I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story.

Written for the Short Story Speed Writing Challenge.

"I want the other six, too. Then I will have the entire orchestra."

With a remarkably gentle touch, considering the size of his fingers, General Burkhalter turned the little porcelain figure and displayed the base to his visitor. "The Meissen mark. It is genuine, and cost me a great deal of money. But it is worth it, to finally have a conductor for my band."

"Very nice, General," said Colonel Klink, in a brightly interested tone which utterly failed to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

Burkhalter cocked an eye at him. "You sound like my wife. She says they are hideous, and will not let me have them in the house, which is why I keep them here, in my office."

He set the figurine down in the centre of the desk, affording Klink an even better view of it. There could be no debating the quality of the work, a delightful porcelain sculpture of a music maestro, finely modelled and beautifully detailed, from the elaborate wig on its head, to the minute gold buttons on its brocade jacket (worn over a waistcoat marvellously decorated with painted flowers, and a pair of bright green knee-breeches) to the rolled music scroll in its hand. A perfect realisation of eighteenth century style, it effortlessly captured the passion of an orchestra conductor in mid-concerto.

Klink didn't dare say so, but he considered it utterly repulsive. He had always been afraid of monkeys. And there could be no doubt about it; the tiny, beautifully made creature, elegantly dressed and directing a performance with its arms spread wide in a gesture of high musical drama, was a monkey.

Both officers sat for a moment, contemplating Burkhalter's new prize in silence. Then the general heaved himself to his feet and with tender care transported the figurine to the cabinet in one corner of the room, where a small group of porcelain monkey musicians awaited their director. There was a monkey drummer, and a monkey playing the flute; a monkey trumpeter, a monkey performing upon a harpsichord which rested on the back of another monkey; even a dainty quartet of female singers, all of them monkeys. A monkey orchestra, in fact.

The Kapellmeister was placed in position, and provided with a miniature porcelain music stand, and Burkhalter stood back to admire the arrangement. "This is much better," he said. "Every orchestra needs a conductor, just as every army needs generals. Don't you agree, Klink?"

"Oh, we couldn't do without generals, General," replied Klink. "Or colonels."

"I would very much like to try."

Unsure, as always, how to respond to this sally, Klink made do with a feeble smile, and hastily turned his attention to the monkey musicians, suppressing a shudder as he noticed the little pointed teeth in the mouth of the Kapellmeister. "Sir, you don't seem to have a violinist yet," he remarked.

A wheezy chuckle emerged from deep in Burkhalter's chest. "Are you volunteering to fill the vacancy? It might be the best place to assign you, but I am not convinced that your musical ability is of a sufficiently high standard."

"You will have your little joke, General," tittered Klink.

Burkhalter made a minute adjustment to the conductor's position, gazed at it lovingly for a few moments, then closed the door of the cabinet. "Now, to business, Klink. You may be aware that a Gestapo team from Berlin is currently in the Hammelburg area, on a special mission to find and eliminate any hints of treason, opposition or dissent amongst the general population. We have received orders to co-operate with them in every aspect of their investigation. As the Kommandant of Stalag 13, and a man with a busy social schedule…" Burkhalter paused, just long enough to indicate the depth of his scepticism on this point, before he went on: "… you are in a position to provide the Gestapo with much useful information."

"Me? General, I haven't got any information to provide. I haven't heard anything. Well, when I say that," Klink went on, "of course, occasionally you hear people grumbling about the war, or regulations, or rationing…"

"Those are precisely the people the Gestapo is interested in.

Klink stared at him, aghast. "Surely not. General, I must protest. We are not spies, we are soldiers…"

His objection, however, was doomed from the start. Burkhalter simply tanked over it: "And as good and loyal soldiers, we obey orders. You may expect to hear from Kommissar Heitz within the next few days, and you will assist him with his enquiries in every possible way. That is all, Klink. You may return to Stalag 13."

He picked up a document from his in-tray, and to all appearances became oblivious to his underling's existence. Klink had no choice but to accept his orders, take his dismissal and leave. But during the long drive back to camp, he was aware of a hollow, burning feeling in his stomach. We are not spies, he kept thinking. It isn't right…

He slept fitfully that night, turning the matter over and over in his mind. Hour after hour, he argued the case back and forth, now taking one side, then the other. Finally, however, his inner magistrate reached a judgement.

If I don't do it, someone else will. So I might as well have the credit for it, and keep myself out of trouble.

And with that comforting thought uppermost, he finally closed his eyes, and sank into the sweet reassurance of his dreams…

… where he found himself waiting in the wings, his violin in his hand, while the orchestra tuned up. He felt no anxiety about how the recital would go. This dream always followed the same pattern; a perfect performance, storms of applause, flowers thrown from the audience to pile up at the feet of the soloist …

He peered across the stage, squinting as his eyes met the brightness of the footlights. He couldn't see the audience, but the dark silhouettes of the conductor and the ensemble stood out against the glare. Unaccountably, Klink felt a shiver run down his spine.

But the chaotic hubbub of tuning had ceased. Gripping his instrument, he strode onto the stage, and took his place, bowing in acknowledgement of the clamorous reception which greeted his appearance. As the noise continued, he bowed again, and then held up his hand to quell the audience enthusiasm. Gradually, they became quiet. He took is place in front of the elaborate music stand prepared for him, positioned the violin under his chin, raised his bow, and looked to the conductor, who…

It's a monkey.

Klink froze. In all the times he'd had this particular dream, this had never happened before. He squeezed his eyelids together, as tightly as possible, then opened them and looked again. Definitely a monkey, wearing a powdered wig and a brocade coat, and grimacing at him with pointed teeth.

Stay calm, he told himself. It's just a monkey. But he couldn't help glancing, out of the corner of his eye, at the ensemble ranged across the stage behind him. Monkeys. All monkeys.

Don't panic. It's just a dream. All I have to do is wake up. But somehow, he couldn't seem to find his way out of this.

The Kapellmeister held up its arms. Feeling the bright simian eye fixed on him, Klink gulped, and hastily scanned the first page of the score. It appeared to be a small concerto for violin and orchestra, in the key of A major. He was unfamiliar with the piece, so he'd be playing by sight; but it seemed within his abilities. He straightened up, and looked to the conductor; and with a sweep of the hairy paws, the music began.

It came as a great relief for Klink to find that, at least in one respect, the usual rules of his dream world applied. The first movement, Allegro maestoso, was a triumph; the orchestra played with pleasing accord, weaving a wondrous backdrop of harmony for the dramatic flights of the soloist. As for Klink, never, even in his dreams, had his fingers danced across the strings with such grace and swiftness, nor had the bow travelled so freely.

The following Andante started well, although Klink could not be unaware, as he played the haunting minor-key melody, that the accompaniment seemed to be punctuated, with increasing frequency, by jarring discords. It started with the wind instruments, then the horn and trumpet players joined in, and soon the whole ensemble was involved. The longer it went on, the more menacing and relentless it grew. Moreover, the conductor, instead of bringing the racket under control, seemed bent on encouraging it.

This isn't right, thought Klink. But he was powerless to make them stop.

One last movement remained, marked Presto. Surely he could just get through it, accept the audience accolades, and then wake up and forget this nightmare.

He fixed his eyes on the Kapellmeister, waiting for his cue, while behind him a strident, warlike cacophony broke out. Then, as his moment came, he lowered his bow. "I can't be part of this," he said, clearly and distinctly. "I won't do it."

An instant hush fell across the stage. The monkey bared its teeth and uttered a high-pitched howl of rage, as it leaned forward to threaten him with the scroll of music still clutched in its paw. Klink, beyond speaking, shook his head. The creature snatched the wig from its head, flung it aside, leapt over its music stand and launched itself at the soloist's head…

… and with a cry of fear, Klink tumbled out of bed, bringing the bedclothes with him.

He lay on the floor for some minutes, breathing deeply and staring into the darkness as his sense of terror receded. It was just a ridiculous dream, that was all. There was no sense in it. Those wretched porcelain figurines of Burkhalter's had found their way into his subconscious, and this was the result. But it was over now, he was safe, and he need think no more about it. With a groan, he hauled himself back into bed, wrapped the blankets all around to protect him, and settled down to wait for morning.

Halfway through the afternoon, the Gestapo arrived, as expected. Klink, having spent a good part of the day racking his brains for the slightest infraction committed in his presence, had prepared a quite comprehensive list of potential offenders.

He stood up, and held out his hand. "Kommissar Heitz, what a pleasure…"

The nondescript little man, ignoring the offered handshake, gave the Nazi salute instead, and Klink hastily followed suit.

"General Burkhalter has told you why we are here," said Heitz.

"Yes, sir."

"He assures us that you have a healthy respect for authority, and can be relied upon to give us your full co-operation, regardless of any personal loyalties to friends, colleagues, family…"

"Oh, indeed, sir. Loyalties?" Klink dismissed such ideas with a flick of his fingers. "Who needs them?"

"Excellent. Now…" Kommissar Heitz drew a notebook from his breast pocket. "Tell me, Kommandant, has there been anything you have heard or seen in the town, which you feel should be brought to our attention?"

He gazed at Klink, his eyes wide and fixed, and his teeth slightly bared in a faint smile of anticipation. He looks just like a monkey, thought Klink.

On the very brink of naming the first name, he found himself trembling, and without thinking, he blurted out his answer: "No, sir. I have heard nothing at all."

Heitz's smile faded. "Nothing?"

"Not a thing. As General Burkhalter will have told you, I have a wide circle of friends and acquaintances in Hammelburg, and I promise you, nowhere in Germany will you find a more loyal population," Klink went on. "Everywhere I go, I hear the same things said – how well the war is going, and what fine men our leaders are, and how no sacrifice is too great for the ultimate victory which…"

"Indeed." The Kommissar held up a hand to stem the flow of words. He meditated for a few heart-stopping moments, then closed his notebook. "You have confirmed everything we have already been told. Given your reputation, I think it is safe to assume that if the citizens of Hammelburg were not completely above suspicion, you would be all too eager to say so."

"Th-thank you, sir," stammered Klink, unsure whether Heitz meant a compliment or an insult.

"Not at all. We will pursue our enquiries elsewhere. Thank you for your time, Colonel Klink. Heil Hitler!"

Kommissar Heitz saluted again, and Klink returned it feebly. Then as the door closed, he lowered himself into his chair. His hands were still shaking, and his mouth was dry. He had no idea what had possessed him at the critical moment; some kind of madness, no doubt. His brain was telling him he would probably end up in trouble over this, some day. But his heart was singing.

I've got the monkeys to thank for this, he thought.

That night, he slept like a baby, and the music of his dreams was a sweet lullaby.