Evolution
by 80sarcades

This is a combination backstory and missing scene from The General Swap featuring Newkirk (of course!) Slightly AU from canon. Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: If I owned Hogan's Heroes…like I said before, I'd make a movie about them. If they can do a Nightmare on Elm Street remake, then they can certainly make a good one about Stalag 13. I won't even mention MacGruber, and that came from SNL. Alas…

For most of his young life, Peter Newkirk had little use for anyone in authority.

Life for anyone in the East End of London was difficult at best. Perversely, it was also a matter of pride; the name of the game was survival, and the people who lived there were good at it. On the other side of the coin, however, was shame. George Newkirk, Peter's father, had perished in a building fire when his son was six years old. At the time, there had been little money to bury him properly other than in a pauper's grave. Fortunately, the building supervisor that George had pushed to safety took a collection so that his savior's remains could be laid to proper rest.

It troubled Peter to no end that he would never see his father walk up the street to their flat again. Instead, a simple white stone carved with a name and date was all that was left of him other than a few photographs and other effects. Troubling, too, was the realization that he was now the man of the household; he had a responsibility to provide for his mother and sister. Watching his mother work herself to the bone for what little she made shamed him further. Somehow, he would give his mother and sister a good life. If it turned out to be a shady one, then so be it.

So Peter began to learn the trick.

On the street, only luck determined your success or failure. Fortunately for him, several older blokes took him under their wings and taught him the right ways to separate people from their money. A master of the trick could relieve someone of their money and jewelry without them being the wiser; only those with the talent could really make it big. There were only three rules: (a) you didn't mess with your peers; (b) you didn't take from the working poor; only from the rich and middle class; and (c) never give up anything to the Bills.

To this Peter added another rule: Trust yourself, and watch your friends. Although he admired others for their skill, as a rule he generally worked alone. It was one thing to go out with your mates and have a pint at the local pub; it was quite another to go nicking about with them.

Occasionally, he was bothered by the police at times but never really thought too much of it. In a sense, the whole thing was an exciting game; the thrill of it all carried him on. At least it put a little money on the table each week - no matter how much his mother disapproved of it - and let him do good things for Mavis, his little sister. She was the bright star, and his motivation, in his otherwise dismal existence. No matter the cost, he resolved again to give her a good life beyond the hell she had been born into.

Then the war came. Although he really didn't want to - and damn the Germans for making me, he thought - Peter joined the Royal Air Force. At the time, it seemed the better choice; he had no desire to slog around in the mud as part of the infantry. Surprisingly, his skills at detail served him well. To his great surprise, it wasn't long before he was made a corporal. Given that things were going to hell it was perfectly possible that he could have gone further; however, it was not to be.

His luck ran out in June 1940 when France fell. Although there were Hurricanes and Spitfires left to fight on, the German Luftwaffe dominated the skies over France. Despite orders to evacuate, Newkirk and his unit were forced to surrender when the Channel ports were cut off by the advancing German Army. Strangely, Newkirk felt a sense of relief when he saw the grey uniforms advance on his position; the German language they spoke told him that his war was over. Maybe he would survive and return home.

Unfortunately, with the breakup of his squadron mates, he would have to survive alone.

Stalag 13 hadn't been much, really. Just the usually collection of guard towers, wire, and men that wanted to be somewhere else. The Senior POW - a Major Harks - was a right bastard even for an officer. By that point, Newkirk had a less-than-favorable opinion about officers, though he admitted there were some good ones out there. Somewhere, anyway. His new friend, Louis LeBeau, shared his feelings; his own officers had willingly given up even when the little Frenchman and his comrades had wanted to fight on.

It was just as well that Harks was transferred when he was; some of the men were taking bets on his life expectancy. It was then that several interesting things occurred.

First, a new German officer - Colonel Wilhelm Klink - replaced Captain Hessler. It was fairly easy to peg Klink right off. Unlike the old Kommandant, this one was more of a coward than anything else. Still, things became a bit easier for the men of Stalag 13 as long as they obeyed the rules. Even the food became a bit better. Life, for once, was looking up.

The next surprise was the Senior POW. After Harks departed, there was no one to represent the enlisted prisoners. No one wanted the job, anyway; who in their right mind would want to complain to the Krauts? Klink eventually was forced to pick someone, but it never really worked out other than to convey necessary orders from the Kommandant to the camp. This lasted until the summer of 1942 when a Negro Sergeant - and an American, to boot - came into the camp. Like the boxer he was, Kinchloe soon began to create trouble for the Germans; it was amusing, too, to watch a member of an supposedly 'inferior' race bicker with the Krauts.

That was before another American arrived. Unlike Kinch, he was an officer.

With the exception of Sergeant Kinchloe, Newkirk had little use for Yanks of any kind. With justification, too; the bastards had sat on their side of the pond and watched Europe go to hell. The other prisoners quickly set him straight on that score…

Newkirk had been standing outside the barracks talking to Chifton and Howley - two other RAF enlisted men - when the black staff car drove through the front gate. The brakes on the car softly squealed as it came to a hard stop in front of the Kommandantur. Several armed SS guards got out of the vehicle before roughly pulling another man out of the backseat. Although this individual was unconscious, it was plain to see that he was wearing handcuffs and leg irons even as the guards dragged him to Klink's office. The brown leather jacket he wore showed some sort of rank insignia, though the Corporal had no idea what it meant.

Newkirk shuddered involuntarily; that was the one time he would definitely not want to be an officer. From the looks of things, the Germans had thrown everything at the man and then some.

"Well, I'll be…" Howley observed. "Chiffy, did you see who that was?"

The other man snorted. "Never thought I'd see the likes of him in a camp," Chifton said in a deep voice, then shook his head in disgust. "Good God, they really worked him over, didn't they? Bastards," he spat.

Newkirk looked over at the two men; to his surprise, they wore dreamy - if not concerned - expressions. Why, he didn't know. "That's what you get for being an officer, you know," he dryly deadpanned. "At least the Yanks know what the war is on about, now." Newkirk turned back to look at the Kommandantur, only to receive a light blow to the right side of his head. When he looked back, Chifton had a furious expression on his face..

"What's that about? Bloody hell…" he exclaimed.

"What's that about?" Chifton repeated, his voice angry. "You, you sodding bastard. That's Wing Commander Hogan - or Colonel, if I know my American ranks - and he's been fighting the Jerries before the effing Yanks even got into this war!"

"Balls!" Newkirk said, a bit furious himself; he didn't like being embarrassed. "They've only been in this war what? A few months…"

"It's true, mate," Howely said solemnly. "The Major there was flying missions with the Eagle Squadrons as long as I knew him, and that was back in '40! Say what you want but he was willing to die for Blighty. Not too many Yanks willing to do that then, you know."

The English Corporal looked towards the building again, then back at his friends. "Sorry," he said softly in apology. "I didn't know…"

It had taken Hogan the better part of a week to partially recover from the interrogations the Germans had given him at Dulag Luft. By the time he was up - albeit for limited periods - Newkirk was once again in trouble.

By a lousy stroke of luck, one of the guards had caught him stealing from the camp mess. It was fortunate that he hadn't been caught whilst inside the building but as he was leaving to return to the barracks. The punishment, by itself, was no surprise.

"Thirty days in the cooler," Klink announced. "Dismissed." He waved his hand in a gesture of finality.

Unfortunately for him, Hogan refused to move. "Sir, the Geneva Convention…"

"…states that I, at my discretion, may enforce reasonable discipline," Klink interrupted. "Corporal Newkirk was caught leaving the building; therefore, my decision is final!"

"Did he steal anything?" Hogan asked.

"Of course he did!" Klink thundered, standing up from his office chair. He moved around the desk to stand in front of the American officer. "For your information, Colonel," he said in a lecturing tone, "we Germans do not accuse without justification." The German officer's hand and index finger slashed through the air to make his point. "Our justice is swift, yet fair," he finished, a smug look on his face.

Hogan nodded, accepting the explanation even as Klink beamed in triumph. Before Newkirk could tell the rusty eagle exactly where he could put his remark, Hogan beat him to the punch.

"Sound advice. Makes the Gestapo seem like warm teddy bears, doesn't it sir?" the American Colonel innocently asked.

Klink nodded happily, eager to continue his rapport. "Of course the Gestapo are like teddy bears…" He began, then broke off as he realized what his mouth had said. A furious look crossed his face as he shook his fist at the other man. "HOGAN!" he yelled, glaring at the enemy officer. The Colonel raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Everybody's a critic," he dryly deadpanned. Newkirk heard Schultz stifle a laugh. Unfortunately, Colonel Klink had heard it as well. He rounded over on Sergeant Schultz; the fat guard shifted nervously.

"Maybe you'd like to practice your laughter on the Russian front," he threatened. At that, the NCO's face went deathly pale; service on the eastern front was generally a one way ticket to nowhere. Klink let the comment hang in the air for a long moment before he returned to the business at hand. "What did you find when you searched Corporal Newkirk, Sergeant?" he demanded.

"Nothing, Herr Kommandant," Schultz said in a low voice.

Klink turned and waved a finger in the air at Hogan as he enjoyed the moment. "There's your proof, Colonel. Schultz found…nothing?" He turned back and stared at the Luftwaffe Sergeant, a puzzled look on his face. "What do you mean, nothing?" he demanded. "Surely he had something on him!"

Schultz paled visibly before reaching into his coat pocket. "Only this, Herr Kommandant."

He laid a watch and several letters on Klink's desk; the Kommandant eyed the items with growing anger before he picked up the timepiece and held it up for inspection. Klink's eyes then bored into Newkirk's as he walked several steps to stand in front of the enemy airman.

"And just where did you get this, Corporal?" he asked in a dangerous tone.

He let the offending jewerly dangle from his fingertips in front of the Englishman's face. True to form, Newkirk smiled disarmingly at the Luftwaffe Colonel before another voice interrupted, this one an admiring one from Schultz.

"Ooh, that is a very nice watch, Kommandant…"

Klink looked over at his Sergeant and glared at him again. "Of course it is, dummkopf," he said through clenched teeth. "It happens to be my watch!"

"Which I was on my way to return to you, sir, when Schultz caught me," Newkirk smoothly interrupted.

"Through the mess hall at night, Corporal?" the Kommandant said, gazing back at Newkirk. "Or were you adding to your treasures?"

"Sorry, sir," the Corporal said, then coughed several times. "I've been a little sick this week. Just went into the wrong building."

"You won't have to worry about being in the wrong building anymore, Sergeant," Klink said nastily. "I think forty-five days in the cooler would be enough to cure you." Newkirk visibly paled before the fourth member in the room piped up again.

"Now, hold on Colonel," Hogan interrupted. "That's unfair! What kind of example are you setting for your prisoners?"

"A German one," Klink countered. "Dissmisssed," he said, waving his right hand in a salute. Hogan ignored it.

"Colonel, would you have the men think of you as some sort of hard Kommandant? A man to be feared? Or as a man who could show mercy while giving out that famous German iron discipline?" That caught Klink's attention, Newkirk noted; he stared raptly at Hogan as the American went on.. "Of course, I don't have to remind you about Von Clausewitz, sir…"

Klink nodded, listening intently.

"A brilliant man," the Colonel continued. "A man who knew how to make war, yet also knew how to be a true leader." He laid a hand on Newkirk's shoulder; the Corporal glanced at it in surprise.

"Look at this man, Kommandant," Hogan said, eyeing Klink. "Obviously, he's had a hard life, but underneath the uniform is a decent man." Hogan paused for effect before he continued. "A man who was trying to do the right thing. Now is not the time to add to his troubles, sir." The American Colonel released his grip on Newkirk's shoulder before looking at his counterpart.

"A truly great man is one that knows the meaning of mercy. Show him some of your mercy, Kommandant. Show him what a true leader could be," Hogan asked in a soft tone. To Newkirk's surprise, Klink was actually seriously considering it; he could almost see the gears in the man's mind move before he opened his mouth.

"As a favor to you, Colonel Hogan," the Kommandant said, wagging his index finger, "I will reduce his sentence to ten days in the cooler. As I said, German justice will be fair, yet swift." He walked back behind his desk and sat down, puffing his chest out before looking at the Senior POW again. "I will also expect you to maintain discipline among your men, Colonel Hogan. No more incidents! Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Hogan said.

"Good. Diss-missed!" the Kommandant said, saluting again; this time, Hogan returned it somewhat casually. Klink failed to notice it as he returned to his paperwork.

As the men filed out of the office, Newkirk couldn't believe his luck. Instead of a month and a half in the cooler, he would only be there for ten. If that wasn't enough, the mere fact that an officer stood up for him made his head spin. What was the world coming to?

He was so lost in his thoughts that only the jangling of Schultz's keys broke them; a few minutes later, Newkirk found himself in an uncomfortable - and familiar - bare cell. As he looked through the barred door, Hogan turned to the guard.

"Sergeant, can you give us five minutes?" he asked.

"Please, Colonel," Schultz said apologetically. "I cannot."

"I understand," Hogan said. "Believe me, I don't want to get anyone in trouble."

He then pulled a chocolate bar out of his leather jacket pocket and started to unwrap it. Schultz's eyes widened; chocolate was scarce - if not downright impossible to obtain - in wartime Germany. Newkirk also recognized the candy: it was part of a bag of goodies that some of the American prisoners had given the Colonel until he started getting his own Red Cross packages.

"No problem," he said, taking the bar out of the wrapper before sniffing it like he would a cigar. "I'll just go on back to the barracks…"

"Colonel Hogan-" Schultz said, his voice whiny; the Colonel continued on, ignoring him.

"…and I'll just have this as a nightcap," Hogan finished.

"Please, Colonel Hogan," the guard said, his voice pleading. "Perhaps…"

"Five minutes?" the Colonel asked, waving the bar back and forth; Schultz's eyes followed it greedily before he nodded in agreement.

Hogan put the candy bar back in the wrapper and handed it to Schultz; the guard nodded gratefully and started waddling to the far end of the corridor. Once he was out of earshot, Hogan approached the cell door.

"Thanks, Colonel," Newkirk said, meaning it. "Got me out of a jam with Klink, you did. I owe you one.."

"No problem," Hogan said. "So what did you do with it?"

"With what, sir?" the Corporal asked innocently. The Colonel gave Newkirk a piercing look, then shook his head before speaking again.

"If you can steal Klink's watch without him knowing it, then you're smarter than you look. That means you had someone else working with you. Who?"

Newkirk looked into Hogan's eyes and decided to tell the truth.

"Louis LeBeau, Colonel," he said. "You've met him in our barracks. The short Frenchman." He paused and took a deep breath. "I passed him the stuff I took; it was just me own bad luck I got caught on the way out.."

Hogan was silent for a long moment before replying. "Bad luck, maybe. Maybe not. What else can you do?"

"Most anything, Colonel. Why?"

The American Colonel smiled. "Just curious. Come and see me when you get out. We have some talking to do." He threw Newkirk a rakish grin and walked off; a moment later, the sound of the metal outer door being locked reached his ears. He was alone.

He looked around the bare cell for a moment. There really wasn't too much to see; the only view out of the barred window were the ever present searchlights from the guard towers. Despite the depressing surroundings, Newkirk snorted once before letting out a gale of laughter that echoed down the cellblock. That, he reflected, was the funniest damn thing he had ever seen ever since Willoughby raced starkers across the compund. For the first time in a very long time, Peter Newkirk felt somewhat hopeful. Alive, even. If Hogan's plans were anything like the ones in Klink's office, then he was more than willing to go along. Particularly if it got one over on Jerry.

After all, what else did he have to lose?

It didn't take long for Newkirk to wonder if Hogan was mad.

Not only did the man want to build escape tunnels underneath the wire - just like any other prisoner in the camp - he also wanted to make them into actual rooms! Even more astounding was the other idea: to rescue downed Allied fliers AND conduct sabotage operations. If it was madness, then the Senior POW led the way to building the biggest - and to Newkirk's mind, the best - operation that ever existed anywhere.

Then too was the relationship with his friends. Over time, it was the feeling of trust that really surprised Newkirk. Back in London, opportunities were first come, first serve; you had to be your own man about that. In camp, his friends - starting with LeBeau - actually cared about him. At first, he thought it was a come on; people didn't really act that way. It was the little things that convinced him otherwise: the sideways glances or looks of concern. The friendly tone that wasn't dodgy. It was…humbling, to say the least. While it was hard to return the feeling - old habits died hard - there were times it surprised him when he could.

Moreover, his part in the operation was something to take pride in. While he still nicked from the guards at times, his talent was being put to better use in stealing classified documents and the like. It actually put the gangs he knew of back home to shame, in a way. Where else could you get back at the authorities - namely, the Germans - and know you were doing your bit for King and Country?

As things turned out, the group of men he lived and worked with - Carter, LeBeau, Kinchloe, and the Colonel - weren't just another bunch of blokes thrown together by the war. They were his friends. They were his brothers. Even the trust the Colonel showed him was surprising; he had no desire of any kind to let the man down. For the first time in his military life - or in his life at all - Newkirk found himself respecting, if not admiring, someone in authority. It made him wonder what his life could be like after the war was over. Did he really want to go back to the old way…or did he want to be something better?

After all, if Hogan - a born con artist if he ever saw one - could be someone respectable, then why couldn't he?

As always, the war continued. Occasionally, other senior Allied officers would become 'guests' of the Stalag from time to time. Colonel Crittendon was bad enough - it was embarrassing for Newkirk to admit they were from the same country, much less the same service - but the first American General they received was even worse than that. The man's name was Aloysius Barton; Newkirk would never forget that name as long as he lived.

He was the General that called Colonel Hogan a traitor.

Of course, he hadn't been there in the cooler to hear it. Klink, of course, had gone straight to his office to gleefully call General Burkhalter about their new prisoner. Hogan's men, meanwhile, had listened in to the tapped conversation with varying degrees of shock. No less was Newkirk's reaction:

Hogan was trying to help, you stupid bastard; you should have gone along with it! Damn officers; dumb as they come!

The Colonel, true to form, did what he did best: he kidnapped a German General - a Field Marshal, to boot - and fooled the enemy into exchanging prisoners. Still, Newkirk knew that being called a traitor had to hurt the American officer even if he didn't show it. It was just as bad as calling a man a coward. Even though General Barton would eventually learn the truth in London - another reason for me to hate him, Newkirk thought bitterly - the label would still be there inside Hogan's head.

Colonel Hogan may be willing to let it pass; after all, the other man is a bloody General! But I won't.

All he had to do was wait.

General Barton slowly let his anger simmer in the cool noonday air.

Hogan, I really don't know what happened to you, he thought disgustedly. What did it take for the Germans to make you one of theirs? And why? Barton wondered what the holdup with the exchange was. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to be out of this damned camp.

Just then, he saw Hogan come out of a nearby barracks with a few enlisted men; he eyed the Colonel with distaste. You may have the Germans wrapped around your finger, Hogan, but I'll make damned sure that your Eagles get exchanged for stripes. Prison stripes. I hope you enjoy Leavenworth, Hogan. You're going to be there for a long damn time after I'm through with you…

"General Barton?"

An English voice interrupted his thoughts; Barton turned to see a RAF airman standing nearby. For a long moment, he was tempted to take his anger out on the enlisted man despite the circumstances. Instead, his voice was slightly unpleasant.

"Yes, Corporal?" he asked.

"Sir, my name is Peter Newkirk," the Corporal explained. "I wanted to give you the real story on the Colonel."

Barton's temper flared, but he managed to keep it in check. "I think I know the entire story," he snarled. "You can tell your Colonel that I'll make sure that he's taken care of. Now get out of my sight!" he ordered in a gravelly voice.

The English Corporal stood his ground; his voice was calm even though hate tinged the words. "You're a right bastard, aren't you, General?" he said in a flippant tone.

The American officer whirled around and glared at Newkirk. "You're way out of line, Corporal…"

"No, you are sir," Newkirk countered sarcastically in a low voice even as he looked the superior officer in the eye. "Maybe you don't know this, General, but Hogan was trying to get the Krauts to believe that you weren't a General. He was trying to get you out of trouble, and it would have been a whole lot easier to get you out of the camp!"

If it hadn't been for the Germans nearby, Barton would have cheerfully pounded Newkirk into the ground, regulations and the English be damned. "So he could continue to run the camp?" he spat. "Maybe if you had an actual leader more people would escape this damn hellhole!"

"Actually, they do, General," Newkirk said casually; the smile only served to raise the General's blood pressure several notches. "We just don't advertise it."

The General pointed a finger at the Kommandantur. "That German idiot in there says otherwise!" he flared. The hard glare he gave the Englishman refused to move him; if anything, the other man looked at the General with clear contempt in his eyes. Despite the anger, Barton felt a small sliver of doubt creep into his mind. On the face of it, his original judgment was sound: Hogan was preventing escapes at best, collaborating with the Germans at worst. However, out in the light of day, there were things that just didn't add up. For starters, the camp looked like an escaper's dream. The camp Kommandant was a moron of the first order. It just didn't make any sense that no one would escape, Colonel Hogan or not.

Just what the hell is going on?

Barton, for once, decided to stop arguing. Instead, he tempered his anger and waited for the Corporal to explain his part.

"When someone gets shot down, General," Newkirk said, "Just how do you think they get back to England? Magic?"

Barton opened his mouth to retort; just then, something clicked in his mind. A half-forgotten conversation from what seemed like a century ago…

…just right after he had earned his star. Two weeks after that, he was in England and to a new command. Major General Tom Collins, the head of Bomber Command, had called him into his office the day after he arrived. On the face of it, the meeting was normal. Almost.

"Al," General Collins said in a serious tone, "As part of your operations, you're going to occasionally get back men who were shot down and then recovered. I'm telling you now: don't ask them how they got out."

"Why not, sir?" Barton asked, curious. Instead of answering directly, Collins poured the junior officer another shot of whiskey in his glass and watched him down it before he slowly leaned back in his chair. "I can't tell you why, Al," he said finally. "All I can tell you is that those boys are briefed by intelligence on what they've seen and heard; they're the ones that tell the men to keep their mouths shut."

He looked Barton in the eye. "We have something going on in Germany, Al. Something big. Ask too many questions, and it might kill the pipeline. Trust me on this, Al; you don't want to ask questions…"

Now it all made sense. "Hogan's somehow getting prisoners back to England, isn't he?" he softly asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer.

"Right in one, General," Newkirk answered. "Klink has his no escape record, so that keeps his Generals happy. Keeps him here. Otherwise, someone smarter might figure us out."

Barton turned away from Newkirk and looked back at Hogan for a moment, yet he said nothing. The Englishman continued to speak, undeterred.

"Hogan's a good man, General. If it came to it, I'd follow him to hell; he's the only man I know who could get us back out and get one over on the devil besides. We all would. We might be bloody prisoners, but at least we do our bit and more."

General Barton, for his part, was embarrassed at his earlier snap judgment. Instead of anger, guilt flowed though his veins at the dishonor he had inflicted; even worse, it had been in front of the Germans! How could I have been so wrong? To think that about a fellow officer? In his shame, he was unable to face the Corporal; instead, he continued to listen.

"So that's the setup, General," Newkirk said. "Maybe I shouldn't speak up like this, but I just wanted to let you know how we all feel about Colonel Hogan. You can't put me in jail for it, because legally speaking I'm in jail already." While he felt like he had gotten through to the General - at least the man was letting him talk - the silence from the man bothered him.

Just then Colonel Klink came around the rear of the car and glared at the Englishman. "That's all, Newkirk," he said in a clipped tone, dismissing him.

Newkirk nodded, then immediately moved off towards his friends. He sighed.

At least I tried.

He had gotten about halfway there when he heard Barton's voice call out "Hogan. Colonel Hogan!"

Hogan stepped away from the barracks and looked at the General while his men watched. Newkirk tensed.

If he says anything bad to the Colonel, the Krauts won't have to worry about a prisoner exchange.

Instead, the General saluted Hogan. Surprised, if not puzzled, the Colonel returned the salute and held it until Barton broke away to get into the car. Hogan gave Newkirk a curious look; the Corporal merely smiled back.

Anything for you, Colonel.

[fin/ende]

A/N: Reviews, of course, are always appreciated!

Next up: Prisoners of Honor