Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes or the characters (wow, is that phrase redundant in this case.)

Notes: Some dark situations in chapters 2 and 3, although no more violence than you would get in the show. Chapters three and four should be up in a few days.

The black staff car came rolling smoothly into camp, gleaming darkly in the late afternoon sun. As soon as it had drawn to a stop in front of the Kommandantur steps, the driver hurried out to open the back door, the guard in the passenger seat moving in synchronization with him on the other side. From the driver's side emerged a Gestapo colonel in a crisp newly-pressed uniform, black hair carefully slicked back and sharp face set in an expression of distaste. On the other side an older man with long, uncombed hair and a flowing dirty-grey beard tumbled out, dressed in rumpled tweeds and carrying a worn briefcase. The colonel marched stiffly around to the old man's side and escorted him into the Kommandantur, the private on guard on the stoop snapping to ramrod attention as soon as the colonel's foot touched the first step.

Hogan and his men, cleaning the laundry outside Barracke 2, watched it all without bothering to hide their attention – any break from routine was automatically and unquestionably a subject of great interest in the Stalag. And, as soon as the two men disappeared into Klink's office, the laundry was abandoned in its baskets as they hurried into their own building to plug in the coffeepot. The signal came in just as the men were introduced to Klink.

" – from the Gestapo," announced Shultz, in his best sergeant's voice.

"Ah, colonel, it is a pleasure to have you here at our lovely Stalag. I hope your journey –"

"Never mind that," snapped the colonel in a sharp baritone, slicing through Klink's fawning quick as a knife through rank butter. "I need the use of your Stalag for a week or two."

"To use – Colonel, I cooperate fully with the Gestapo, of course, but this is not a hotel. You cannot just come in here and commandeer this camp as though it were a, a car!"

"Do you see this?" a rustle of cloth, presumably the colonel indicating his insignia. "This means I can, Colonel …"

"Klink, sir," said Klink, dejectedly. "And yes, you can. May I ask what you need it for?"

"No. All you need to know is that Doctor Kirche here is doing work of extreme importance. The Allies would very much like to have him disappear before finishing it. For that reason, I have brought him to your Stalag," the man's tone suggested a litany of other options up to and including dog kennel would have been more attractive to him, "so that he can finish his work in safety. You are to put a heavy guard around your quarters, and see that none of your prisoners comes near it."

"Yes, si – my quarters?"

"Of course, Klink. You don't expect one of the most illustrious scientists in Germany to work out of your mess hall?" The colonel's voice was sharp as a slap, and Hogan could almost hear Klink wincing.

"No, no Colonel, of course not. My quarters, clearly. I will have them prepared at once."

"Good. I will be residing temporarily at the Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg. You can reach me there at any time, although I don't think I need tell you how angry I will be to be disturbed for no reason?"

"No, Colonel," agreed Klink. The Kommandant had completely given up, thoroughly beaten down by the other colonel in less than two minutes.

"Very well. You will, of course, contact me as soon as the formula is complete. I will be stopping by for regular reports as well. Heil Hitler." A rustle of cloth and a deject echo of heils, and the Colonel marched out of the office.

Hogan pulled the plug on the coffee pot. "Kinch, get on the radio to London and find out what they know about this Dr. Kirche." He sighed, voice tempered by distaste. "Sounds like we may be doing some dirty work pretty soon."

His XO nodded, serious. "Yes, sir."

Hogan was watching Carter and LeBeau lose at poker to Newkirk – toothpicks were the stake of the day; the only prisoners who played with Newkirk for anything of actual value came right out of the truck – when Kinch reappeared from the tunnel with a blue slip.

"Got an answer from London, sir. Dr. Kirche is Rainer Urs Kirche, a prominent biochemist. He's working on the formula for a poisonous gas."

"What's so special about that? The Borshe have dozens of them." LeBeau threw three toothpicks into the pile of kindling in the middle of the table without looking at Kinch.

"According to London, this one's near instantaneous. No chance for anyone affected by it to get off a shot or destroy any sensitive materials they're working on before they're overrun. London's orders are to either turn him and send him to England, or make sure he doesn't finish the formula."

"Permanently sure, I'm guessing?"

Kinch nodded, eyes heavy. "That's right, sir." He handed Hogan the blue sheet; the colonel glanced over it, then handed it back and stood slowly.

Newkirk whistled quietly. "D'you think this could mess up the Underground's work tomorrow, sir? Took us all week to get that dynamite to them."

"I don't see how – no increase in patrols in the area, as far as we've heard. They should be safe to blow up their bridge. Still, better let them know." He glanced to Kinch, who nodded and went back to the tunnel. Hogan sighed, tapping the paper against his leg. "Fine. I guess I'd better go talk to the doctor, then. Find out whether he'd rather leave here in a tunnel, or a box."

The man was scribbling away at Klink's dinner table when Hogan came up through the floor, sitting with his back to the stove and papers spread across the table in a passable recreation of a snowstorm. Closer to, his tweed suit was both worn and stained and his thick greying hair was tangled. He bent over the table in a posture that suggested both urgency and disregard for personal comfort; he didn't notice the American until Hogan coughed

The doctor dropped his pencil as he spun around, eyes wide and frightened in what little of his face was visible between his long unkempt hair and thick curling beard. They were dark and wrinkled at the edges, either by age or fear.

"Who are you?" he asked, in German. Asked, Hogan noted, not demanded. A trend he had enough experience with prisoners of the Gestapo to recognize. The colonel chose a stiff stance and a hard expression; with no knowledge of the man's sympathies frightening him into defecting might well be the easiest solution.

"Colonel Robert Hogan, senior POW officer here." He kept his sentences short and clipped and didn't take his eyes off the man.

"If you're trying to escape, you've come out in the wrong place," said the doctor, frowning.

"I'm not. I'm here to see you, doctor." He kept his arms ready at his sides; if the doctor had as much experience with the Gestapo as he appeared to have, he would know that while crossed arms appeared threatening a loose stance was much more efficient for the actual use of force.

The doctor glanced past Hogan at the stove, sitting spun-out next to the wall. "You did not dig that to visit me."

Hogan patted it, and it slid back into place above the dark hole. "No, it's part of our system. We're a bit of a unique camp. We provide aid, to some." The implication was clear enough. The doctor's eyes narrowed, but he didn't shrink away. Not so easily cowed, Hogan noted.

"And to others?"

"Look, doc. I've been ordered to give you two options. You can stop working on your formula and go to England, or you can stop working on your formula and leave camp in a pine box." He raised the edge of his coat to show the butt of the gun tucked into his pants, still opting for the easy muscle approach.

The doctor, to his surprise, sighed and pushed away from the table. He turned to face Hogan in earnest, resignation rather than fear in his stance. "I would be happy to go to England. It is not by my will that I work on this formula."

Hogan frowned. "Then why? The Underground would have helped you escape any time, you have to know that."

"Yes, I know it. The problem is not me. The Gestapo is well aware of my reluctance in working for them. When I first began to draw close to the completion of the formula, and began to show signs of stalling in earnest, they took my daughters hostage. They cannot complete the work themselves, but their tame scientists can predict how long it should take me to, based on my previous rate of work. They have decided I will be finished in two weeks at the latest." The man paused, and then looked straight into Hogan's eyes. The colonel saw that he wasn't so old as his appearance, and his attitude, made him seem. Maybe only a decade older than Hogan. He spoke in a low tone, frustration curling it at the edges like flame against paper. "If I am not, they will kill my daughters."

Hogan hissed through his teeth. The man nodded, eyes drifting away again.

"Yes, they are devils. Some weeks ago I tried to sabotage my work. They found out, somehow, and sent me a lock of Elise's hair. Next time, they said, it would be an ear. So you see, Colonel, I have no choice but to continue working for them. I have drawn out my work for as long as I can, but there is not much more chance of stalling." The man turned back to the papers spread out in front of him. "I would happily burn all this, if I could. And my doctorate, all my diplomas, along with it. But I cannot lose my daughters. I have already lost my wife to this war. I will not lose them." He slowly reached out a stiff hand and drew a paper closer to him. He picked up his pencil again, and began to read over what was written on the page.

Hogan watched with a cold anger spreading like frost through his blood, hardening his resolution. At last he spoke, voice harsh in the recognition of the possible difficulty – and potential price – of what he was offering.

"Look, professor. If we could break your daughters out, would you agree to go to England?"

The doctor gave a short, dry laugh, did not even look up. "It is not possible. The Gestapo, they do not allow escapes."

"It hasn't stopped us before. Where are they being kept?" Hogan passed over the difficulties; he knew them all, they might as well have been stamped on his dog tags. Poured on right to the details. No point thinking about the water, the easiest way was to jump right in.

The doctor put down his pencil again, and turned, face sober. "Your dedication is admirable, Colonel, but you are a prisoner of war. And you do not know Colonel Veheim. I have heard that even his superiors tread cautiously around him. His subordinates…" the man shook his head, pityingly.

"Well, we'll handle him when we get there. Where are they being kept?"

The man shrugged. "Veheim keeps them close, in case he needs to threaten me quickly. They will be in the Hammelburg Gestapo headquarters, where he is staying."

Hogan shifted, coat falling to cover his gun again. Caution finally put the breaks on his reckless dive, forced him to ask the right questions regardless of personal sympathy. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but how can you be sure they're alive? Hair's not much proof." No proof at all.

"He lets me speak to them on the phone, once a week. I spoke to them two days ago, before we came out here from Dusseldorf. They were alright then. As well as they could be, in the hands of the Gestapo for two months." He shivered, eyes turning down to the table. Hogan didn't shiver, but he felt the chill creep along his spine all the same.

"Alright. We'll see what we can do. The sooner we can get all of you out of here, the better." Hogan turned back to the stove, then paused. "We'll have to get you out of camp legitimately before you disappear – we can't have Klink taking the fall. Think of some reason to go into the town tonight; you'll have to get away from the guards while you're there. They think you're on their side, it shouldn't be too hard." That, at least, was one mercy. The fact that they would be Stalag guards was another.

"And my daughters?"

"We'll pick them up too. They can't go missing before you, or Veheim'll come down on you like a ton of bricks. Just have everything with you when you leave – and make sure not to leave behind anything that could help them with the formula." He indicated the table-full of paper. The doctor nodded, slowly.

"I understand. I will be ready. But… if you can truly do this, it will be a miracle."

Hogan pulled at the stove, and flashed a bright careless grin. "Better start praying, then."

In the barracks, the men were still playing cards. Newkirk was still winning. Carter was still losing. Nothing new there.

They looked up as Hogan ran up the ladder and climbed over the bed frame.

"Well, sir?" asked Newkirk, laying down a card.

"Well, turns out the doctor's working for them under duress. They've got his daughters locked up in the Hammelburg headquarters."

Newkirk whistled. Beside him, LeBeau made a face, while tossing some more picks into the pile. "Well, that's it then. We will have to send him to England by force."

Carter and Newkirk nodded, turning away from Hogan to pick up on the game again. Hogan took a breath and walked over, all energy and charisma, to disrupt the game.

"Hold it, hold it! What's with all this defeatism?"

The men raised their heads in slow tandem to stare at him, identical expressions of disbelief flashing across their faces. Newkirk took the toothpick from his mouth and waved it like a cigarette. "You can't be serious, sir! That's the bloody Gestapo HQ, that is. Abandon all hope ye who enter, and all that. We can't just pop in there, grab two girls, and pop out again."

"We broke Tiger out of the Gestapo headquarters in Paris – that branch's four times the size of Hammelburg's," said Hogan, keeping his tone light and milking the charisma for all it was worth.

"Yeah, sir, but the way Louis tells it that was mostly luck," put in Carter, highly sceptical. LeBeau gave him a dirty look, but shrugged under Hogan's gaze.

"Desolé, mon colonel, but it is true, you know. If it hadn't been for Marya – she was fantastique! – and Klink's trip, we would never have succeeded. And you cannot play the grand American Black Marketeer here in Hammelburg."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I say we're going to do it all the same." Hogan crossed his arms heavily, signalling a change from cajoling to straight facts. "Kirche isn't going to leave without his daughters and I'm not gonna shoot the man for family loyalty. He's stayed this long because he doesn't want his daughters' ears sent to him in a box, followed by God knows what." Hogan raked his eyes over the men and their eyes dropping as his passed over. He nodded, sensing the change in the mood and confident that the men, once convinced, would hold the line.

"Right. Newkirk, make up papers for their release. Get their names from Kirche – one's Elise. LeBeau, you're coming with me. You and Carter check the uniforms, I want a Gestapo major and a corporal – wait, get one for Newkirk too. Private; doesn't have to be perfect, he'll stay in the car. And Kinch, we'll need a mobile radio set and a car from the motor pool."

The men stood and scattered with a chorus of "yes, sir," hurrying around the table and down into the tunnel. Hogan sat down on a bench, turned to stare at the abandoned card game, and tried to think.

"Here's how it's going to go."

It was four hours later, down in the tunnel. Outside the sun had long since set, the cool early-autumn evening soft and dark. There were a few weeks still before the real crispness of fall set in; for now the leaves were just beginning to turn on the trees and the smell of smoke was starting to drift up from the town after dark, but the nights were still warm enough for sabotage missions in black shirts alone to be possible.

Hogan, straightening his tie, had taken his place in front of his men. LeBeau was dressed already in his corporal's uniform, while Newkirk was struggling to tuck his pants properly into his boots. Kinch and Carter, staying behind, stood quietly at the back of the group.

"LeBeau and I will go in and demand the girls. If they don't turn them over to us, we'll come out and radio back to you. Assume half an hour. If they do, you won't hear from us. If you hear nothing by 45 minutes, go to the doctor and tell him to leave camp. He'll head into the chemist's in town, go through the back and meet up with us. We'll bring them all back here, and no one'll be the wiser."

"What if the guards try to follow him into the chemist's, sir?" asked Kinch, turning the large radio he held in his hands over speculatively.

Hogan nodded seriously. "That's a risk. We're hoping they won't; they're camp guards, so he should be able to shake them off pretty easy. Besides, he's a collaborator, so they shouldn't be worried about him escaping. If they don't, we'll have to improvise."

"I was afraid of that," muttered Newkirk.

Carter shifted, looking worried. "What if it doesn't work at all, sir?"

"Then, Carter, we move to plan B."

"What's plan B, sir?"

"I'll tell you when we get there." Hogan stepped over and took the radio from Kinch, nodding to his XO. Turning back to LeBeau and Newkirk, he glanced at their now-complete uniforms. "Alright." He took a rung of the ladder in his hands, and began pulling himself up. "Start the timer. Let's go."

They drove in silence, Newkirk doing his best to avoid the potholes in the road – it was hardly politic to complain about them, since Stalag 13 had the assignment to fill them. LeBeau sat in the passenger seat, with the large radio stored up in front of his feet in the shadow of the dashboard. It was only when they drew near the lights of Hammelburg, the homesteads on the edge of the city standing out in the darkness with the homey light shining from their small windows, that Hogan began to issue orders.

"LeBeau, you'll come in with me, but keep your helmet low over your face and don't speak unless necessary – I want to be able to send you back in again if we have to take a second run."

"D'accord, mon colonel."

"Newkirk, same goes for you. Stay in the car, and keep your face hidden."

"Yes, sir."

They drove through the narrow stone-paved roads of the outskirts of the city, the old houses looming tall above the street and in the darkness seeming almost to lean out over it to cover the sky. There was no black-out currently in effect, but even so most of the streetlights had been turned off and Newkirk drove by headlights alone, making his turns slow and careful and breaking at sharp curves in the road. There was no need for anyone to give directions; they all knew the location of the Gestapo headquarters.

Unsurprisingly, the building was one of the grandest in town. Hogan had heard in the Hofbrau that it had long ago been the home of a prominent burgher family with plenty of money and plenty of enemies. The attic was said to be crammed tight with housing for the family's many servants, the basement full of chains and cells. From the outside, it had the appearance of a stunted castle. It was three storeys tall with additional dormer windows under the roof, built of old stone and set back several yards from the street. The windows were narrow and the panes laced heavily with lead; a lot of the glass looked as thick as bottle-bottoms. The front door let out onto a wide set of steps, on the top of which two guards stood at attention before two bright swastika flags, the red providing colourful backdrops to the black of their uniforms. It looked very much like an urban fortress.

Newkirk parked in front of the doors, killing the engine and tucking his chin low to his chest as ordered. LeBeau hopped out and hurried back to open the door for Hogan, leaping back and to attention as soon as he had done so. Hogan sprang out of the back seat and set a quick pace up to the front steps, back straight and movements textbook; he might have been on parade.

The two guards at the door, both corporals, stiffened further into salute; Hogan returned it cuttingly. The one on the left hurried to open the door for him while the one on the right remained stone-still. Hogan didn't give them a second glance as he strode past, LeBeau on his tail with his helmet tipped low.

The wide foyer entrance of the house had been turned into a sort of processing centre. On the left a tall oak desk – probably thick enough to stop bullets – stood, ancient and proud, on the marble floor. To the right an alcove opened into a coat-room. Straight ahead the foyer became a perpendicular hallway running right and left, a large framed picture of the Fuhrer hanging directly opposite the front doors. The picture was further ornamented by a pair of flags, which themselves were ornamented by another pair of guards standing ramrod-straight. Neither looked at Hogan as he entered; they remained staring ahead, eyes severe.

Hogan stepped over to the desk, his heels clicking on the marble, and pulled the papers Newkirk had forged for him from his breast pocket.

"Major Brewer here for the two Kirche girls," he growled, slamming the papers onto the desk without looking at them. The higher ranking of the two desk jockeys, a lieutenant with a black eye-patch covering his right eye, took the orders and unfolded them quickly. After reading them through twice he looked up, expression carefully blank.

"I am sorry, Herr Major, but these orders are not signed by Colonel Veheim."

"I am aware of that," spat Hogan. "I also am aware of whose name is on them."

The lieutenant glanced back down at the crumpled paper. "Colonel Meyer. I have not heard of him."

"Have not heard of him," said Hogan, flatly. "You have not heard of Colonel Meyer. And I suppose you have not heard of Lieutenant Flakmann, either?"

The lieutenant glanced at his companion, having to turn out of his way, the man being on his blind side, and then back again. "I'm afraid not, Herr Major."

"Lieutenant Flakmann was sent home last week. In a box. Having first been sent to the Eastern Front for some minor inattentiveness in the Major's presence. He forgot, I believe, to shine his boots."

The lieutenant folded the papers, and pushed them across the desk to Hogan. "That is very unfortunate," he said solemnly. "However, Colonel Veheim is my commanding officer, and he instructed me specifically to allow no one but himself to take the Kirche girls from this building." He paused, as if considering whether or not to venture a personal opinion, and then continued in a low voice, "The colonel is not so base as to threaten his men with the Eastern Front. There is no need to travel all the way to Russia to find hardship." He inclined his head slightly, tilting it so that his eye-patch shone in the foyer's bright lighting. "If you would care to call the colonel and procure his signature," he man continued, in his previous bland tone, "I would be happy to release them to you. Good evening, Major. Heil Hitler." The man saluted, making it clear that Hogan's time was up. Hogan saluted in reply, took the worthless orders, and led LeBeau out the door.

In the street, Newkirk was bent over the steering wheel so that only his eyes were visible in the dark, glittering like a cat's as he turned to look out at them. He sat up as LeBeau opened the back door for Hogan, and started the car as soon as LeBeau slid in – they had had more necessarily quick departures from official buildings than Hogan cared to count. He let in the clutch as LeBeau's door closed, and the car was rolling down the street before Hogan had time to adjust to a more comfortable position on the worn leather of his seat. LeBeau was already digging the radio out from the hollow in front of his feet.

"I'm guessing that was a failure, then," said Newkirk, glancing in the mirror.

"You could say that. The men in there are more terrified of Veheim than any name they don't know. Looks like he brings some of his staff along with him to make sure no one fumbles anything relating to him in unfamiliar postings."

"Not a bad idea," said Newkirk, slowing to turn a corner.

"For him. For us, it sure is." Hogan quieted as LeBeau opened the radio frequency and contacted Kinch. Told him to stand down on sending out Kirche.

Newkirk guided the black car down the long, dark streets and then out into the country beyond. Outside, it began to drizzle.

"Well sir? What now?" LeBeau turned to glance at him, helmet in his lap.

Hogan sighed, knocking off his own cap. "Now, we move to plan B."