This story originally appeared in the fanzine Roll Call.

Sergeant Hans Schultz leaned against the barracks building, his poor feet aching again, along with his back. A hint of spring was in the air but Schultz felt in his bones that this particular spring would be very harsh indeed. Not the weather so much, but the final death throes of Adolf Hitler's Third Reich insured even bleaker times to come. This endless war - Mein Gott! But it was finally coming to an messy end now, very soon. Schultz, as he settled himself on the wooden bench and pulled out a quick snack, was surprised at the mixed feelings he felt.

Oh, the signs were there. Had been there, growing closer all the time. Allied bombers flew overhead, untroubled by the Luftwaffe, despite Reichsmarshal Goering's stale personal assurances. Germans had stopped laughing at the irony of that a long time ago. Stalag 13 could hear the sounds of battle coming ever closer. Schultz shook his head sadly; he hated war; hated it the first time as a young man stuck in the filthy trenches in World War I. He'd never dreamed the Vaterland would be so desperate as to call him up once more into service. He frowned; still nursing suspicions that the fawning Burgermeister from his hometown had volunteered him, after their tax dispute concerning Schultz's toy factory. But, whatever the reason, here he was again – and this time it was going to be worse for Germany. As bad as the last Armistice had been, this would be a far bigger disaster. The food shortages were already severe, and the lack of manufactured goods was acute. Stalag 13 had existed on the bare minimum of supplies for some time now, even with Colonel Hogan's mysterious black market resources.

Although Stalag 13 had hardly been a resort, there were worse places for an overweight, elderly sergeant to ride out this madness of world war. But it was the fear of the unknown that now held Schultz in its grip. Like every other German in camp, he feared the Russians would take over, arriving before the Americans and British. Schultz's stomach flip-flopped in nervous despair. Even Stalag 13 had not been immune to the rumors and horror stories racing through Germany like wildfires. The Russians were a terrible people; barbarians all, Schultz thought. If they arrived first…. Typically, Schultz abruptly decided not to think about that anymore. There were so many things he had decided not to think about. Much easier to pretend ignorance or at least not look too closely. It was ingrained habit since the Nazis had taken power all those years ago.

The Sergeant saw Colonel Wilhelm Klink pass by his window. Schultz immediately tried to blend into the wall, covering up the fact that he was sitting down on duty. It was a reflex response. But the Kommandant went right by, hand pressed to his forehead in a dramatic pose of woe. Schultz looked a bit sour: Poor Kommandant Klink. The Sergeant hoped this didn't mean more dramatics. Klink alternated between moods of panic, wild depression and a deep sense of relief that it would all be over soon. Searching for food for the camp, summoning some desperate courage to battle the fanatics of the Gestapo plus dealing with the disintegrating hierarchy of the government, it had all taken its toll on the flighty man. There was also the secret guilty relief that the Iron Eagle was still alive, when most of his peers were not. He was still the same old Klink in some ways; trying (and failing) to outsmart Colonel Hogan. One moment quaking in fear, the next trying to present himself as a fearless leader of men. In the end however, there was only bitter disappointment in the realization that, as an officer and a role model German man, he was a failure. The Kommandant rarely even ventured outside anymore. For several weeks, Wilhelm Klink was hysterical at the thought of the Russians getting to Stalag 13 first. He made out a new will, dressed in his best uniform (So in case he was shot he would be buried in his finest.) and bored everyone in the camp with his endless melancholy self-pity. But something had changed in the last week. The Kommandant was able to get into town one last time to play with his string quartet and he came back as a man at peace, at least momentarily. Or he had worried himself beyond hope and perhaps reason. Klink was quiet now; but in unguarded moments Schultz had heard him composing a letter to his mother, one that would be sent in case he should die. Klink had written it himself, as Stalag 13 was no place for Fraulein Hilda anymore. It moved the sergeant to hear the former "Big Shot' so open and, at long last, honest. It had been a very long time coming.

The barracks doors opened and the prisoners came out into the exercise yard. Even though they were painfully thin and usually cold, the prisoners these days were in high spirits. They insolently speculated and counted the days they could go home. Or at least they thought they would be going home. Heaven only knew what sort of bureaucratic tangle they would end up in, if the Allies were as bad as the Germans on that.

Schultz munched on his stale sandwich, acknowledging the waves of a few prisoners as a spirited volleyball game started up. Some of these men he'd known for years - better than his own family. Schultz snorted glumly. He supposed he was a bad German but he liked a good many of these boys.

A group of Frenchmen passed by and more than a few glares were exchanged. Schultz shrugged and finished his sandwich. Some of these men had learned how to hate even more intensely through the war. There had already been some ugly incidents between the guards and the prisoners. Heaven! If it hadn't been for Colonel Hogan, Schultz felt like he and his fellow guards might be dead by now. Twice prisoners had ambushed a solitary guard; young Rolf, a good, gentle boy far too young for this sort of thing, they'd nearly beaten to death. Klink, more serious than his Sergeant had ever seen him before, had pressed hard to find the guilty men. But, as usual, it was Colonel Hogan who had discovered the guilty parties and Colonel Hogan who enforced Klink's discipline. Sixty days in the cooler in solitary, minimal rations. And for once, the American Colonel had made no effort to overturn the verdict, having made sure the miscreants weren't shot as some of the guards wanted. Hogan's men also made sure the guilty men stayed there, unaided by their fellow prisoners. Colonel Hogan had indicated this would not be the end of the matter, even after the camp liberation. The American had been as horrified as Schultz by the brutality of the attack. Schultz had been outside the barracks doors the night of the attack and heard the blistering response of the American Colonel who seemed furious over the incident. No joking around that night.

"Hey, Schultz! How are you?" Sergeant Richard Baker raced by, a big, strapping young man with a ready smile. He was one of the later arrivals to Stalag 13. The young American had adapted seamlessly into Barracks 2, along with the other troublemakers of Colonel Hogan.

Schultz smiled back. "I am fine, danke." It was impossible not to like Baker. The young man seemed so untouched by the war. Perhaps it was because he had been at Stalag 13 for such a relatively short time. Perhaps he was still too young, too naive and had not yet seen all that much of the terrible face of war. Or perhaps it was Colonel Hogan and his merry crew, up to their usual mysterious monkey business. For whatever reason, Baker was happy and almost carefree, given their circumstances. He loved music and when the Kommandant permitted, Baker would play records for the entire camp. In the midst of insanity, it was a happy time for all. An all too brief appearance of normalcy.

Thinking of Baker made Hans Schultz wonder how Sergeant Kinchloe was doing.

Sergeant James Kinchloe was a very nice man and a great friend of Colonel Hogan's. Suddenly, he was transferred to another Stalag, without notice. Even Colonel Klink had no advance warning of this move. Sergeant Kinchloe had supposedly gotten into a fight, which no one had seen or reported, and suddenly he was being transferred. At first Schultz feared the Gestapo; Major Hochstetter's 'dreaded ring of steel' seemed to be everywhere now days. But the lack of anger among the prisoners themselves told of a different story. They were sad to see Sergeant Kinchloe leave, but resigned. And that told Schultz there was some monkey business behind this move.

It was confirmed two days later when the Underground near Hammelburg ambushed the convoy carrying Sergeant Kinchloe and some other prisoners. The Underground had rescued all the prisoners. There were several red faces among the German command over that fiasco. Schultz had worried about Kinchloe for several days afterward, and was puzzled why Colonel Hogan and his boys didn't seem to be concerned. Finally, one night a softhearted Sergeant Carter told him not to worry anymore; he couldn't explain but Sergeant Kinchloe was just fine and his family was very happy he was back.

His family was happy? He was back?

Good grief! More funny business! The jolly jokers were at it again. But Schultz had to admit he was indeed happy, albeit secretly, for Kinchloe. He was a good man with a surprising sense of humor. And he did some wicked impressions. Schultz had never heard a better version of Der Fuehrer and Herr Kommandant Klink, complete with the correct walk. And he managed to sound exactly like General Burkhalter. Schultz nearly laughed aloud at the memory of it. It had been dangerous to laugh about it then. Now, it was rumored General Burkhalter was dead but no one here at Stalag 13 knew for sure. There was so little news from the outside world.

HH HH HH

"Hi Schultz, how goes the war today?" Sergeant Andrew Carter stopped by, smiling and nodding at him.

"Ach, mein feet hurt," Schultz said sadly. Carter was one of the few who were sympathetic, so the Sergeant always made sure he cataloged all his ailments when Carter was around.

"Your dogs are tired," Carter replied brightly.

"What?" Schultz, as usual, was confused. Carter often spoke mysteriously; even his fellow Americans did not know what he was speaking of a lot of the time. Then a light dawned. "Oh, another American slang expression, is it?" Schultz relished his collection of Americanisms from Carter; he felt less stupid when the Americans boys talked. At least he could now understand some of what they said! That was more than the English prisoners could claim.

"Yup. Schultz, when this war is over, you're gonna be the most American German in Germany." Carter announced proudly.

Schultz smiled, albeit a wary, tired one. He, like Klink, dreaded what the end of the war might bring. Certainly another reminder was not needed. "Perhaps it will help me if the Americans come but if the Russians arrive first…" He could not bring himself to finish the thought. Fear had been with him for so long now.

"Aw, Schultz, don't worry." Carter's honest face showed his dismay. "You know Colonel Hogan won't let anything happen to you."

"Sergeant Carter, there may be limits to what Colonel Hogan can do," Schultz replied gloomily remembering the chaos, hardship and despair in 1918. Sometimes the aftermath of war was even worse than the duration.

Carter looked amazed at the very thought. "Are you sure about that?" His slow smile, as always, melted away some of the Sergeant's depression.

"Perhaps not." Schultz leaned closer. "We won't tell him about this little lapse, will we?"

"I hear nothing, Schultz! Nothing!" Carter laughed. He went off to get one of the few volleyballs left in camp and start a game.

"Well, Schultzy, I see you're slacking off again today, hey?"

Peter Newkirk strolled out, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a man on holiday. "Of course, soon it won't matter if you're slacking off or not! But you'll still owe me money." Newkirk added complacently.

The Sergeant frowned. "Hopefully, the war won't end before I win my money back," he blustered, trying to look intimidating. Newkirk and his smart mouth. Schultz just knew those gambling games of the Englisher were rigged. How else could he have lost all that money?

"Schultzy, we are not gonna extend the war so you can cover all your debts." Newkirk paused to place a friendly arm around the big sergeant's shoulders. "Meself, I plan on buying a little cottage with the money you owe me. Fix it all nice and pretty and wait for the right bird to fly into the nest."

"You? Settling down to a wife and home?" Schultz could barely contain his mirth. "I think perhaps she'll be at home and you'll be out gambling and getting up to all kinds of monkey business! You never could resist a fraulein!"

Newkirk removed his arm and placed his hand over his heart. "You wound me. I'm a changed man, Sergeant. After all the years I've wasted in this terrible place, I'm ready for me own home and hearth, you know what I mean?"

"You're going to do magic shows and card tricks only for your children, you mean?" Hans Schultz could not hide his skepticism.

"Well, er, yes. Maybe an occasional foray into town, of course, for essential supplies."

"Supplies, ha! Will you be spending your own money? Or someone else's that you 'won'!" The big Sergeant made no effort to disguise his bitterness. He dearly mourned those lost marks but in his heart he knew he'd play every game over again.

Newkirk's face dropped. "Ah, Schultzy, that's low. Even from a Kraut, that's pretty low."

"Today, I am not a nice man. You must live with it."

Schultz huffed.

Newkirk grinned. "Not for much longer." He made a show of checking his watch and looking at the sky. "Those bombers are late today. The Yanks must have stopped off for tea."

Really his impertinence was unrivaled by anyone in camp. Schultz did not deign to answer.

"Hey, Newkirk, are you playing volleyball?" Baker yelled.

"Be right there, mate." Newkirk tipped his hat. "See ya, Schultzy. For a short while at least." He strolled off to the waiting players.

HH HH HH

"He's right, you know. Soon the tables will turn around here."

A harsh voice sounded next to him.

Schultz sighed, turning to the frowning small man in a the red beret. "Corporal LeBeau, the tables have turned in this camp long ago. You know that." The little Frenchman was always a volatile personality. A bit older than the others, (Schultz remembered how surprised he'd been to learn that the Frenchman was a year older than Colonel Hogan.) LeBeau had volunteered when other Frenchmen ran for their lives from the blitzkrieg of the German Wehrmacht.

LeBeau shrugged. "Doesn't make up for it though, Schultz. Not even close." He made no attempt to hide his hostility.

Schultz figured with the end of the war so close, LeBeau would be happy. But he was not. In fact, he was almost more embittered than before, when France was losing. His little strudel friend was an implacable enemy when emotional and being French, he was emotional nearly all the time. Schultz knew better than ask what LeBeau was cooking on days like these. "We have both seen a lot of days here, little cockroach," Schultz said gently. He half expected LeBeau to flare back at him.

Instead, to his surprise and relief, LeBeau paused to sit down beside him on his little bench. "We've been here a long time, haven't we?" His voice was flat and tinged with regret.

Schultz nodded sadly. "We were among the first."

"When I think back… I was here when Newkirk was brought in."

"I knew he was trouble from the start," Schultz declared firmly.

LeBeau gave him an impish grin. "Well, we agree finally on something, you big Bosche!"

Schultz laughed. "Remember when Colonel Hogan was brought in?"

LeBeau nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "That's a day I won't forget. Colonel Hogan gave it right back to Klink. In his face. The way I'd wished our French officers would have on the Line." LeBeau shrugged again. "Funny, I had to wait for an American officer to arrive to fight back."

Schultz perked up. "Fight back?" It was always a question of how much they would tell him – and how much he really wanted to know.

The little Frenchman gave him a sideways look. "You've always known, haven't you, Schultzy? Admit it."

"That there's monkey business going on?" Schultz scoffed. "A parachute jump alone is etched into my poor heart! What do you take me for, a dumkopf? "

LeBeau gave him a long steady look. "Sometimes. But not always. Which makes you a bit better than the other filthy Bosche around here. But not that much!" With that, LeBeau got up and joined the volleyball game.

"Danke – I think." Schultz called after him. He wondered what the multi talented LeBeau would do when back in his native Paris. He'd done a little bit of everything; cooking, song and dance cabaret man, clothes designer, who knew what else? But today was not the day to ask him. LeBeau was so touchy. Schultz would mourn the loss of his cooking though; even more so than the lost marks to Newkirk!

HH HH HH

"How's tricks, Schultz?" Colonel Robert Hogan walked up and sat down beside Schultz on his forbidden break, taking the spot so recently vacated by LeBeau.

"My feet hurt," Schultz, said automatically. He could go on with his list but Colonel Hogan seemed uninterested these days.

Hogan smiled bleakly as he looked over the camp. "Just another day."

The American's voice was so lifeless Schultz quickly looked at him. "You look tired, Colonel Hogan. Are you well?"

Hogan shrugged. "As soon as you Germans surrender, I'll be fine."

Schultz paused, unsure of how to take that. It had not been the same for Colonel Hogan since his good friend Kinchloe left, he silently observed.

Hogan noticed his discomfort. "Um, sorry, Schultz. I'm just tired. Tired of being a prisoner, tired of the war." He looked away, at the men playing volleyball. "I guess I really want to go home. It's been a very long time," he added quietly. His eyes roamed beyond the barbed wire.

Hans Schultz gave the younger man a sympathetic smile. "Me too. Even though my wife will be there."

Hogan gave him a curious look. "Do you know what you'll be going back to, Schultz? In your town, I mean."

It was the big Sergeant's turn to fidget uncomfortably. "I suspect, if it's like the last time, it will be very bad."

"The last time?"

"The other war."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure." Hogan cleared his throat. "I think it'll be worse, Schultz. This time, I mean."

Schultz nodded. "I do too," he said quietly.

"Hey, Colonel, come play some volleyball!" Carter shouted. Soon, Newkirk and LeBeau were joining in, imploring the Colonel to join the game. Hogan darted a quick look at Schultz. "You should go play," the older man admonished gently. "They want you to."

"My heart's not really in it anymore. Too many games, I guess." Hogan replied vaguely, still scanning the horizon. There was an exhaustion there that he no longer tried to hide with jokes and silliness. Sometime in the last few months, Robert Hogan had stopped laughing.

Schultz sighed. "I know. But it would help you feel better and make your friends happy."

Hogan gave him a strange look, bordering on incredulous. "And that's what it's all about, huh, Schultz? Making somebody else happy? If I'd only known," he added, sarcasm coloring his voice as he watched Klink pace in his office. His disgust was palpable.

Schultz turned towards him, for once very serious. This attitude could not be allowed to continue. "Colonel Hogan, you have a gift. You have the gift of command – something that poor Kommandant Klink will never have, even though he has longed for it all his life. You should not underestimate it. Men will follow you, whether you are in the American Army or not, I think!" You have the power to make other people happy." Deciding to retreat to his safe harbor, he added, "Now, me, with my wife, I will never make her happy. I know, I've tried! Five children I gave her!"

Colonel Hogan smiled, a distant smile that never really reached his eyes. "You know, Schultz, we saw your wife. She didn't seem that bad."

"She didn't stay long," Schultz replied darkly.

At this, the Colonel did laugh. "That's the kind of wife to have." He yelled out to the men. "I'll be there in a minute." Hogan gave him an impish look, albeit a washed out one from the old days. "Maybe she didn't want that kind of a gift. The kids, I mean."

The Sergeant snorted. "That's not what she said when we married." He preened himself, just a little. "She's had no complaints."

The American colonel rolled his eyes. "Schultz, you should have been a general. You can sure spread it around."

Schultz immediately agreed, even though he wasn't sure what was just said. "Ja" His thoughts turned back to a serious side. Despite his own words to Hogan, he could not shake his melancholy today.

Colonel Hogan noticed his expression and asked gently, "Are you okay, Schultz?"

It was a question Schultz was asking himself. "Colonel Hogan, you do not hate me, do you?"

Hogan shifted uneasily. "Well, you are the enemy, Sergeant."

"You have saved my life several times. You did not treat me like the enemy then!" Schultz was indignant.

Sighing, Hogan asked, "What brings this on?"

"LeBeau." The big German's feelings were hurt and he did not bother to try and cover it up. Just because they were all at war, there was no need to be discourteous.

"Oh." Hogan shifted, the toe of his shoe digging into the ground. "It's been a long war for him. He's frustrated; now that the end is finally so close, he wants to go home. It's hard to wait."

"Well," Schultz waved his arm expansively, "he knows that if it were up to me, he could have gone home already!"

"That's the problem," Hogan said seriously, turning to face him. "It hasn't been up to people like you for a long time. It's been up to people like ol' Fruitcake in Berlin, or wherever he's dug in right now."

"I hate the man!" Schultz declared, surprising himself and Hogan with that simple statement. For the first time in years, he did not look over his shoulder when finally speaking his true feelings.

Colonel Hogan looked saddened and embittered at the same time. "Germans like you should have stood up to him a long time ago, Schultz."

Hans Schultz sighed heavily. "I know. And I know we Germans will live with his shame for a long time." He leaned back against the rough wooden wall of the barracks. "Colonel Hogan, I am an old man. I left my youth in the trenches of the First World War. I became disillusioned then. I told myself, it did not matter. Politicians, soldiers, they did not matter to me. The only happiness I found was with my wife, my children and making toys for children. I thought that was enough. Nothing else would touch my world; I have done my duty for Deutschland. Yet now, here I am, a fat, old man in a prison camp filled with guilt that I did not do more when I could. I protected my world but nothing else. And then the world overtook me and I have been trapped in a nightmare once again. Do not let this happen to you, Colonel Hogan."

Hogan looked a bit uneasy but shifted to shrug it off. "I don't think Truman's gonna overthrow the government, Schultz."

Schultz looked the American colonel in the eye. "That is NOT what I mean, Colonel Hogan. For you, it will be the hardest. You have carried this entire Stalag on your shoulders for a long time. I know it, even the Kommandant knows it. War is a hard teacher; lessons are harsh. When you're in a fight for your survival, coming back to a life with bills and job worries is a difficult adjustment. Everyone will says all the problems are over now. Different pressures will be put on you. And you have no wife yet!"

Hogan grinned, a ghost of his impertinent smile that Schultz had not seen for a while. "Been a shortage of good looking women at Camp Romance here."

The Sergeant huffed. "I will be sure and tell Fraulein Hilda that."

The smile quickly vanished from the younger man's face. "Please don't."

"See? It begins already. The adjustments. Hilda was safe because you could not have her. Now, soon, you can have her – and she wants you. She will expect things from you. It changes everything!" Schultz declared. "You have all new challenges, Colonel Hogan. And some will not wait until you feel rested enough to deal with them."

"Now, I never made any promises, Schultz," Hogan said quickly, a shade defensively, still thinking about Hilda. His expression was slightly panicky.

"Ach! What does that matter, when it comes to a woman?" Schultz demanded, thinking of Mrs. Schultz.

Hogan grimaced. "Not much."

Schultz leaned forward, his face serious. "Colonel Hogan, you know I am talking about more than frauleins. You will laugh when you hear this but I was once a bit like you. Oh, nowhere near as clever or as daring as you, but I broke my share of the rules and hearts in my younger days. Then, after the war, I returned home, became fat and complacent. I grew old and tired. I no longer cared what happened outside my world. And I've seen the changes in you already, Colonel Hogan. You are tired; exhausted really. You used to be so full of life and humor. You no longer laugh like you once did."

"War isn't exactly a funny business." For some reason, Hogan had trouble making eye contact with the Sergeant.

Schultz gave the younger man a shrewd look. For all his devilry, Robert Hogan was fairly easy to read when the subject was himself. Too close to home for the man. He sighed. "The ghosts used to call to me at the end, too."

"Ghosts?" Hogan was perplexed.

"Those we've had to kill, Colonel Hogan." Schultz shuddered. "At least I got through this war without the horrible killing. Last time I was not so lucky."

Hogan looked bleak. "It's got to be done, Schultz. That's what it says in the manual," he said flatly.

Schultz gave him a sidelong look. "The manual says nothing about living with it though, does it? Ours doesn't."

This time the American drew a ragged breath. "No. Ours doesn't either." For once, Robert Hogan did not look very confident; just very tired and uncertain.

"Ach, these smart guys, these big shots. They do not know everything, do they, Colonel Hogan?" Schultz said, with a fearlessness he hadn't felt in years. It felt odd to be driving the conversation with Robert Hogan of all people.

Hogan didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the volleyball game, where Newkirk was frantically signaling him to hurry up and get in there. Evidently the honor of Barracks 2 was at stake.

Schultz licked his fingers, wishing for another sandwich. He was lucky to have stolen that one he had. "But, even in those terrible trenches in the Kaiser's war, I still had some good times. Good friends too. Heinz, Wolf, Dieter, ah, poor Rudi, the jokes he would play." Schultz looked to see if Hogan was still listening. "Colonel Hogan, you and your men, you had your laughs too. You used to laugh all the time when Sergeant Kinchloe was still here."

Hogan stiffened when Kinch's name was mentioned. "Schultz," he said warningly.

"Do not worry, Colonel Hogan." Schultz smiled. "I know nothing!"

Hogan did laugh then. Clapping a hand on Schultz's back, he said, "Sergeant, I think you've known everything. All this time." The Colonel abruptly sobered. "Much more than I ever thought you did."

"Colonel Hogan! Colonel, you're gonna have to come and help us. We're losing this match to Barracks 6!" Baker shouted from the makeshift volleyball court.

"This is a disgrace we cannot live with, sir!" Newkirk added.

Schultz nudged the colonel. "Go on. They want you to."

Hogan stood up, to the visible relief of his Barracks 2 team.

"Now, we'll see," Carter defiantly promised the other team.

Hogan paused once to turn and look back at Schultz. "When did you become so smart, Sergeant?"

Schultz tutted. "I have always been smart, Colonel Hogan. But it's much easier to-"

"Know nothing!" Hogan finished with him, giving the Sergeant a lopsided smile. "You're too much, Schultz."

Hogan went out to the game. Schultz watched with contentment. War was a horrible, cruel business. No good ever came out of it, in his opinion. But, knowing these men, all from different countries and different cultures, Schultz knew he had been enriched, even if they were the enemy. After the First World War, it had no longer mattered to him. War was awful, all was lost, who cares? He would have as soon stayed out of it. Tried to stay out of this one. Whether he had been spared again this time, well, time would soon tell. He hoped these boys, the prisoners, would be spared and go back to leading productive lives, not become the embittered, empty shells that so many German boys had when they'd returned from the trenches. For a while, Schultz himself had been one of these walking zombies, but, thanks to his wife (he'd never admit that!) and his children, he'd come back to life. Despite LeBeau's bitterness and Newkirk's cheating, Carter and Baker were still good boys, untouched by hatred. Hopefully, despite his exhaustion and emptiness, Colonel Hogan would be able to come back to the man he once was, albeit without the immaturity of a jolly joker. Who knew, perhaps Hogan would once again be able to save Schultz, Klink and the other guards, even from the Russians. Strange to be dependent on the enemy's mercy. But then, Schultz had been dependent on Colonel Hogan for years now. And he'd never let him down yet or been the enemy to Schultz, no matter what others thought.

Sometimes, good shows up in the strangest places, Schultz mused. You just have to know where to look. At any rate, he hoped the Russians would have the good taste to not show up tonight. If the cockroach LeBeau was still sulking, Private Weingarten made excellent potato pancakes.