Disclaimer: I do not own 'Hogan's Heroes' or 'Twelve O'clock High', the only thing I own is this story's plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.
This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated in the Author's Notes) is coincidental.

Author's Note 1:
The time period for this story would be early March of 1944, about three months before the D-Day Invasion. The Allies have won in Africa and would be making great gains in Italy, who surrendered in 1943. The USAAF would be operating in conjunction with the RAF on Operation Pointblank; with the British bombing at night and the Americans by day.
As for our Heroes, I'm plotting this as a few months after Kinchloe 'left'. I don't really want to touch on why he left or where he went, so use some good old imagination! Onward…

ACT I

ARCHBURY ARMY AIR FIELD, ENGLAND

"Where is he?" Major General Edward Britt muttered, pacing the short length of the narrow walkway on top of the watch tower. General Britt was down from Wing Command in London. He'd been here almost an hour and was growing a little bit more impatient with every minute that ticked by.

"I don't think he'll be too much longer," Major Harvey Stovall assured him. If nothing went wrong, he added to himself.

The 'he' in question was Colonel Joseph Gallagher, commander of the Nine-Eighteenth bomb group. He and his group had taken off before dawn that morning on a daylight bombing run to Duisburg, Germany. Though many considered this mission easy, Harvey knew all too well that the easiest missions sometimes ended up the costliest.

"Here they come, sir," one of the young corporals from the watch tower said and pointed east.

Harvey and General Britt brought their binoculars up, searching the clear sky. A moment later they picked out a group of tiny black dots. A quick count showed that seventeen out of eighteen planes had come home.

On paper that wasn't too bad of a loss, but for the close-knit group of men that made up the Nine-Eighteenth, even losing one plane was devastating. Harvey closed his eyes for a moment, selfishly wondering if he knew any of them. He opened his eyes after a moment and continued to search for one specific plane.

"There's the Piccadilly," he remarked, the relief in his voice evident. "Do you want me to go get Colonel Gallagher?"

General Britt nodded, "tell him I'll be waiting in his office."

Harvey followed the General down the steps and watched him get into the staff car. Once he had driven away, Harvey got into his jeep and drove over to the runway. The Colonel's plane had just landed and was taxiing to the side to make room for the rest of the group.

Harvey pulled closer when the Piccadilly Lily parked and shut off her engines. The hatch dropped down and Colonel Gallagher jumped out, giving orders to his ground crew to check several of the instruments, as well as the number two engine. Harvey waited until Gallagher was finished and on his way to the jeep before speaking, "how'd it go, Joe?"

He straightened his cap and sighed, "it could've gone better, but Duisburg won't be producing steel for a little while." He climbed into the jeep and dug a small notebook out of his pocket, "The Boston Boss ditched in the Channel, get Air-Sea Rescue out to pick up the crew. We counted ten parachutes."

"Yes, sir," Harvey took the notebook and set the jeep into gear, "General Britt is waiting for you in your office."

As they drove across the base, Harvey noticed how tired Joe looked. The Nine- eighteenth had been running for three weeks without an order to stand down. In his opinion, if Joe didn't get a rest, he was headed for a breakdown. He pulled up in front of the office building and climbed out of the jeep.

Gallagher followed him, but at a slower pace and all while suppressing a yawn. He pulled the flight gear from around his neck and dropped it into a chair beside Harvey's desk. "Take care of that, will you?" he asked as he rubbed his eyes.

Harvey grabbed the phone and asked the operator for Air-Sea rescue. "I made a pot of coffee in your office," he said, although he could help but think that ten hours of solid sleep would be better for the Colonel.

Gallagher nodded, appreciatively. He straightened his clothes and hair before stepping into the inner office.

He spotted General Britt seated behind his desk with his back to the door. He was staring out the window. Gallagher stepped up to the desk and saluted, "General."

Britt turned toward him, but remained seated, "at ease, Joe."

Gallagher relaxed and moved toward the stove. He grabbed the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. "Coffee, sir?" he asked. As Britt shook his head, Joe replaced the pot and went back to the front of his desk. He sipped his strong, black coffee and sat, waiting for the General to explain why he was there.

"An important mission just came down from the top," Britt started slowly, absentmindedly spinning his cane. "And, in my judgment, you're the best one for the job."

"When?" Gallagher asked, bracing himself for a quarrel. He'd promised the men passes when they came back from this mission. The passes were only good for one night, but it was the first break they'd seen in some time. He wasn't about to give that up without a fight.

"The sooner the better," Britt stated. "You should know that this is a voluntary mission."

Gallagher frowned, as much as he hated to admit it, he was tired and this mission sounded like it would be a challenge. "General, the men haven't been rotated back in three weeks. The planes haven't been properly serviced in two months… Sir, my men are just plain beat."

Britt leaned back in the chair and used his cane to prop his wooden leg on the desk, "Just hear me out, Joe. RAF had it originally, but couldn't get it done. They were… too hesitant."

"Surely, if it's a voluntary mission for us, it would be for them," Gallagher said. Although he decided against the mission, he couldn't help having his curiosity piqued.

"It was…" Britt hesitated, wanting to choose his words carefully, "but there are certain factors that make this mission tricky. Do you have a map of Germany?"

Gallagher stood and quickly retrieved the map from the table behind him. After moving some of the items off of his desk, he spread out the map. Britt took a moment to read it before pointing to a small town in the middle of Germany. "Hammelburg," Gallagher read.

"Right outside of this town is a petroleum refinery," Britt's blue eyes met and held Gallagher's green ones. "They make many different forms of fuel, but their biggest product is aviation fuel. It's centralized location enables it to easily supply most of the area…"

"But?" Gallagher pressed causing Britt to look away, uncomfortably. "There has to be a 'but' in here somewhere."

"The refinery is very big. Past attempts have disrupted the flow, but they get it back up and running in less than a week." Britt sighed, "because of its massive lay out, we'll need to do a heavy, saturated bomb run."

"Forgive me, General," Gallagher said, sick of beating around the bush. "But, everything you've told me doesn't exactly explain why the RAF had a hard time or what classifies it as a suicide mission."

Britt shook his head, "it isn't a suicide mission." He picked up a pencil and put an ex on the map then a little bit further down and off to the right, he placed a second ex. "The top ex is the refinery. The bottom is Luft-Stalag Thirteen."

"A POW camp?" Gallagher sat down and rubbed the back of his neck.No wonder they couldn't find anyone to take it, he thought. He knew as well as anyone that prison camps could hold several hundred to a thousand prisoners, depending on their size. He also knew that bombing the target that close to a camp would be incredibly tricky.

"The RAF ended up bombing too far north," Britt explained. "They hit the northern part of the complex, but leave the main part with little or no damage. Group Captain Sherburne gave an impassioned speech to Command, on behalf of all the RAF group commanders, about how it shouldn't be done… that we had no right to bomb our own men."

"So they kicked it to us?" Gallagher interrupted, more than a little irritated that all the dirty jobs ended up in his lap. "What happens if we refuse it or if you can't find an American wing to take it?"

"The refinery needs to be destroyed," Britt asserted. "If we can't find a volunteer, we'll make it a direct order."

"So, the voluntary status of this mission is just to assuage the consciences of the higher-ups?"

Britt cracked a humorless smile, "Something like that. Honestly, Joe, something like this can can tear up a man, not to mention what it will do to his command." He paused, "I picked you as my first man to ask because I think you have what it takes to do this and pull through with your command intact. I can't say that about too many others."

Gallagher chewed on his lower lip as he leaned over to study the map. "There are too many obstacles, like flack and fighters, to make a run during the day," he mused. "But, if the weather holds, I can take a group carrying a heavy payload and knock it out tomorrow night."

"And the camp?" Britt questioned.

"Don't even factor it in," Gallagher explained. "We'll do precision bombing, but if we spend too much time focusing on not hitting it, we'll wind up like the RAF and hit too far north. The only way to hit the refinery is to focus only on the refinery."

"Joe, if you fail and hit too far south, you'll wipe out a prison camp filled with hundreds of Brits, Frenchmen, and Americans."

"Are you trying to talk me out of it?" Gallagher asked with the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I thought you wanted me to take this mission."

"I just want you to understand what will happen if you take out any part of that camp," Britt said, seriously. He stood and walked around the desk, stopping in front of Gallagher. "The Nazis will use it as propaganda, not just in their country but in England and the US… and it's likely that they'll use it to try and flip other POWs."

"Yes, sir," Gallagher said. "The cover of night will allow us to miss most of the flak and fighters, as long as we aren't picked up on radar. If we can get the exact location of the target, we can destroy it." He swallowed the last of his coffee, briefly wishing it was something stronger. "If we're going to hit the camp anyway, we can at least make sure to completely demolish the intended target."

"Okay, Joe," Britt limped over to the door with Gallagher right behind him. "Pick your men and I'll have Group Captain Sherburne send a complete report down this afternoon."

As soon as the general stepped out of the outer office, Gallagher turned to his adjutant. "Harvey, cancel all passes. We have a mission for tomorrow night."

STALAG THIRTEEN, GERMANY

Sergeant Richard Baker listened to the steady beeping coming in over the wire; his competent hands quickly translating the Morse code into written words. Much like every message they received, it was nonsensical until decrypted with the code book. But Baker had a feeling that he already knew its contents. London repeated the message and Baker tapped out an acknowledgment.

He climbed the ladder and bumped into Sergeant Andrew Carter, who quickly apologized, "sorry, buddy. I was just coming down to get you for roll call."

Baker climbed out of the bunk-bed entrance and slapped the trigger. The bed dropped down into place as he said, "we've got another message from London."

"About that refinery?" Carter questioned, following him with Corporals Louis LeBeau and Peter Newkirk close at his heels.

"I can't imagine it would be about anything else," Baker called over his shoulder as he approached the officer's quarters. He knocked softly and said, "message from London, Colonel."

Colonel Robert Hogan opened the door and grabbed the clipboard out of Baker's hands. He pulled a book off the shelf and compared its contents to the message. "They're planning another run on the refinery," he read aloud, seeing that Baker and the others had followed him into the office.

"I'm not sure why they bother," LeBeau said in an uncommon bout of cynicism. "They'll only end up hitting that northern end… or us!"

Hogan finished reading the message and began to pace. The refinery had been a high profile target for weeks. The entire Hammelburg Underground had tried to destroy it, not to mention London's bombings.

"Hey," Carter brightened, "why couldn't we try sabotaging it again? I mean, that way London won't have to do a raid."

"Because we already tried," Newkirk said, flatly. "We almost got caught that first time and the last two times we were about as effective as those air raids." He leaned against the bunk post, "I have all the faith in the world that third time's the charm for me boys."

Hogan sat down at his desk, "It not the RAF, it's the Americans."

"Why'd they kick it over?" Baker gave voice to the question they were all were wondering.

Hogan shrugged, "that doesn't matter. What does matter is that we finish shoring up the tunnels. The last thing we need is a tunnel caving in after they bomb."

"Oui," LeBeau grimaced, "wouldn't that be a nice, little present for Hochstetter."

"They won't be here until tomorrow night," Hogan said, looking at his watch. "So, after roll call, I want everyone in the tunnels with all the spare wood they can find. Finish bracing the main tunnels then, if we still have more wood, move on to the others."

"Schultz is coming," Sergeant Olsen said, sticking his head in the doorway.

Hogan grabbed his bomber jacket off the back of the chair and motioned the rest of them out. He finished zipping up his jacket when a big man with white hair opened the barracks door.

"Line up for a head count," he said, before he'd even stepped completely into the room.

"We aren't doing roll call?" Hogan asked in surprise.

"The kommandant gave orders that all prisoners were to remain in the barracks and that barracks guards were to do a head count."

"Not that I don't appreciate not having to go outside in this chill," Hogan said as he fell into his spot in front of his office door, "But why is our kommandant so gracious? What's going on outside that he doesn't want us to see?"

"I don't know," he began counting. Hogan gave LeBeau a nod and the Frenchman produced a chocolate bar from his pocket. He quickly unwrapped it, broke off a chunk, and plopped it in his mouth. Schultz, as predicted, stopped counting and licked his lips, staring greedily at the remaining chocolate.

"What's going on that Klink doesn't want us to see?" Hogan asked again.

"They're moving all of the fuel and essential materials from the refinery," Schultz spilled, quickly eating the piece LeBeau broke off for him. "They'll be moving it right past the Stalag on their way to Wurzburg."

Newkirk and Carter shared a look as Hogan pressed for more information, "why are the moving everything?"

Schultz hesitated, "I shouldn't be telling you this."

"But?" LeBeau gave him the rest of the chocolate bar and produced two more from his footlocker.

Schultz considered this for less than a minute before snatching the chocolate and slipping it into his pocket. "The Kommandant had me drive him to the Hofbrau for an early dinner. He met three officers there, one was Gestapo and the other two were Luftwaffe."

"But the Gestapo man wasn't Major Hochstetter?" Hogan asked, surprised that the commanding officer of the Hammelburg station wasn't present at such a meeting.

"Nein," Schultz's eyes darted between LeBeau and the footlocker, as if expecting more chocolate. "The Gestapo man was lower in rank."

"What was the meeting about?"

Schultz chuckled, "I wasn't part of the meeting and it isn't polite to eavesdrop." Hogan nodded to LeBeau who produced another bar. He took the chocolate and amended, "well, I might have heard a thing or two."

"They were telling the Kommandant to be on alert, that a bombing raid was coming in the next day or two," Schultz glanced over his shoulder as if he expected to see a Gestapo agent behind him. "The Luftwaffe are moving in two or three staffeln* of fighters and when the Amerikaner schweine show their filthy faces they will be sent to the ground in fiery rubble..." he paused. Noticing the raised eyebrows and less than amused faces, he blushed. "That is what they said."

Hogan's mind worked quickly, putting the pieces together as he pushed the portly guard to the door. "Thanks, Schultz,"

"Wait!" he shouted before they could close the door. "My head count."

"Everyone's here, Schultz," Hogan assured him and shut the door. Turning back to his men, he hurriedly gave out orders. "Baker, get on the radio and tell London that Papa Bear wants to speak with Big Bad Wolf and only Big Bad Wolf."

Baker nodded, his expression was mixed between worry and confusion, and it mirrored those of the rest of the Heroes. Hogan then directed his attention to their demolitions expert, "I need you to get together enough explosive packs and timers to take out all of that fuel and the machinery."

"Yes, sir," Carter said, for once without any questions, as he quickly followed Baker underground.

"Are we going to Wurzburg, mon Colonel?" LeBeau asked.

Hogan shook his head, "the best thing we have going for us is that they're moving quickly so they'll be sloppier than usual."

"What's the plan then?" Newkirk asked, "just throw the packs at 'em? 'Cause last time I looked, they don't go over a bridge or anything."

"But they do stop at check points," Hogan reminded him. "You, Carter, and LeBeau will replace the guards and when the trucks stop, they get an explosive pack. Set the timers a couple of hours forward and the trucks should all be together when they blow."

"If the krauts don't find 'em first," the resident pessimist, grumbled.

Hogan ignored the remark and ordered them to get to work. He climbed down into the radio room with Baker, "Any luck?" Baker shook his head, but kept trying as Hogan began to pace and think. No matter how many ways he looked at it, there was only one reason why the Nazis would have had that information before he did. There's a leak, somewhere.. possibly even high up in London operations…

TBC

Author's Note 2:

Hello, readers! This is the evil, little plot bunny that has hindered me from completing 'December Nightmare'. I've been dying to share it with you, but resisted in the hopes that I would finish it first. I'm almost done, so I gave into temptation and posted.

This is my first crossover and I hope you enjoy it. Cheers!

*Staffln is the plural of staffl, which is the Luftwaffe equivalent of a squadron. It usually contained nine to twelve aircraft, but could hold as many as sixteen.