Hogan's Heroes: Sticks and Stones (2/4)

[jordannamorgan]

Title: Sticks and Stones (2/4)
Author: jordannamorgan
Archive Rights: Please request the author’s consent.
Rating/Warnings: G.
Characters: Ensemble.
Summary: A Gestapo officer's strange agenda involves Colonel Hogan.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I’m just playing with them.



"You can't be serious."

Friedrich Stroheim crouched in the snow just beyond Stalag Thirteen's high barbed-wire fence, staring blankly down through a trapdoor that opened out of a tree stump. Kinchloe huddled beside him, while Newkirk and LeBeau remained hidden in the bushes, waiting.

"Come on, Herr Stroheim," Kinchloe sighed. "It's a tunnel. You'll be a heck of a lot safer down there than anyplace above ground—especially here!" He put a hand on Stroheim's shoulder and pushed him to the ground, ducking himself, as a searchlight from one of the stalag's guard towers ghosted across the clearing.

Stroheim made a whimpering sound. "Sergeant, perhaps this is not the most auspicious of times to discuss it, but… I am afraid I suffer from rather acute claustrophobia."

"Oh, that's just great," Kinch groaned, shaking his head. "Alright, let me put it to you this way: you can be claustrophobic down there, or dead up here."

"Point taken…" Stroheim got up, and with painful slowness, he began easing himself down into the tunnel entrance.

The bushes rustled, and Newkirk sprinted from cover, dropping to the ground at Kinchloe's side. "Trouble, mate?"

"Stroheim's got a deathly fear of enclosed spaces." Kinch craned his neck to look over the rim of the stump. "Get down there after him. If he starts having any problems, just keep him quiet, okay?"

"Right." Newkirk nodded and slithered down the hatch. Kinch pressed himself against the ground as the searchlight passed by again, then gestured for LeBeau to move. The Frenchman scurried over and followed Newkirk—just as noises of a scuffle began to erupt from down below.

Colonel, I sure wish you were here, Kinch thought bleakly, and started down the ladder.

Underground, his fears were confirmed. Stroheim was having a wild panic attack. Newkirk and LeBeau were struggling with him, and from the looks of things, it was all they could do to hold him.

"He's flippin' barmy!" Newkirk wailed, jerking his head back to dodge Stroheim's flailing fist. The small German was uttering cries Kinch had never heard the likes of before.

The noise attracted the attention of Carter, who had stayed behind when Stroheim was picked up. He appeared from the barracks end of the tunnel, and his eyes widened as he saw the melee taking place. "Hey!"

"Andrew, get over here!" Newkirk commanded, as he wrestled Stroheim to the floor—inadvertently crushing LeBeau beneath them. Quickly Carter scuttled over and added his weight to the fray.

"Give me some room." Kinch stalked forward, balling his fist. His comrades parted like the Red Sea, pushing Stroheim into the line of fire, and one solid blow to the man's jaw settled the matter. He slumped unconscious into Newkirk and Carter's arms.

Groaning, LeBeau crawled out from under the heap of bodies. "Mon Dieu…"

"Double mon Dieu." Breathing hard, Newkirk propped himself up on one elbow. "I wasn't halfway down the ladder when he jumped me and tried to climb back up. Who'd have guessed the li'l bugger could put up a fight like that?"

Kinch put his hands on his hips. "Phobias can do some strange things… Come on, Carter, let's get him settled in a cot down here. Newkirk, I'd like you to check with Sergeant Wilson and see what kind of sedatives we've got."

"If we're running short, I suggest a hammer," the Englishman grumbled as he stood up. Ignoring Kinchloe's reproving look, he headed for the tunnel that led to Barracks Five.

Within a few minutes, Kinch and Carter had laid Stroheim on a cot in the radio room—the nerve center of the tunnel system, where he could be closely watched. Newkirk soon returned with Sergeant Wilson, who was the closest thing to a medic among the stalag's prisoners.

"Nice bruise," was Wilson's first flippant remark, when he leaned over the cot and looked at his patient.

"Never mind that," Kinch admonished. "This guy's violently claustrophobic. Another panic attack like the one he just had could bring the Krauts down on us."

"I'm even less of a therapist than I am a doctor." Wilson heaved a thoughtful sigh. "Newkirk was jabbering at me about sedatives. Do I take it you want this guy drugged?"

"If we can't keep him quiet any other way, yes."

"Well… I'll agree to that for tonight, if only so you guys can get some sleep. But it wouldn't be good, keeping him pumped full of chemicals until whenever it is you plan to get him out of here."

"We don't even know. That's up to the Krauts." Kinch spread his hands helplessly. "I promise, tomorrow we'll try to talk to Stroheim and figure out how to keep him calm. But for now… I think he needs the rest as much as we do."

Wilson frowned. "Alright, deal." He produced a syringe from his shirt pocket and began rolling up Stroheim's sleeve. "This should keep him under for a good ten or twelve hours. Go on, try to get some sleep."

"Thanks." Finally starting to feel his weariness, Kinch headed for the lockers to shed his black espionage garb, followed by LeBeau and Newkirk.

"What do we do next?" LeBeau queried plaintively.

Kinch shrugged. "Before I turn in, I'll get a message off to London. Hopefully by morning they'll have an answer for your question."

Closing his eyes, Newkirk thumped a fist against the door of his locker. "We ruddy well need the Colonel back."



A dim sense of deja vu drifted into Hogan's awareness as he heard his name being called. A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him gently, and with a resigned sigh he opened his eyes. Lieutenant Stiegler was leaning over him.

"Guten morgen, Colonel, such as it is."

Hogan hadn't realized before just how young Stiegler was. He did now, and he also noticed the troubled emotions lurking in the youthful officer's face.

"Frolich?" Hogan asked quietly, sitting up.

"Gone. Permanently." Stiegler averted his gaze. "Sir, I do not know how I can apologize for what I had to do yesterday. All I can say is that like Major Frolich, I believed the end will justify the means."

"We'll see," Hogan murmured. "But I'd like to give you one piece of advice: get out of this. In the end, your little charade will do worse things to you than anyone else."

Stiegler sighed. "I want it to end, sir. Perhaps, when we reach Stalag Thirteen—"

"If we get that far." Hogan inclined his head. "I can arrange a one-way trip to London. That should be a good incentive for you to help me get out of this alive. Now, I take it I have a visitor."

"Ja… Major Hochstetter has arrived." Stiegler frowned worriedly. "What will you do, sir?"

"I don't think there's much I can do, except be more honest with him than I've ever liked to be." Hogan stood up slowly. "I think I know what buttons to push."

"Good luck, sir." Stiegler reached up to the hanging light fixture, and reconnected the wire to the listening device hidden there. Then he took Hogan by the arm and led him out of the cell.

"An ordinary cast was first given to you in my counterpart's presence," Stiegler murmured, as he led Hogan down a maze of dimly lit corridors. "Later, I switched it in secret with your… special package. Liebman will report to Hochstetter what he saw—that I only dressed your injury."

"Fine." Hogan scowled, touching his cast. "But I've gotta know one thing. Just how sensitive is this little wiring job you've done on my arm?"

Stiegler blanched. "Let us merely say, Colonel… I would try to be careful not to jar it too much."

"Wonderful. Just wonderful…" Hogan drew his left arm more tightly against his body, falling silent as Stiegler opened the door to Major Frolich's office. Like a coiled cobra, Hogan's pet Gestapo foil lurked within.

Major Wolfgang Hochstetter was a small, vicious terrier of a man, with a stern face and a snarling voice. He was sitting at Frolich's desk when the door opened, and he looked up at Hogan, his ever-threatening dark eyes narrowed to calculating slits.

Hogan greeted him with an insolent smile, made lopsided by his swollen lip. "Well, Major, aren't you going to ask what I'm doing here?"

The habitual scowl lines across his forehead deepening, Hochstetter slowly stood up and came around the desk. "Just because I did not authorize your visit here, Colonel Hogan, does not mean I disapprove of the results," he replied in his heavily accented English. As he drank in the spectacle of Hogan's bruises and cuts, his expression relaxed into something like satisfaction.

"You were brought here at a most interesting time. Do you know that the man who interrogated you, Major Frolich, has been found dead? Either he shot himself or it was made to look that way."

A ripple of mixed emotions passed through Hogan, but he set his jaw dispassionately. "I'm all broken up."

"Soon you may be, in the literal sense." Hochstetter folded his gloved hands behind his back, slowly beginning to circle the room. "Frolich's loyalty was suspect. We have watched him for some time, and two days ago the decision was made that he should be questioned. I was on my way here to do just that when I was informed that he had you in custody."

Hochstetter paused, turning to face Hogan. "Perhaps he had some way of knowing that we were to question him. Perhaps he brought you here to give you information."

"Oh, sure. We had a nice cozy chat, right after he broke my arm as a sign of friendship." Hogan's voice was laden with sarcasm.

The Major's eyes wandered to the cast on Hogan's arm, and he tapped his black mustache thoughtfully. "You saw Major Frolich inflict this injury?" He glanced at Liebman, who had been standing to one side of the desk, and Stiegler, who remained at Hogan's shoulder.

"Jawohl, Herr Major," Liebman replied.

"Afterward, I applied the cast to Colonel Hogan's arm myself," Stiegler added cautiously.

Hochstetter made a dismissive noise in his throat, still contemplating the cast. "It occurs to me this would be one way to conceal some small item…" He reached out to touch it.

"Hey, find somebody else to paw on," Hogan spat, taking a step backward and bumping into Stiegler. The lieutenant placed a staying hand on Hogan's shoulder, then met Hochstetter's indignant gaze.

"Herr Major, I was present with either Major Frolich or this man all night. I know that the Major never touched the cast." He set his jaw slightly. "He was a good superior, and I do not like these accusations against him."

Hogan's eyebrow arched. The kid had some serious guts to protest to Hochstetter's face.

"Lieutenant, what you like and do not like is no concern of mine," Hochstetter growled. He gestured to Liebman, and the two stepped over to the far wall, where they spoke for a moment in hushed tones.

Hogan risked a glance at Stiegler. The young man blinked once, without looking directly at him.

Presently, Hochstetter stalked back to his position in front of the desk. Ignoring Stiegler, he addressed Hogan in a low, silky tone that was atypical of him.

"I know you, Hogan. Every moment of your existence is a scheme and a trick; even now, your mind searches for a way to turn this conversation to your advantage."

"If I think of one, you'll be the first to know," Hogan said blithely. He was rewarded with a fist in the stomach that forced the breath from his lungs.

"You play your games with Klink, but they fail with the Gestapo—and with me. I am sorely tempted to have you shot where you stand."

Clutching his stomach and still gasping for air, Hogan tilted his head to give the man a contemptuous look. "If you do that… you'll never prove all the things you think you know about me. And I'll die knowing I beat you, where it counted."

Hochstetter's eyes narrowed. Without shifting his gaze from Hogan's glare, he murmured, "Liebman."

"Jawohl, Herr Major."

To Hogan's surprise, Hochstetter closed his eyes for a brief moment as he issued his next order.

"Lieutenant, take this man… back to Stalag Thirteen."

With another perfunctory acknowledgement, Liebman moved toward Hogan and took him by the arm. Hochstetter gestured for him to pause.

"I swear, Hogan, I will bring you down. You will find me in every shadow, watching you, waiting to destroy you utterly. Neither your resourcefulness nor Klink's ineptitude will keep me from this."

Hogan locked gazes with Hochstetter for a long moment. "Auf Wiedersehen, Major," he said quietly, and turned to accept Liebman's escort. Near the door, he darted a quick glance at Stiegler.

The young man noticed, and took a step closer to Hochstetter. "Shall I go with Lieutenant Liebman, Herr Major?"

"No. My own aide will do so. You I would speak with." The Major shot a glare at Liebman. "Well? Take that man out of my sight!"

Meeting Stiegler's eyes one last time, Hogan offered up a silent prayer, and allowed Liebman to lead him away.



At Stalag Thirteen, orders from London arrived just after morning roll call. The men waited in the tunnel as Kinchloe took the radio message.

"Still out cold." Leaning over the cot on which Herr Stroheim lay in drugged oblivion, Newkirk sighed. "I'd like to have used a nip of Wilson's stuff meself. I hardly slept at all, thinking about the Guv'nor."

"D'accord," LeBeau sympathized, twisting his cap in his hands. "Tonight we must help him. Do you suppose he will last that long?"

Carter looked up from the stick of dynamite he had been idly turning over in his hands. "The Colonel? You bet he'll last, boy! He doesn't break and he doesn't quit. You'll see. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if he even—"

"Oh, give it a rest, Andrew." Newkirk's reproach was lacking its usual sharpness.

"That goes for all of you," Kinchloe piped up from behind the radio. Scowling, he adjusted his headset slightly and reached for his clipboard. "Go ahead, Mama Bear."

For the next two minutes, he listened to London and wrote furiously, his expression growing darker by leaps. At long last he signed off. He stared at the clipboard for a moment, then yanked his headset off and angrily threw it down onto the table, shaking his head.

"More bad news?" Newkirk asked warily, seating himself beside LeBeau.

"They want us to take Stroheim out and turn him over to the underground tonight." Kinch's tone was flat.

LeBeau shrugged sadly. "With Colonel Hogan gone, Klink has been light on security. We should have no troubles. Besides, we must go out anyway to rescue the Colonel." He frowned as Kinch's expression became shadowed. "Oui?"

"No, Louie." Kinch sighed deeply. "Our orders from London are to go with Stroheim. All of us."

Carter gaped. "Kinch, you don't mean…"

"We fold up our operation here." Kinch nodded grimly. "Someone up top has decided there's too big a risk that the Colonel has been compromised. They want us to get out before we're found out."

LeBeau leaped up from his seat, uttering a burst of rapid, indignant French. "Ceci a tort! Nous ne pouvons pas laisser le Colonel—" He broke off abruptly when Newkirk reached out, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I feel the same way," Kinch said slowly. "But we have our orders. Carter, start rounding up the explosives you need to blow the tunnels, okay?"

"Okay, Kinch." Shoving the stick of dynamite into his battered old jacket, Carter stood up and shuffled toward a branch of the tunnel, muttering to himself.

With a shake of his head, Newkirk spoke in a quiet voice. "I'm not going. Not without the Colonel."

He was rewarded at once with the uncomfortable feeling of his three companions' surprised gazes on him. Looking around at them, he gathered his resolve. "The Guv'nor wouldn't leave one of us. He's taken care of us all for too long not to deserve the same."

LeBeau nodded slowly, resuming his seat beside Newkirk. "I'm with you, mon ami."

Carter turned to Kinchloe with a melting gaze, and the older man heaved a sigh. "Alright, look…"

Sergeant Olsen abruptly leaned around the doorframe. "Gestapo car just came through the gate!"

A mad scramble for the ladder ensued.

Uptsairs, every man in the barracks spilled out the door and clustered outside, watching as a Gestapo staff car rolled toward Klink's office. The Kommandant bustled onto the porch, with Schultz at his elbow.

When the car came to a halt across the compound, a lieutenant stepped out and exchanged salutes with Klink, who strode forward. Words passed between them, too quietly to be heard by the men, and Klink's expression became one of surprise.

The lieutenant opened the rear passenger door of the car, and Colonel Hogan stepped out.

A collective murmur of dismay rippled among the men. The Colonel was hurt. He had bruises, a black eye, a swollen lip. He was limping… and his jacket hung loosely on his left shoulder, only half-concealing a heavy cast that encased his forearm. Even Klink grimaced at the sight of his ranking prisoner.

With a few final words and a salute, the lieutenant stepped back into the car and gestured to the driver. The car took off for the gate, leaving Klink and Hogan to face each other in awkward silence.

Kinch hesitated, then started toward the two Colonels, prompting several of the other men to follow. Hogan turned his head slightly, giving them a brief, foreboding glance that stopped them where they stood.

Klink clasped his hands before his chest, giving Hogan a regretful gaze. He did not care to see anyone suffer pain at the hands of the Gestapo—especially someone as familiar, if annoying, as his American counterpart. "Colonel Hogan, you're… well? Do you need a doctor?"

"I'll live," Hogan replied dryly.

"There's nothing you need?"

Unrealized by Klink, but noticed by the watching prisoners, a calculating glimmer appeared in Hogan's eyes. "Maybe one thing, sir."

"What is it?"

Hogan glanced left and right, then drew back his right fist and delivered a punch that sent Klink sprawling.

Amid the men's gasps of shock, Klink stared up at Hogan in astonished rage, a gloved hand pressed against his jaw. Glancing at his fingers and finding no blood, he looked to Schultz, who stood wide-eyed and gaping.

"Schultz! Take Hogan to the cooler, immediately!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!" Schultz stammered. He warily stepped closer to Hogan and took him by his good arm, tensed to dodge any further blows; but Hogan had become passive, and quietly followed the Sergeant.

Climbing to his feet, Klink whirled on the crowd of prisoners and waved his riding crop. "Back to the barracks, now!" he bellowed, and stomped away into his office.

Newkirk edged forward. "Kinch, what just happened here? The Colonel…"

Kinch's expression was solemn. "The Gestapo must've given him a real going-over."

"Oui. Mon Colonel is hurting," LeBeau lamented. "What can we do?"

"Let's try to find out." Kinch headed for the barracks.

Inside, he headed for the tunnel entrance. Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter followed him below, and the four men started down the tunnel that led to the cooler.

Colonel Hogan was already there, leaning pensively against the wall, at the base of the ladder that led down from the solitary confinement cells. It was clear he had expected his men's intended visit. With a small, tired smile, he waved a dismissive hand to halt their approach.

"Colonel, are we glad to see you!" Carter blurted.

The empty smile took on a fraction more warmth. "It's mutual, fellas. Is everything okay here? Did you get Stroheim?"

Kinch took the fore. "Yes sir, we did. He's a little… odd… but nothing we can't handle." He turned to flash the others a meaningful glance. "Anyway, London wants us to turn him over to the underground tonight. What about you, sir? You want me to call Wilson to have a look at you?"

"No, I'm alright." Hogan stood straighter, taking a step toward the ladder. "But I do need some information. I want you to find the whereabouts of a Gestapo officer named Lieutenant Stiegler, in Dusseldorf."

"What do I do when I find him?"

"Leave that to me." Hogan glanced upward. "I'd better be getting back upstairs. I'd like to rest… and if you don't mind, I'd prefer to be alone for a while."

"We'll see to it no one bothers you, Colonel." Kinch saluted, and watched as Hogan laboriously climbed the ladder with one arm.

"Bloody devils," Newkirk murmured, once Hogan had vanished through the trapdoor. "I'd like to be there personally when every last one of 'em pays for this."

"What do we do about our orders?" LeBeau queried.

Kinch shrugged. "We call London and tell them everything's secure. We've got the Colonel back, and we'll proceed with tonight's rendezvous to hand off Stroheim."

A faint moan from the radio room caused them all to start nervously.

"Speaking of which, it sounds like the little guy is awake again," Carter said.

"Terrific." Kinch sighed, hunching his shoulders. "Come on, we'd better try and figure out how to keep him quiet."



The afternoon dragged on slowly at Stalag Thirteen, and the prison yard remained strangely empty throughout the day. Most of the prisoners kept to the barracks, as if holding some mysterious vigil for their senior officer.

Even Colonel Wilhelm Klink, the Kommandant, was finding it difficult to concentrate on his ever-present paperwork.

The left side of his jaw was bruised and ached faintly where Hogan had clipped him, but somehow, Klink couldn't bring himself to hold it against the American. He knew what the Gestapo was capable of; he had seen Hogan's injuries himself. The man had to be hurting, humiliated, and perhaps would have lashed out at anyone.

Hogan might have been the enemy, but his presence had grown familiar, even comfortable. Klink was more at ease talking to him than to any of his fellow German soldiers, whether superior or subordinate. He had gleaned interesting ideas from him, even confided in him on occasion. And as minutes lengthened into hours, Klink found himself wishing Hogan would barge into his office, swiping a cigar from the humidor as he protested some foolish triviality.

Just after three o'clock, Klink set aside his work and left the office on an impulse, heading for the cooler.

Sergeant Schultz was standing guard at the outer door, leaning on his rifle. His somnolent expression evaporated when he saw Klink coming. "Herr Kommandant!" He saluted anxiously.

Klink returned the salute. "I've decided I want to have a talk with Hogan. Give me the keys, Schultz." He patiently held out a gloved hand, and Schultz fumbled for the key ring on his belt, almost dropping it in haste as he handed it over.

"Dis-missed," Klink added, in his customary sharp fashion. Schultz saluted again and beat a quick retreat. Satisfied, Klink unlocked the door and stepped into the cell block.

In the last cell on the row, Hogan lay staring up at the bland gray ceiling, his injured arm tucked securely against his ribs. Klink was convinced that the American was aware of him, but he remained unmoving.

"Colonel Hogan," Klink began experimentally, and received no acknowledgement. Heaving a sigh, he spoke anyway.

"Hogan, I realize you have just been through a very unpleasant ordeal. I know the way the Gestapo works. Their attention is… something I would not even wish upon an enemy."

He paused. "I understand you must be angry. I can accept that you needed to express it. And, for some reason I cannot fathom… under the circumstances, I feel willing to forgive what you did. Don't take my good graces lightly."

Hogan blinked. And that was all.

Shaking his head, Klink unlocked the cell door. "You're free to leave the cooler," he announced crisply. Still meeting with no response, he spread his hands and started back down the corridor.

He was unaware of Hogan's gaze alertly following him.

As Klink stepped out into the November chill, movement at the compound gate caught his eye. He swallowed back a groan as a staff car with Gestapo markings entered.

"Schultz!" he barked, jolting the obese Sergeant to alertness, and hurried across the yard. Schultz trotted after him like a panting Saint Bernard.

Major Hochstetter stepped out of the car.

"Ah… Major…" Klink fumbled. The events of the past day brought a new level of terror to this man's presence.

Rolling his eyes, Hochstetter saluted perfunctorily. "Where is Hogan?"

Behind Klink, Schultz sniggered. "That is funny, Herr Major. You always complain when Colonel Hogan is with the Kommandant, and when he isn't, you want to see him…" He blanched, his eyes widening to the size of search lights, as the Gestapo officer nailed him with a razor-edged glare.

"Klink," Hochstetter muttered, "what is this man doing here?"

Schultz began stuttering, and Klink cut him off, his instincts for self-preservation kicking in. "Yes, Schultz, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be standing guard at the cooler!" As Schultz began to retreat in his typical confusion, Klink stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and leaned close. "Lock the door to Hogan's cell and tell him I've changed my mind!" he whispered sharply.

The baffled Sergeant lumbered away, and Klink turned back to Hochstetter. "The cooler is where Colonel Hogan is, which I believe answers your first question, Major. And I must say I am not at all pleased with the state in which he was returned to me. Do you see this? He actually struck me after your lieutenant brought him back!" Klink pointed to the bruise. "He'll be in the cooler thirty days for this."

Hochstetter eyed the bruise. "For that, perhaps Hogan should actually get a medal… before he is shot."

"Major, do you… want to see Hogan?" Klink asked warily. His gut twisted at the thought of how another Gestapo encounter might affect the already battered American officer.

"Nein. Leave him for now. At this time, I am here to begin making observations. I have settled my immediate affairs in Dusseldorf, and I will be staying here until further notice. You will carry on normally. Understood?"

Klink nodded on conditioned reflex, then abruptly shook his head. "No, Major, I'm afraid I don't understand. Why did you release Hogan if you weren't… finished with him?"

"Dummkopf, perhaps you forget. It was not I who arrested Hogan yesterday, but Major Frolich."

"Ah, yes, a fine officer. He seemed very much like you," Klink stammered.

Hochstetter shot him a look of complete disgust. "Frolich is dead. And suspected of being a traitor."

"As I said, he was nothing like you at all." Klink hastily shook his head. His neck was beginning to cramp from so much exercise.

The look on his face not changing appreciably, Hochstetter went on. "Despite Hogan's protestations to the contrary, I am convinced Frolich gave him information of some kind, intending for him to relay it to his own connections."

"Connections? Here?"

"Do not even start your argument again, Klink. I know what I know. And Hogan knows what I know…" Hochstetter paused to frown at the tangled remark, then shot Klink a gratuitous glare. "I must know where Hogan is day and night, to catch him in the act of espionage."

Klink stiffened his posture. "By all means, Major… feel free to make Stalag Thirteen your home for as long as you deem necessary." He longed to grimace at the words. "However, I still feel confident that you will find nothing goes on in this camp without my knowledge."

Hochstetter gave him a crosswise scowl. "For your own sake, Klink… you had best hope that you are wrong."

---

© 2000 Jordanna Morgan


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