Author's note: This story is inspired by the events in Season 2, Episode 1, "Hogan Gives a Birthday Party", guest-starring James Gregory as General Biedenbender. The character of Simon Knatchbull-Quimby is original.

September 1944 – Outskirts of West London

It was raining outside. General Gerhard Biedenbender was quite certain of that, in spite of the fact that his cell had no windows. It was always raining in England. The general was no longer sure why the Führer still insisted on invading this odious country; in the two years he had been here he had not yet found a single thing he liked about it.

His cell was about eight by eight feet, plain bare concrete on three sides, the fourth punctuated by a steel door with a high barred window facing the corridor. He seldom left it. He was offered a 'recreation period' each day of his captivity, consisting of a closely supervised stroll on the nearby fields, but seeing nothing recreational in the activity whatsoever he most often elected to remain in his cell. Detention Camp 32, they called this place. Wormwood Scrubs. Yes, that about said it all.

Still, it was better here than it had been in Whitehall. Immediately after his arrival he had been held there for a time, and he had been unspeakably relieved to get out of the city and all its ambient noises that were a constant reminder of where and what he was. He was in England, and he was a prisoner. He objected to that. He objected to everything that had to do with the Allies.

Most of all, he objected to Colonel Robert Hogan. Even on the nights when he could lie on his pallet in blessed silence far from the incessant clang of that infamous, contemptible bell in Westminster, he could sometimes still hear that mocking voice… "Aren't you gonna wish me a happy birthday?" What a cruel turn fate had taken. Hundreds of miles to the east in his own beloved Fatherland, Hogan was running a sabotage and escape operation that would boggle the keenest German military mind. Defectors and Allied fliers fled away in droves, while that idiot KommandantKlink sat behind his desk and behind that stupid smile, loudly proclaiming to anyone who would listen that there had never been a single successful escape from Stalag 13. He suspected nothing about the massive escape operation that was going on right under his boots.

Biedenbender himself had "escaped", of a fashion, from that abhorrent stalag, on the night when Hogan had kidnapped him, stolen his plane, bombed his refinery, and then had him shipped here to sit out the war in a small gray room. In a way he was almost better off here… he could no longer show his face in the Fatherland; Hogan had seen to that. His life would be worth nothing in Germany anymore, not after Hogan had carefully orchestrated it so that he himself would be blamed for the bombing of his own refinery. So here he sat, one of the most heavily-decorated officers in the Luftwaffe, waiting to find out what inedible bits of offal would be served to him for dinner. The English couldn't even make a decent sausage.

As anticipated, the sound of a key turning in the lock was followed by the groan of the heavy metal door as it swung open. The young lieutenant carrying his meal tray was not the usual evening porter, though. "Good evening, General."

Biedenbender didn't bother to acknowledge him, or to indicate where to place the tray. He didn't even look up from his book. It was not a good evening, but he always strove to give his captors not the slightest bit of satisfaction, even if it was only refusing to engage in their banal pleasantries.

This officer was not quite so easily put off as most. To Biedenbender's surprise, he pushed the cell door nearly closed, put the tray on the small table, clicked his heels together and inclined his body slightly forward in a respectful gesture. "Oder guten Abend, Herr General."

The accent was quite good, but Biedenbender had not come all this way to tutor some tiresome Old Etonian in his language skills. His career as a general might be over, but that didn't mean he was looking for a new line of work. He still didn't bother looking up from the page he was reading, but he did deign to reply… in English. "Your German is terrible. Get out."

The young lieutenant gave a smooth, almost sly smile. "My German, sir, is every bit as good as your own."

"Then I congratulate you, if you insist. Get out."

"May I introduce myself?"

"You may not."

"Permit me… I am Simon Knatchbull-Quimby."

Biedenbender turned another page of his book. "All right… then get out, Simon Knatchbull-Quimby. I don't think I can be any clearer than that."

"You misunderstand, sir."

"Do I?" he growled.

"You and I have a common enemy, sir… Colonel Robert Hogan."

Ordinarily the mere mention of that name would be enough to ruin the general's appetite as well as the rest of his evening, but in this context he found to his pleasant surprise that it actually brought a slight smile to his lips. "Indeed?" he replied in his low, gravelly voice.

"May I continue, Herr General?" Simon inquired with the utmost courtesy.

"Please do." Biedenbender closed the book and set it on the desk. "Yes… by all means."

oo O oo

Hundreds of miles to the east, at that very moment, Colonel Hogan was having problems of his own. LeBeau had not yet returned from a solo mission to contact Tiger and Dubois and ensure that everything was set for the Underground's plan to destroy the rail tunnel at Bärberg tomorrow night. It wasn't really time to worry about his safety… not yet. He wasn't seriously overdue, and the evening's final role call wouldn't be for another couple of hours. The mission had not been a particularly dangerous one. There was every chance that he would return any minute, safe and sound, with a report that all had gone exactly as planned. And yet, there was a grim pall hanging over Barracks Two.

It was dinnertime. And Carter was cooking.

"What is this?" Newkirk regarded the substance on the plate in front of him with obvious distaste, not willing to approach it any closer quite yet. Even prodding it with his spoon was out of the question until he had a bit more information.

A little more adventurous than the British corporal, Kinch tipped up one edge of his own plate just far enough to see if the meal moved, or remained in place. It clung tenaciously to the tin. "Looks like mixed vegetables in wallpaper paste."

"For your information, it's chowder," Carter informed them indignantly from his post beside the stove. LeBeau's chef's hat was balanced on his protruding ears, off-center and drooping too far forward. The hat was the least of his problems in the food preparation arena.

"Well, I'm not eatin' that," Newkirk said unequivocally.

"Suit yourself; that leaves more for the rest of us."

Hogan was also looking at the meal in front of him with misgivings. Carter always tried… no matter what the task, Carter could be counted upon to give a hundred and ten percent effort. That was what made it harder to tell him when not even a hundred and ten percent was good enough… like right now. Still, he was the commanding officer here, it was his duty to lead by example. He scraped some of the so-called 'chowder' onto his spoon with some difficulty. "It looks… uh… hearty." That was about the best he could do by way of encouragement.

"There's an egg in it," Carter said proudly. "Herman laid one this afternoon." The moulting old hen they had recently 'liberated' from a nearby farm occasionally managed to provide them with a fresh egg or two on an irregular basis.

"Herman ain't the only one around here who's laid an egg." Newkirk shoved his plate away with one decisive motion.

"I put it in the chowder 'cause I figured that'd be the fairest thing to do, with so many of us."

"The fairest thing to do would be to let LeBeau put the flea-bitten old thing on the choppin' block; that way we'd each at least get one good mouthful."

Kinch was watching Hogan, waiting to see if he would actually dare taste the spoonful he was holding a few inches in front of his lips. "Well, Colonel?"

"It's… hot." Hogan blew on it to buy himself another few seconds. "Real hot."

"Right…" his sergeant nodded, unconvinced.

"Is your next of kin on file someplace handy?" Newkirk inquired. "I mean, just in case… y'know…"

Well… bottoms up. Hogan took the bite that was waiting for him on the spoon, and swallowed. The things he had to do for the war effort…

"Well, sir?" Carter asked hopefully.

"Well, he's still breathin'," Newkirk observed.

"It's…" The colonel picked a couple of bits of eggshell off his tongue. "It's got substance, Carter…"

"It would've been better if I'd had another egg."

Hogan nodded slightly, unconvinced. "Crunchier, anyway."

Kinch pushed his own plate to one side, to join Newkirk's. "I pass."

No, there was no way he was going to be able to finish this… whatever it was. At the risk of seriously disappointing his young sous-chef, Hogan set down the spoon. "It's my fault… I asked a boy to do a man's job. I'm sorry, Carter, but I think we'd better wait for LeBeau to get back… this is a little above your head."

When Carter's face fell, it really fell. One could almost hear it hit the floor. "Gee…"

"Let's give it to that new guard dog that's been obeying the Germans," Kinch suggested. "That'll fix him for a while."

"Kinch, that's cruelty to animals… I'm surprised at you." Hogan tapped the gelatinous off-white mass on his plate with the tip of a finger. "Let's put it in a jar labeled 'sauce béarnaise'and leave it in Klink's pantry."

There was a round of enthusiastic approval for that idea… though not many willing to consider touching the stuff even long enough to transfer it to a jar… and in the midst of the banter the trapdoor to the tunnel entrance rose up and LeBeau appeared on the ladder. "And where have you been?" Newkirk started in right away, before the Frenchman could even get bonjour out of his mouth. "We've got Dr. Crippen servin' up our supper!" He poked an accusing finger in Carter's direction.

Ordinarily LeBeau might have come right back at him… but not when cooking was the issue. "What did he do…?" he inquired, sounding almost afraid to ask.

"He calls it 'chowder'," Hogan replied. "Uh… the jury's still out on that one."

"It may turn out to be a war crime against his own side," Kinch added.

Carter removed the chef's hat with obvious reluctance, and not a little embarrassment, and set it on the table. "Cooking's not as easy as it looks, you know..." he managed weakly.

"Why don't you go apologize to Herman for what you done to his egg?" Newkirk snapped.

"Do you have to be so hard on him?" LeBeau scolded. In answer, Newkirk simply lifted the plate with the 'chowder' adhered to it so it was a mere inch or two from the Frenchman's face, then turned it upside down. Nothing moved. "Mon dieu…" he groaned, turning away in revulsion.

"If we're lucky, maybe we can salvage the plates… and that's a big maybe."

LeBeau made a grab to gather up the ones within reach. "I'll hurry…"

oo O oo

General Biedenbender had also chosen to pass on dinner. Not because it looked unappetizing… although it certainly did, as usual… but because he had discovered something much more intriguing.

"Is your English as good as your German?" he inquired of Simon Knatchbull-Quimby, who was now seated, much as an invited guest would have been, on the edge of the flimsy iron bunk. The crease, however, never left the man's trousers.

"If I may infer from the fact that none of my colleagues in British Intelligence have yet commented on my diction…" the younger man smiled confidently, with what certainly sounded like an upper-class regional accent, "I would say that it is."

Biedenbender was not that much of a smiler, himself. He kept a perfectly straight face as he continued. "And how is it that you speak two languages with such perfection?"

"It's a long story, the details of which I won't bore you with now, as our time is somewhat limited. Suffice it to say that my father was British and my mother Bavarian… the best of both worlds, one might say."

"Meaning?"

"I have German allegiance, and also a fine old English name and accompanying dialect to disguise my purpose in this country." He smiled slyly. "I'm a natural double-agent, you see."

Biedenbender nodded slowly. What he'd heard so far pleased him, but he had not known this young officer anywhere near long enough to take everything he said at face value. "And how is it that you're acquainted with Colonel Robert Hogan?"

"Perhaps 'acquainted' is not the proper term. Colonel Hogan does not know me by sight, nor by my name. To him, I am 'Black Sheep', and he receives orders and information from Intelligence in London via my radio transmissions."

"For how long?"

"Six months. My original orders were to infiltrate Special Operations Executive and bide my time."

"You are waiting for…?"

"For an opportunity to strike a devastating blow to the Allied forces, Herr General. I believe that time has come. I believe that working together, you and I can eliminate Colonel Hogan and his operation. They are…" He paused to choose his words carefully. "Let us say, becoming rather a nuisance to the German High Command."

To say the least. This young man was certainly astute and politically-minded. No self-respecting double-agent would be willing to admit that Hogan was more than a mere nuisance; the fact was that he and his operation were a thorn in the side of the Axis and had managed to cripple countless of the Reich's most valuable initiatives over the years. "Hmmm…" was all Biedenbender was willing to add.

"I presume you concur?"

Well… realistically, what did he have to lose at this point? Knatchbull-Quimby either was what he said he was, or he was not. Either way, Biedenbender stood to lose very little at this point. What could they do to him; put him in a smaller, darker, more depressing rat-hole? Such would be difficult to come by, even in wartime. "There was a man down the corridor in a holding cell when I was imprisoned in Whitehall…" he began very slowly, choosing his words with great care. "A once-proud general of the Third Reich… yet Schmidt would scream in his sleep at night like a child."

This seemed to surprise the younger man; to his mind the general had just gone significantly off topic. "Shameful," he said anyway.

"But it was what he screamed that interested me… 'I'll give you Cleveland; my name is not Finnegan.'"

"I… I must admit, sir, you have me at some disadvantage. I don't quite understand what…"

"There was a man who once lived in Cleveland… a man capable of striking that kind of terror into the heart of a German warrior… a man I once met."

"And he terrified you?"

"He…" This admission still stuck in his throat. "He… bested me."

Now Knatchbull-Quimby was beginning to understand… the general had not lost sight of the subject at all; the two of them were talking about exactly the same thing. "Hogan."

That name. Biedenbender immediately saw red. "If you have just one bullet in your gun and the chance to kill both Churchill and Roosevelt with the same shot, save that bullet to use on Hogan! He is the single most dangerous man the Allies have! They can go out and get another President, another Prime Minister; there's always another one of those waiting in the wings, they're a pfennig a dozen, but there is no other Hogan!"

His sudden tirade might have startled a lesser man. Simon Knatchbull-Quimby just looked on and waited for it to subside on its own. "I believe we're going to get along very well, Herr General. Very well indeed."

"And what may I ask does your assignment in Special Operations have to do with me?"

"I understand that you have made Colonel Hogan somewhat of a personal project. That you know everything there is to know about him. I believe that you and I together could ensure that Hogan and his operation would cease to pose any threat to German victory. May I count on your assistance, sir?"

"You may…" Biedenbender nodded. Perhaps this old war horse was not yet out to pasture after all.

"We must attack Hogan at his most vulnerable spot. And you, better than anyone else, would know exactly how to proceed. What area of his vast operation is the place he can be most effectively attacked? Where is his security the thinnest?"

"That's quite simple, young man. Colonel Robert Hogan's most easily-exploited weakness… is his men."