. "Rotten luck, eh? Fine time they pick to have an escape and an air raid at the same time! Follow me!"

Hogan said grimly, pointing in the opposite direction: "Rommel's room is this way."

His dedication to the cause was most admirable, of course, but I could think of nothing but the danger in which I had placed Hogan and his men. They were only there because I had surrendered my men; they did not deserve to suffer the capture, probable torture, and execution which would surely be their fate if they remained here.

So I quite lost my head. "To blazes with Rommel!" I cried. "We've got to get out of here!"

And then, to my everlasting shame, I must have fainted, for I remember only a stabbing pain in my arm, and then darkness.

...

When I came to, my immediate sensation was one of acute nausea. There was darkness, a bouncing motion, and a faint moaning to my immediate left. I was lying inside a frightfully small compartment, not big enough to stand in, and scarcely long enough to accommodate me and whoever else shared the space with me. A lorry, no doubt, but it was certainly not the same lorry we had taken to the hospital. I lay still for a moment, wondering where this vehicle was carrying us.

Eventually we came to a stop, and the rear doors of the vehicle opened. With a rush of relief I recognised Kurt, the member of the underground who had assisted me twice before. He indicated that he was going to locate the fellow who would be rowing us to the sub, and then he disappeared from view.

The fresh breeze blowing in had the tang of salt air, and I drew a deep, thankful breath. So the scheme had come off after all! I turned to my companion in the back of the lorry. "Field Marshal Rommel, I regret to inform you that..."

"Hold your tongue, sir. Just whom do you think you are addressing?" The old gentleman on the stretcher opened his eyes and gave me the once-over. He was apparently not the Desert Fox after all!

A wave of horror swept over me. We had kidnapped the wrong man! How could I have made such an error?

With a feeling of impending doom, I asked the fellow, "Might one enquire who you are, then?"

"Admiral Thomas Todley, His Majesty's Royal Navy," was the irritable reply. "Who are you?"

I came to attention as best I could, struggling to a sitting position on the floor of the lorry. I snapped off a brisk salute and said, "Colonel—oh, no, not Colonel, dash it!—Group Captain Rodney Crittendon, His Majesty's Royal Air Force, sir!"

"Crittendon, eh?" It was too dark in the compartment to assess the Admiral's expression, but from the tone of his voice, I suspected my name was not unknown to him. And not in a good way, I might add.

"Yes, sir," I replied.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around. "We're at the coast, it would appear. Do I have you to thank for my deliverance from that Jerry hospital?"

"Not precisely, sir," I said, honesty ever being one of my few virtues. "I was there at the hospital with some comrades, and I pointed out what I thought was Rommel's room to them. I fear I have no recollection of what occurred after that."

He blinked a few times. "You called me Rommel...you thought I was Rommel?"

I hung my head in shame. "Yes, sir. For it was he we had planned to kidnap. We wanted to force an exchange for you, you see."

He nodded. "So Rommel was at the hospital too. I wondered why they moved me to that room yesterday. Probably had a more palatial suite for the Field Marshal prepared, and so they moved him out, and moved me in."

I brightened up a bit at that. "So I had the proper room, after all?"

"I believe so, Crittendon."

"Oh, I say, sir, what a bit of serendup...serendop...oh, dash it..."

"The word is serendipity, Crittendon. And yes, I would agree."

...

Upon arrival in Southampton, I escorted Admiral Todley to Netley Hospital, where they could check him over thoroughly. Quite an efficient place, don't you know, full of starchy nurses and whatnot. The particular nurse who took charge of the Admiral was very starchy indeed, and she obviously terrified the poor chap. Once she had him comfortable in a cot with his leg upon a pillow, she drew me outside the room.

Then she smiled at me. By Jove, she was a veritable goddess! Dimples, don't you know, and hair like a raven's wing, and eyes the colour of toffee...this weary soldier lost his heart, at once and forever.

Her voice, despite a deplorable Yank accent, was like the fluting notes of a nightingale. "You are Colonel Crittendon?" Then she looked at the insignia on my tunic and frowned. "But that can't be right...you're with the RAF; you must be a Group Captain."

Well, I say, who would not have loved a girl like that? "Miss..." I began.

"Captain, actually," she said. "United States Army Nurse Corps. But you can call me Emily."

...

I reported to G2 immediately regarding the Todley adventure, and Colonel Wembley allowed me to radio Colonel Hogan about the unexpected development.

"I understand we shipped the wrong package," Hogan said, once contact had been established.

"Not at all!" I replied. "There we were, trying to take Rommel, and who did we kidnap but Admiral Todley himself! That wasn't the plan, you know."

"I know."

I commended Hogan on the fine work he and his men had done, and I was about to bring up another subject, but the radio signal was lost. Frightfully aggravating, losing our connection like that! But we Crittendons do not give up easily, and I haunted SOE headquarters until communication with Stalag 13 was re-established.

"Colonel Hogan!" I said, once the connection had finally been made. "At last!"

"Yeah, it's me, Crittendon. Thanks for letting us know about that package you delivered. Don't know how we got cut off last time."

"Think nothing of it, old boy," I said. "Ruddy wonderful how things turned out, isn't it? But, my dear fellow, I must speak with you about something else entirely, something quite important indeed."

There was an audible sigh. "Go ahead, Crittendon."

I squared my shoulders and cleared my throat. "Colonel Hogan," I said formally, "I should like to respectfully ask your permission to pay my addresses to a certain young lady."

"What? Why the hell are you asking me?"

"I believe you are in the position to act in loco parentis for the young lady in question: she has the honour to be Captain Emily Hogan, of the United States Army Nurse Corps."

There was a burst of static, don't you know, and then I was able to hear Colonel Hogan's voice again. Quite a remarkable command of Anglo-Saxon oaths he had, indeed. I believe he tossed in a few French and German ones as well, once he had run the gamut of English profanity.

Eventually he wound down, and there was a brief silence. Finally he spoke, this time with a note of resignation. "Oh, hell, why not? My sister's thirty-two; she's old enough to figure things out for herself. Go ahead, give it your best shot. But you don't know what you're getting yourself into."

...

Hogan's reservations aside, I knew quite well what I was about, and happy indeed was the day Emily became my bride. It would have been an idyllic time, had it not been for the war and the concern we had for our respective brothers. As Nigel and Hogan were still being held at POW camps in Germany, it is no wonder we were anxious. But at least Emily and I had each other during that trying period.

Those were long, weary months indeed. My sister Kay stopped receiving letters from Nigel in December of '44, and at about the same time, Emily's parents in the States reported that letters from her brother had stopped coming. And I myself had no further contact with Hogan, although I returned to SOE headquarters again and again during those months in an attempt to obtain news of him.

I didn't reveal to Emily that I had been trying to reach her brother. Due to the highly classified nature of Hogan's operation, she knew only that I had encountered him once or twice when I had been a POW at Stalag 13. And it pained me to watch her grow paler and quieter by the day, with no word from him. But we carried on; Emily continued her service at Netley Hospital, for the number of returning sick and injured soldiers was growing as the Allied armies marched into Germany and the POW camps were liberated. And I was reassigned by the War Office to administrative duty, to help those young men return to civilian life.

And we waited.

In April of '45, the long months of uncertainty ended for us, with the receipt of two telegrams. The first was most welcome: a brief message let us know that Hogan had survived and was now free, but very little else.

The second one was delivered to my sister Kay at her home just outside London. Alas, my brother Nigel would never return home; he had perished during a forced march from Stalag 2 to Moosburg, and England is forever poorer for his loss. A grievous blow indeed, but having Emily at my side was an inestimable comfort to me.

Then, one warm day in June, the doorbell of our Southampton flat rang. And there Hogan stood: thinner, greyer, but with the familiar quirky grin firmly in place.

Emily took one look at him and burst into tears. And as Hogan took her in his arms, I must confess that I shed a few myself! But we gathered our wits enough to welcome him inside, and ply him with tea and crumpets.

In between bites of crumpet, Hogan informed us that he was only going to be in London on a brief leave, as he would be returning to Germany shortly.

"A few loose ends to tie up. And I have a report to prepare," he said grimly. "Things are very bad in Germany, and they're going to get worse." He brooded on this for a time, and then looked up at me. "So what are you doing now, Crittendon?"

"Soldiers' welfare and demobilisation services," I replied.

"What's your plan after that?"

"I hadn't really thought that far ahead, old boy."

"Well, think about it," he advised. "That is, if you plan on supporting my sister in the style to which she is accustomed."

Emily gave him a warning look. "Bob...keep it up, and we won't name any of our kids after you."

I intervened quickly. "I do have a Cambridge degree, you know, although admittedly not a first-class one. Somehow I managed to squeak it out before the war, during all those years I spent in grade as Group Captain."

"Then why don't you put it to use?" Hogan suggested. "Start teaching kids about the things that make England great. Tell them about the spirit that never, ever gave in to the Nazi threat. Help them to develop the same sense of honour that you've got."

Emily said gently, "It's an idea, Rodney dear. Think about where you first learned that you, too, could contribute to England's glory. Remember old Chips?"

...

I took their words to heart, and I decided to follow in Mr Chipping's footsteps. I am now Latin master at dear old Brookfield School, and I have found the post to be most congenial indeed. Emily runs the school infirmary with a firm yet loving hand, and the schoolboys all adore her, as do our two sons, of course. Young Nigel and Bobby are not yet of an age to attend school, but they will take their places at Brookfield when the time comes.

And yes, the lads at school refer to me as "old Crit". They fondly believe that I am unaware of this, but in truth I consider the appellation to be an honour: second only, perhaps, to the honour of serving England during the time of her greatest need, and her finest hour.

When Emily put down the manuscript, she had tears in her eyes. "Rodney dear, do you remember why I asked you to write your memoirs?"

I had to think about that for a bit. "Because you thought I needed to get it out of my system."

"Yes, but I had another reason. Rodney, I wanted to you to see yourself as I see you."

I took her hand in mine, and asked, a little wistfully, "How do you see me, old girl?"

She smiled. "As a man who is sometimes foolish, sometimes wise, sometimes too quick to act; but always, always conscious of your duty, and willing to do your part. And through it all, your kind heart and optimistic spirit just shine. Rodney dear, are you beginning to understand why I am so proud of you?"

It took me a moment or two to find my voice. "Thank you, my dear."

Was there ever a man as fortunate as I? And as I looked down at the manuscript it struck me: perhaps my memories of Stalag 13 weren't so very bad after all!