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.

"Hey, Carter, do you have a twin brother?"

Carter, doing up the buttons of his coverall, stopped at the second one down, gazing at Kinch with wide, puzzled eyes. "I got a brother, but we're not twins," he replied doubtfully. "He's still in school back home. And I got two sisters, as well. Why'd you ask?"

"Just wondering," said Kinch. "We had another guy called Carter came through here, not so long ago, and you look just like him, that's all."

Newkirk, who was still in his bunk, propped up on one elbow, snapped his fingers. "That's right. I wondered why you looked so familiar, when you got here," he remarked.

"That'd be Lieutenant Carter, right?" Carter fixed the last two buttons, and peered down at them to make sure he hadn't got them skew. "Yeah, I know him. He doesn't look that much like me."

"Spitting image," said Newkirk. "I'd lay odds your own mum couldn't tell you apart."

"That's what all the guys at Stalag 5 used to say, but I could never see it," said Carter. "I don't think he was real happy about it, either."

He seemed annoyed. So far, during the three weeks since his arrival at Stalag 13, he'd given the impression of being pretty easy-going, but apparently he had at least one touchy point.

The tactful thing to do would be to drop it, but Newkirk had never quite got the hang of tact. "Well, even if he's not your brother, he must be related to you in some way. Cousin, maybe?"

"Not as far as I know. There's lots of Carters out there." Carter pulled his jacket on as he spoke. "Names don't prove anything."

The arrival of Sergeant Schultz, to call the prisoners out for morning assembly, brought the discussion to a close, although Newkirk, never one to let go of the last word, was heard to voice the opinion that a bloke didn't have any business looking so much like another bloke unless that other bloke was a close relative.

Carter let it go. He'd already learned in the short time he'd been here that, apart from Colonel Hogan, nobody ever won an argument with Newkirk. In any case, it didn't really matter who they thought that other guy was. He followed Newkirk out of the barracks and took his place in formation, with Kinch standing next to him, and Newkirk and LeBeau in front. Colonel Hogan sauntered to the end of the front rank, as always with an air of being in control of everything around him. Which, in fact, he was.

This wasn't just any old prison camp; Carter had worked that out within a couple of days of his arrival, even before he'd been told about the covert activities operating from the tunnel network underneath the camp. Important work went on here; the war was being fought from inside the barbed wire. Back at Stalag 5, the prisoners' whole focus had been on finding some means of escape, and getting across the Channel to rejoin their own forces. Here it was different; in order to maintain their cover, the men under Hogan's command had to give up all intention of escaping.

There was no point in regretting it. Stalag 13, such as it was, would be Carter's home for the duration, and he had accepted that, once he knew what was going on. He even had some hopes that once he'd been there for a little longer, Hogan might let him take part in a mission, once in a while. Some really small part, of course; he couldn't expect to ever be part of the command team. But even if he just acted as lookout, or helped to distract the guards, at least then he'd still be doing his bit, even if he was a prisoner of war.

Still, as he waited with his fellow prisoners for the order to fall out, an uninvited, unwelcome thought, prompted by the discussion of his namesake and double, came into his mind.

I could have been back in England by now...

It was that likeness which had started everything, back at Stalag 5. The similarity of form and feature, which neither Technical Sergeant Andrew Carter nor Second Lieutenant Anthony Carter would admit to, was obvious to everyone else, although to be fair, the resemblance was all on the surface. Personality-wise, they were recognisably distinct; nobody had ever had any difficulty telling them apart.

Almost as soon as Sergeant Carter had arrived from the transit camp which had been his first experience of prison life, many of the prisoners, and even some of the guards, had started calling him Andrew, to save confusion. On the other hand, only the officers addressed the lieutenant to his face as "Tony", although behind his back many of the enlisted men were starting to follow suit. It wasn't likely he'd mind, he was pretty easy-going; but the senior POW officer was a real stickler for military etiquette, and it was better not to get his goat.

Everyone liked Tony, and once they all got over the shock of having his double around the place, they took to Andrew as well. But somehow the two Carters just didn't hit it off. As Tony confided to his pals, "He's okay, kind of a nice guy. But it's just weird, having someone around that everyone thinks looks like me. Even though he doesn't." Andrew, uneasily aware that he was the newcomer in this situation, didn't say much about it, but if anyone had asked him about it, he'd have been emphatic enough in his agreement.

They weren't in the same barracks, so they only really encountered one another in the exercise yard, or the prisoners' laundry, or occasionally in the recreation hall; and by tacit but mutual consent they tended to avoid each other.

The rest of the prisoners thought it was hilarious. As it turned out, however, the escape committee took it more seriously.

"Have you got a minute, Carter?" The speaker strolled into Barracks 10 as if he owned the place. He was taking a risk. An outbreak of gastritis had temporarily laid up almost half of the German guards, and the prisoners had been confined to barracks for the last week. They were allowed out for mess call, and for one hour of exercise a day, and even then not all the barracks were released at the same time; they ate and exercised in shifts. Unless it was for those necessary activities, any prisoner found out of bounds was just about asking the goons to start shooting, especially this close to lights-out.

Andrew looked up from the letter he was trying to write to his girl back in the States. He found he couldn't exactly tell her what things were like here in Stalag 5; he was pretty sure Mary Jane wouldn't care to hear about dirt, and lice, and bad food, and there wasn't much else to write about. It was kind of a relief to be interrupted.

He couldn't put a name to the RAF sergeant who had claimed his attention, although he vaguely recognised him. He hadn't even got his own barracks mates straightened out yet, and there were at least three hundred other men in this camp. This man was one of the other three hundred, a short, skinny guy with a permanent smug grin on his face, who seemed to act as an unofficial aide-de-camp to the senior prisoner of war officer.

"Sims, didn't anyone ever tell you to knock before you come into someone's bedroom?" said Hanrahan, the senior non-commissioned officer in the barracks.

"Sorry, chum," replied Sims cheerfully. "Only the boss wants a word with young Andrew here. Kind of urgent, like."

"What's it about?" asked Andrew, folding his letter and dropping the pencil on the floor.

"He didn't say." Sims grinned. "But he'd rather the Jerries didn't know about it. So try not to attract attention - I mean don't fall over anything on the way."

"Oh, that's funny, pal," Andrew shot back at him, as he shoved his writing materials under the blanket on his bunk. Turning back, he caught his foot on the upright post at the end, staggered and crashed to the floor, and a general laugh went round, along with the usual crop of jokes.

"Enjoy your trip, Andrew?"

"Fall's come early this year."

Andrew got to his feet, more annoyed than embarrassed, and followed Sims out of the barracks. Outside it was already dark, but the spotlight passing back and forth would easily pick them out if they were careless, and the guards were entitled to shoot any prisoner found out of bounds. The two men kept close to the buildings to avoid detection, and Andrew's heart was racing by the time Sims opened the door of Barracks 1 and shoved him inside.

He knew most of the men here by sight, but it was uncomfortable, finding himself the focus of attention. He blushed, and tried to look nonchalant, as Sims led him to the door of the small separate room allocated to the senior officer, rapped on the door, then opened it and waved Andrew forward.

"Ah, Sergeant Carter." Wing Commander Seymour, a big, fair-haired Englishman, greeted him quite affably. "So glad you could join us, my good man."

"Uh...yessir. Thank you, sir." Andrew saluted, unsure of his ground here. So far, Seymour hadn't so much as acknowledged his existence, and this unexpected cordiality was disconcerting.

"You know Lieutenant Carter, of course." Seymour nodded towards the other man present.

"Yes, sir." Andrew glanced at his double, aware of the vague sense of dislocation that always troubled him at seeing his own face attached to someone else. The lieutenant seemed just as self-conscious, if his heightened colour and lowered eyes were anything to go by.

"Jolly good, that'll save time," Seymour went on. "We have to get both of you back to your own barracks before the guards do their rounds. Carter - Sergeant, I mean - you know, of course, that as prisoners of war our primary duty is to escape, or to help our fellow servicemen to do so."

"Uh...yes, sir," said Andrew again. He was starting to feel as if those were the only words he knew.

"Up till now, what I'm about to tell you has been very hush-hush. We've been working on a tunnel for the last five months, leading from beneath the camp kitchen to the bank and ditch above the main road outside the fence. It's almost finished, and a dozen chaps will head out at the end of the week. The thing is, our contacts in the Underground have just got word to us that they can accommodate one extra man, provided he leaves in two days' time. Apparently they had a cancellation - escape from Stalag 6 fell through, so they've got a vacancy, and they've offered it to us."

"But sir, won't that foul things up for the escape we've already got planned?" asked Lieutenant Carter.

"Not if the management don't happen to notice that they're a man short," replied Seymour. "One of the lads on the escape committee has come up with a rather clever idea. As we just happen to have two chaps who look just like each other - that's you two, of course - we've got a perfect chance to pull it off. The Jerries are under strength at the moment, owing to this jolly old stomach bug of theirs, and they aren't calling us out for roll-call, they're doing barracks checks instead. So if one of you makes a dash for it, the other one, with a bit of dodging about, can cover for him. Then when the main escape happens, Kommandant Vogel won't think to ask if one of his missing prisoners left a few days before the others."

It sounded plausible, but Andrew's stomach knotted up. He was pretty sure he knew which would be his part in the plan, and it was going to be no walk in the park. He didn't have the nerve to protest, but apparently the lieutenant had thought of it, too.

"Won't that be pretty rough on the guy that stays behind, sir?" he asked. "I mean, if the Krauts get wise to it, Vogel's going to come down on him like a ton of bricks. And even if that doesn't happen, it's going to mean a whole lot of running round trying to be in the right place all the time."

"You're quite right, my dear boy," replied Seymour. "That's why we on the escape committee have decided that, for both of you, it's strictly voluntary. And before you decide, there's one other thing."

He paused, cleared his throat, then with an apologetic glance at the lieutenant, went on. "With any regular escape plan, there wouldn't be any question about it. Tony, you've been here longer, and you've put in a lot of work, digging in the tunnel - probably more work than any of the men who'll be using it. So in theory, you've earned the right to take this opportunity. However..." His eyes turned towards Andrew. "The man who stays behind, as you say, is risking a lot. If he's caught, he could spend the next six months in solitary, on bread and water. And that's if Vogel's feeling generous. For that reason, we've decided that the only fair way is to give both of you an equal chance."

He drew a coin from his pocket. "If you both agree to accept the result, and to do your part no matter which way it goes, then we'll toss for it."

Andrew stared at him, dumbfounded. He'd never expected that. They were giving him a chance, after all. He was lost for words, until he heard a soft, almost inaudible sigh from the man standing next to him.

"Okay, sergeant. Who's going to call it, me or you?"

"You better do it." Andrew gave him a quick sideways look. "You're the officer...sir."

"All right." Lieutenant Carter raised his head. "Heads."

The coin glittered as it rose and fell. Unconsciously both Carters leaned forward, as if they hoped to see the result through Seymour's covering hand. For several seconds, neither of them even breathed.

"Sorry, Tony." Seymour's voice was almost expressionless. "Tails."

Andrew let his breath go in a startled, incredulous laugh.

"Congratulations, sergeant." The voice, so like his own, broke through his amazement, bringing him back to reality. He quickly raised his eyes, realising what this meant to the lieutenant. But there was no sign of disappointment on Anthony Carter's face. He even managed a smile, as he offered his hand to his lookalike.

"Thanks," stammered Andrew, accepting the handshake. A vague sense of relief added its note to the chorus of elation and excitement in his head; the joyful thoughts overwhelmed everything.

He was going to get out of here. In a few days, he'd be on his way back to England, and he'd be flying with his buddies again before he knew it. And it had all come about so suddenly that he hardly believed it.