I obviously do not own Hogan's Heroes. CBS and good ol' Der Bingle do.

Whispering Sour Somethings

Luftstalag 13, Germany

August 23rd, 1943

It was quite peaceful, actually. Somewhere in the near distance, the sound of crickets filled the sweet summer air as the sun slowly began its decent in the sky. A breeze caught the leaves and shook them gently, adding to the peaceful melody of nature.

Yup, just forget about the barbed wires, the guard towers and the machine guns, and I could almost think I was home.

Colonel Robert Hogan shook his head before resting it back against the barracks wall. He took a deep breath, savouring the fresh air. It wasn't often that the handsome, dark-haired POW let himself relax like this, but the serenity the late summer evening offered had been too much to pass up.

Unknown to his German captors, the American colonel was the leader of the most complex and successful underground operation of the entire war. Right under his very feet, men milled about in tunnels, working radios, building bombs, printing money. His operation did everything from blowing up bridges to helping other POWs escape and return to England. A smile tugged at the corners of Colonel Hogan's mouth. Right under the Krauts' noses.

"Colonel Hogan?" a voice said from beside him. Hogan casually slid his gaze over before returning it to the reddening sky. The black American sergeant was silent for a moment. He followed the colonel's eyes to the sky. "Pretty, isn't it."

Hogan just nodded. Then, slowly, he tore himself away from it. "What's up Kinch?" He asked as he started moving into the barracks. The sunset wouldn't last long and, as soon as it was dark, they were in danger of getting shot.

"We just got a message from London, Colonel," Hogan's radioman explained when the door to Barracks Two was shut.

The other men in the room perked up. Hogan himself found it hard not to feel excited. For the past two weeks, they had been bored out of their skulls. London had not contacted them with any missions and the Germans hadn't dropped any unexpected ones into their laps. "And?" Hogan prompted, somewhat impatiently when Sergeant James Kinchloe failed to continue.

"They have a nice little job for us," Kinch smiled slowly. He had to stop himself from laughing when everyone leaned in closer. Usually Kinch would get straight to the point, but things had been so slow lately that he was enjoying the suspense he had over his fellow prisoners and saboteurs.

"Well, out with it Kinch. Don't keep us waiting!" Corporal Peter Newkirk practically yelled. "What sort of job is it?"

"Oui," the tiny French corporal, Louis LeBeau, chimed in from his position at the stove. "Do not keep us in suspense!"

Kinch smiled at his friends' anticipation and decided to put an end to their rampant curiosity. "Seems there's a new munitions factory in Hammelburg. There are too many flak batteries in the area for our fighters to get through, so London wants us to blow it up ASAP."

Colonel Hogan grinned. Finally! "Well, let's see what we can do for them, shall we. I was starting to think that London had forgotten we were here!"

"Boy! This calls for a celebration!" Sergeant Andrew Carter exclaimed, jumping up from his lower bunk. No one could argue. Finally they had a respite from the boredom that had started to eat away at them.

"How 'bout a little music then, Carter?" Newkirk announced as he dug around for their secret radio. "What shall it be gents? The BBC?"

LeBeau moaned. "Oh no, all they do is give new bulletins! We are trying to celebrate Pierre! This will be our first mission in two weeks. And our first big mission in over a month!"

"Hey, how about that Berlin Betty," Carter suggested, earning a few odd looks from the others. He could feel his cheeks turn a little red. "Heck, she may be a little heavy on the propaganda, but she plays all the great songs, like Glenn Miller."

Colonel Hogan shrugged. Berlin Betty was the Kraut's version of Tokyo Rose. Every night she, with her seductive voice and implied beauty, would broadcast to the Allied troops, and in between playing popular music, would implore them to give up their pathetic and doomed hopes of beating the great German forces and surrender. And while the men whooped and hollered at her purring voice, they largely ignored her somewhat ridiculous attempts to sway their loyalty.

"All right Andrew, we'll listen to 'er for a while if there are no objections." Newkirk carefully pulled the radio out of its hiding place and tuned into the requested station. Soon the cheery voices of the Andrews Sisters filled the barracks.

"Olsen," Hogan pointed to one of the men in the room, "watch the door. LeBeau, we got any wine anywhere?"

"We've got something better than that boy- uh, I mean sir," Carter announced. "The boys in Barracks Three set up a still and Newkirk managed to barter for some real moonshine!" He jumped off his bunk and headed for the lockers by the door. He rummaged through and then pulled out a flask of clear liquid.

"Careful with that stuff, you mate," Newkirk warned Hogan as he was poured a glass. "It could burn a 'ole in the floor."

"Can't have that, the Krauts might find our tunnel," Hogan grinned. He glanced at the clear brew in his mug and then, with a carefree shrug, gulped some of it down. He sputtered and coughed as the good-natured laughter of his men filled the air. "Wow," Hogan managed hoarsely, his eyes watering. Raising his mug, he let out a little laugh of his own. "To the munitions factory in Hammelburg!" The other men echoed his toast as they raised their mugs.

The Andrews Sisters energetic voices dimmed away to be replaced by a sultry female voice. "Hello Allies," a disembodied voice purred. "You have just heard the Andrew Sisters singing Bie Mir Bist Du Schoen, a song with a German name. Soon all your American songs will be German.

"Take my advice, stop fighting, give up and become part of the glorious Fatherland..."

Hogan rolled his dark eyes as her speech continued. "Please," he muttered as he polished off the rest of his drink. But as soon as he finished, a strange feeling began to grip his stomach. Why were they doing this? he heard himself ask. What had the munitions factory and the people who worked there, who would no doubt be caught it the destruction, ever done to them? Why couldn't they just leave the Krauts alone?

Hogan's eyes widened. Had he just thought that? He looked down at his empty cup and quickly refilled it. It had barely settled in his cup when he brought it to his lips and drained it. He looked around the barracks. The men also seemed a bit subdued, their cheer waning.

"Guard coming," Olsen reported half-heartedly.

Everyone seemed to be stuck in molasses, their movements slow as they tried to cover up their festivities. Newkirk grudgingly turned off the radio and as he did, Hogan felt a peculiar sense of relief.

The radio was barely hidden when the door burst open and the sergeant of the guard walked in. "What is going on here?!" the guard's voice boomed. Sergeant Schultz quickly closed the door so the light from the barracks wouldn't be seen outside. "What is going on here?" he repeated a little more softly. The giant guard glanced around the barracks. "You know that lights were supposed to be out a half hour ago!"

"Oh come on Schultzie," Newkirk grinned, "LeBeau is afraid of the dark!"

"He is not," Schultz argued, though he was a little unsure. "I must report this to the Kommandant!"

Hogan gave a resigned shrug. "Alright Schultz , if that's the way you want it."

"That is the way I want it," Schultz assured him as he turned to leave.

"But while you're at it, you better report that it took you a half-hour to figure out our lights were still on. And hey, where were you when it was time to turn them out anyway? Isn't it your job to make sure they're off and we're all tucked in?" A wry smile formed on Hogan's lips as he saw Schultz squirm.

"Maybe the report to the Kommandant can wait," Schultz said slowly. "Now, it is time to turn out the lights! All of you, go to bed!" He turned to leave again.

"Not going to tuck us in Schultzie?" Newkirk grinned.

"Ha, jolly jokers!" And with that, the massive sergeant flicked off the lights and disappeared behind the door. They all waited a few minutes until they were sure he was gone.

Finally, Kinch spoke up. "Colonel, about our mission," he started hesitantly, but Colonel Hogan broke him off.

"We'll start on a plan tomorrow. But right now, I'm beat." It was only a half-lie. The real truth was that he didn't want to think of a plan, not right now. Not with this feeling that had grabbed hold of his stomach. What was it? Sympathy? Remorse? Whatever it was, it was enough for him to almost feel ill at the thought of causing harm to the Germans. And that frightened him. The Germans were the enemy for Pete Sakes! And as long as that munitions factory was up and running, they could make more weapons to hurt the Americans, Brits and French- Hogan's men and allies!

Shaking his head to clear it, Hogan turned and muttered a goodnight to his men before retreating into his office. The others looked at each other before silently crawling into their bunks and nodding off for the night.

The strange feelings that had tugged at his heart had disappeared after a good night sleep. But the worry over them hadn't. Colonel Hogan couldn't for the life of him figure out what had made him think such things. Had that dame on the radio gotten to him? Nah. Her attempts were far from subtle- laughably blunt. It would take someone with very little brains and willpower to fall for her propaganda. And Hogan was sure he had a high quantity of both.

Maybe the war was finally getting to him. Maybe it was his conscience suddenly realizing that the people he killed during missions had families and loved ones. Maybe it was a lot of things. He didn't know. What he did know was that thoughts like the ones he had the night before were dangerous to have in his line of work. He was a soldier and it was his duty to fight the enemy.

Right now, he had to concentrate on the enemy's munitions factory. London wanted him to bomb it and that was what he was going to do.

"Carter," Hogan called across the compound. The young demolitions expert glanced at him and tossed the ball in his hands to a group of prisoners before bounding up to his commanding officer.

"You hollered, sir?"

Hogan wrapped his arm over the sergeant's shoulder and led him into the barracks. "Carter, my boy, remember that little job London has for us?" He could see Carter's eyes grow wide with excitement. "I need you to make me some of your finest time-delayed action bombs. And I need them done by tonight, think you can do it?"

"You betcha boy! Uh, sir…" Carter threw him a quick salute before scurrying down into the tunnel. The colonel grinned at his enthusiasm. He wished he could say the same about himself. The sooner they got this over with, the less time he had to think about his sudden attack of conscience.

Mitchell Air Base, England

August 24th, 1943

"Turn that garbage off, Corporal!" Captain Anderson barked." There are plenty of allied stations that play the same sort of noise!"

"Aww come on, Captain! It's funny!" the young corporal complained. Anderson just shot him a look. Rolling his eyes, Corporal Dawson changed the station, effectively cutting Berlin Betty off mid-sentence. She was quickly replaced by Glenn Miller and his band.

Anderson grumbled and leaned back into his chair, gazing at his newspaper. A whole week. A whole week without a mission was driving him and his men insane. Insane enough to listen to Nazi propaganda. Oh sure, it was mostly harmless- too blunt to be effective- but it still grated his nerves.

What really worried him was that for a second, only a second mind, the dame on the radio was starting to make some perverse sense.

Anderson dropped the paper, which he hadn't been reading anyway, and turned an eye to the window. Fog. England was covered with it, but what else was new? England wouldn't be England if it didn't have wretched weather, Anderson thought. Nothing at all like Arizona.

"Give up while you have time. There is new freedom to be found within the Third Reich!"

Anderson growled loudly. "Put a lid on that dame once and for all Dawson, or I'll have you on KP for a month!"

"Sorry sir, I couldn't help it!"

"Right, and I'm the Queen of England." Anderson was about to get up when the door to the little rec hall burst open. A man scurried in and made his way to the fireplace at the front of the room. Without a word, he turned the mug that sat on the mantle so that it was facing the room. He glanced at Anderson, nodded, and then disappeared outside.

Anderson sighed, though he wasn't sure if it was a sigh of relief or frustration. The mug, an ugly thing that had the face of a man on the front was their signal. When it faced the wall, they were grounded, but when it faced the room, it meant they would soon be up in the air. He glanced at the window again. The fog must be clearing soon. And they would go up.

For some reason, the thought made Anderson sick.

And now a word from your friendly author, Tuttle.

This was my very first fanfic posted for all the world to read. I've gone back to edit it a bit. I hope y'all enjoy it.