No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

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Shivering badly and blinking as he bowed his head away from the bright midday sun, Hogan focused only on getting himself back to Barracks Seven when he was released from the cooler the next day. Last night had been even colder than the night before, and the little sleep he had managed to get—which was actually, at times, fevered unconsciousness—had been brief and unrestful, interrupted several times by shudders that ran the length of his body and banged his head up against the wall, jolting him awake.

Coughing roughly, Hogan had his arms folded in front of him, his hands tucked in close to his sides, and he was vaguely wondering how he was going to convince himself to expose them to open the door, when Grizone suddenly appeared beside him. Without speaking, Hogan met his worried eyes, and the Sergeant gently took him by the elbow and guided him inside the hut.

"Just sit, Colonel. Here near the stove," Grizone said softly, leading Hogan to a bench at the table. Hogan nodded, still trembling, and someone draped a blanket from a nearby cot over his shoulders. He instinctively grabbed at the warm cover and pulled it in around him.

"That Meyer was a real bastard, not giving you a bed or a blanket," Lovett announced, coming to sit beside Hogan; "it's been below freezing the last couple of nights." He put a hot cup of coffee on the table. "Drink it slow, now, Colonel. You don't want to scald your mouth."

Hogan reached out unsteadily and put his hands around the cup, waiting for some of the heat from the coffee to seep into his fingers. It was too long in coming. Still shaking, he brought the cup up slowly toward his face and took a small sip, then put it back on the table and withdrew his hands back into the blanket. "Thanks," he managed hoarsely. Then he coughed hard, making his already aching body shudder.

"It's good to have you back, Colonel," Grizone said, throwing another piece of firewood in the stove. "There; that should get you real toasty soon."

As his shivering became less frequent, Hogan again nodded his thanks. "This room's much nicer than the one at the Stalag 9 Hilton," he said through chattering teeth. The others laughed. A silence fell over the prisoners. Hogan knew there was something he needed to ask, but his mind was still foggy from the last three days and he couldn't remember what it was. Finally, the thought filtered through. "W-was it…" An unexpectedly large shudder cut him off. Squeezing his eyes shut and groaning softly from between clenched teeth, he struggled to contain the painful tremor. When he opened his eyes, he continued breathing sharply but finished determinedly: "…w-worth it?"

At this question, Lovett broke into a broad smile. "You bet it was, Colonel." He gestured toward the lamp above the table and looked questioningly at Grizone.

The Sergeant shook his head. "It's okay," he said. He shrugged ingenuously at Hogan when the Colonel looked at him to make sure he understood what was going on. Hogan nodded approvingly, then burrowed a little deeper into the blanket.

"Some Kraut officer came yesterday and took the stamps back out of camp," Lovett explained.

"Are you sure?" Hogan asked.

"Oh, yes, sir," Lovett replied. "Grizone and I pretended we needed to clean Meyer's office, and we just barged in, right in the middle of everything. We saw the Kraut putting the envelope in his briefcase."

Hogan smiled briefly. "You fellas are great," he praised, his voice weakening as he squeezed himself more tightly to smother another coughing spell.

The door to the barracks opened. Hogan turned away and shrank further into his blanket as Grizone demanded it be closed immediately.

"Sorry, sorry," said Kent; "it's the only way to get inside other than crawling through the window, and I thought that might take a lot longer." He came up to the table and looked at Hogan sitting bundled up and pale with cold. "I thought you might like a bit of help warming up, Colonel," he said. From his pocket the Corporal pulled a small flask.

"What's that?" asked Grizone.

"Just something to help get the blood flowing freely again." He grinned, self-satisfied. "Brandy." As the prisoners' faces lit up and a few of them laughed, the Englishman added, "I can take more than postage stamps from the Kommandant's office."

Kent opened the flask and held it out toward Hogan. The Colonel accepted it with a shaking hand and took a long, slow swallow, which resulted in a coughing spasm that made pain explode in his chest. Lovett gently eased the flask out of Hogan's tightly fisted hand and gave it back to Kent, who then took a swig from the container himself. "Okay, now it's official," Hogan said when he could finally speak again: "you fellas are organized enough to handle Crittendon." At their groans of dismay, the Colonel added, "don't worry; I promised I'd talk to him about 'helping' with your escape attempts, and I will. Just make sure you've always got Kent around to get you a little liquid courage when you need it."

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Colonel Crittendon faced Hogan's men with a look of complete satisfaction. "Well, old chaps, today's the day. It's been jolly good having the chance to cause trouble for the Jerries with you. Everything went splendidly; not a glitch or a worry all the way through. I think you'll find Colonel Hogan terribly proud of you for pulling things off so smoothly. And getting those flyers out of the woods for the last two nights was the icing on the cake, so to speak. Well done, men, very well done."

Resisting the temptation to retort that almost everything had had a "glitch or a worry" in the last two weeks, Kinch replied, "Thank you, sir."

"Perhaps we'll do this again soon, what?" Crittendon suggested. "I'll ask Hogan to set up a date for this to happen again. Won't be so much of a surprise next time." The English officer misread the sickly expressions on the men's faces as disappointment. "Oh, dear—you like that element of surprise, eh? Well, then, we'll just have to see what happens. You never know—I could be in a different Stalag by then, and Hogan wouldn't be able to find me!" He let out a laugh that made the others cringe.

"I'm sure the gov'nor will keep track of you from now on, sir," Newkirk managed. Because there's no way you're coming back here again if I can help it. I'll stick a bleedin' homing device on your moustache if I have to.

"Anyway, can't carry on with these sad farewells; there's a truck waiting for me outside. And when it comes back, you'll have Colonel Hogan, all ready to pick up where we left off. For King and country, gentlemen! Cheerio!" And Crittendon smiled warmly at the men, who tried to offer him some cheerfulness in return, and left the barracks.

The foursome immediately relaxed. Newkirk shook his head. "'For King and country,'" he muttered. "Almost makes me want to become a Yank."

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Just before dusk, Hogan stepped slowly out of the truck and waited for Schultz to come around and unlock the restraints locked tightly around his wrists. Captain Meyer had insisted Hogan be handcuffed, and the American had been too anxious to get out of Stalag 9 to protest. He'd had less than ninety seconds to talk with Crittendon as they crossed paths, and all that had done was increase his worry, since the Englishman had been smiling so broadly. Although at least Hogan had kept his promise to the men he was leaving; he'd urged Crittendon to let them make their own mistakes and learn to escape on their own. "Otherwise, they might never understand what it takes to get all the way home." Crittendon thought the idea was brilliant.

Now, tired and ill, Hogan wanted nothing more than to get to Barracks Two and his men, but there was protocol to follow first. He coughed, then breathlessly nodded his thanks as the cuffs were pulled away. "This way, Colonel Hogan," Schultz prompted apologetically, gesturing loosely in the direction of the Kommandant's office.

Hogan glanced back toward the barracks and sighed, gently massaging his wrists. "Right."

Hogan's eyes followed Klink's secretary, Hilda, appreciatively as he made his way through to the Kommandant's office. Now that was an improvement on Stalag 9; Meyer's secretary, when he had one, was a dumpy, middle-aged, myopic man who had clearly been rejected for any duty more active than standing up. Unfortunate, Hogan remembered thinking; with those kinds of men on the front, the war could end that much faster. He smiled at the blonde woman's friendly greeting as he stepped into the office.

"Herr Kommandant, Colonel Hogan reporting as ordered, sir." Schultz straightened as he faced his commanding officer, looking sideways at the unusually subdued American, who coughed into his hands. Schultz studied Hogan carefully, then relaxed for just a moment and smiled. "He is back, Herr Kommandant."

"Schultz, I can see that," Klink said, shaking his head, standing up immediately. "You are dismissed." He came around the desk, shooing the big Sergeant out of the room. The guard went reluctantly. "Hogan, welcome back. Have a seat," the Kommandant offered as though greeting a VIP.

Hogan eyed the German officer suspiciously but took up the offer of a chair, rubbing his throat. Klink smiled broadly and then held up his humidor. "Cigar?" he offered.

Hogan shook his head and cleared his throat. "No, thanks," he answered, still cautious. Klink replaced the humidor on his desk and went back around to sit down. Should have taken one for later, the American thought belatedly. "You're being awfully friendly, Kommandant."

"Nonsense, Hogan; I'm being the same, efficient Kommandant that you knew two weeks ago. I simply want you to feel comfortable being back in camp." Klink's overly wide smile played false to Hogan's eyes.

"Now I know there's something going on. What's happened to my men?" For the first time since he'd left Stalag 13 two weeks ago, Hogan got a real and sudden fear that something bad had happened that he could not even conceive of. He leaned forward in his chair and asked earnestly, "What's going on, Kommandant?"

But Klink waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing, Hogan. Nothing at all. Now, I have sent a report back to Stalag 9 about our two weeks with Colonel Crittendon," Klink said, with a touch of a verbal cringe in his voice. "And I have a report from Captain Meyer about your time away from Stalag 13. According to him, you spent a considerable amount of time in trouble."

"He created the trouble; I stuck to the rules," Hogan replied.

"Do I detect a bit of anger in your voice, Hogan?"

"Nothing three nights freezing your tail off in the cooler as a 'preventative measure' wouldn't create," Hogan replied, unable to stop another round of coughing. "With no bed and no blanket," he added, gasping.

For the first time, Klink paused to take a good look at his senior prisoner of war. He hadn't really taken particular notice of the American's unusually pale appearance until now. Hogan was sniffling, with a barking cough rattling in his throat, and looking at the Kommandant with fever-glazed eyes. And if Klink wasn't mistaken, Hogan had suffered from a lack of Le Beau's good cooking as well. "Go back to your barracks, Colonel Hogan," Klink said now. "Then this camp will return to normal."

Hogan's glassy eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. "You're not trying to be accommodating," he accused; "you're just happy to be rid of Crittendon, aren't you?"

Klink didn't even bother pretend it wasn't true. "That man is nothing but trouble," he said, shaking his head. "I actually almost missed you, Hogan."

"Really?" Hogan coughed again, a rough, painful noise that Klink couldn't help but wince at.

Klink had his mouth open to reply, then realized what he had just said—and what he was about to say. He stopped and tried to put a sneer on his face. "I said 'almost,'" he answered instead. Hogan began to protest but he sneezed unexpectedly before he got warmed up. "Gesundheit," Klink said automatically as Hogan rubbed his eyes. "Go back to your barracks, Colonel Hogan. Give your cold to your men, not to me."

Hogan's retort was ready. "I got it because of a Kraut; figured it was only fair to give it back to one." But he stood up tiredly, and as he went to the door, he turned to the Kommandant and admitted, "Colonel Klink, believe it or not: it's good to be home."

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"Enough, Louis, I'm starting to get wrinkly, and I'm not even in the bathtub!"

Hogan struggled to come out from under the towel that Le Beau had draped over his head just before he pushed a bowl of steaming hot water inches from his commanding officer's face. The Frenchman just shook his head and rubbed Hogan's back encouragingly. "It is the best thing to clear your sinuses, mon Colonel," he persisted. "Just ten more minutes, I promise."

Hogan groaned. "My whole face will have slid off by then!"

"And after that, you will have some nice hot soup, and then you will get bundled up into bed."

"Louis, give the Colonel a break; he's got a cold, not the plague." Kinch shook his head as he saw Hogan still flailing about hopelessly; Hogan had barely been back in the barracks for ten minutes when Le Beau had taken over. Moving the small Corporal aside gently, he pulled the towel off of Hogan's head.

Hogan lifted his head gratefully and took in a deep, snuffly breath. "Thanks, Kinch," he said. He looked at Le Beau. "It's not that I'm not thankful, Le Beau, but I was starting to feel better, and this is making me feel worse."

"Well, you will still have the soup," Le Beau insisted. "You lost weight while you were away. What did you eat there: prison food?"

"Something like that," Hogan answered. He pulled the towel out from around his neck and pushed it and the bowl of water away. "Look, I'm really sorry you fellas got Crittendon. I had no idea he was at Stalag 9. Every time the door opened for the first three days, I was expecting to see one of you fellas dressed up as a General, putting an end to the 'exchange program' early so you could get him out of here."

"Now, where would the challenge have been in that, sir?" Newkirk asked from his bunk.

"Yeah, we could handle him," Carter added, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Really?" Hogan asked. "He didn't try to make you do anything odd?"

"No," Kinch replied hastily, sending a warning look at the others as Hogan closed his eyes when more coughing raked fire across his chest and his throat. "He didn't make us do anything." True. "Nothing we couldn't handle." Also true. I'll give him the whole story when he's had a chance to recover from his "vacation" in the cooler at Stalag 9. "Nothing except calisthenics. And Newkirk had a harder time with that than anyone!"

The Englishman hopped down from his bunk and sat near Hogan at the table. "I just happen to be philosophically opposed to having me arms and legs flapping around in the middle of the day like that. It had nothing to do with being out of shape."

"I'll bet you didn't have to do calisthenics when you were at Stalag 9, Colonel," Carter surmised.

"You lose," Hogan countered, nodding thanks at Le Beau as a steaming bowl of soup was placed in front of him. "My first day there—all put in place by the ever-proper and correct Colonel Crittendon. But don't worry; I got rid of that little routine soon enough."

"Sounds fair," Kinch said. "You were promised time off."

"Yeah, boy, and you were gonna get it," Carter said, pleased with how the men had coped. "We weren't gonna send Crittendon back early—not even if he blew the whole thing with Wurfel—"

"Carter!" Newkirk chastised harshly.

The Sergeant clamped his mouth shut. "Sorry."

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "Wurfel?"

Kinch sighed. "Doctor Wurfel. He was a scientist who came into camp after you left. He went to back to Berlin a couple of days ago. He had a few plans… and we… found out about them and sent them back to London."

"London?" Hogan repeated, his face taking on an amazed expression.

"Sorry, Colonel," Newkirk said. "But it was just too good to pass up."

"Oui, we knew you would think the same, so we…" Le Beau paused, then finished, "…disobeyed orders and went snooping. Sorry, Colonel."

Hogan smiled softly. "No apologies necessary." His eyes felt hot. He rubbed them slowly with his fingers.

"At least you didn't have to take care of it, Colonel," Carter said. "If you were here and you saw what he was up to, you'd have never let it go."

"I can't wait to hear about it," Hogan said. He spooned the last of the broth into his mouth and stood up. "Tomorrow. Sorry, fellas, but I'm beat. I'm going to hit the sack. I think having a two week furlough was just too exciting for me."

Hogan's men reluctantly agreed to let their commanding officer retreat for the evening. He had hardly spoken at all about what had happened at Stalag 9, at first satisfied to simply be back among his men, and then put under the strict supervision of Le Beau, who could not stand to see the Colonel so clearly not his usual robust self.

"You'll have to tell us all about your holiday in the morning, gov'nor," Newkirk suggested. "It'd be nice to hear what some real time off is like."

The Colonel paused at his door and turned back to his men as the faces of Grizone, Lovett, Kent and the other men of Stalag 9 crossed his mind. "I'd like to know that, too."

Hogan ignored the puzzled looks of the foursome. Then, listening with tired contentment to the predictable harmless bickering that erupted when he didn't offer to elaborate, he smiled and slipped into his quarters for a long, deep sleep. It was back to work at Stalag 13 tomorrow.