5DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hogan's Heroes or anything related to them in any way! Nor do I make any money from this.
This is my first time using prompts. I'm not sure if I did it right, but I tried. Prompts used are 1, 3 – 8, 14 – 15, 18, 20, 23 – 25, 27 – 28 and alternative prompts 2 – 3. All prompts are in bold.
Albert Burkhalter was, simultaneously, a simple and complex person. He was complex in the sense that his loyalties could be questioned by some. Fortunately, he had the power to send anyone who did so to the Russian Front. Rank had its privileges. No man under the regime wanted to be looked at too closely anyhow, especially not when they had to meet with the Führer himself on a semi-regular basis. It was a good way to end up in front of a firing squad. Whether Burkhalter's loyalties actually were questionable or not…well, that was his business. But he was simple regarding the goals he had for himself: do his job, score with as many beautiful women as he could, and eventually retire. Preferably to a tropical beach far away from the several people who regularly raised his blood pressure to unsafe levels. That went double for the loud mouthed, unhinged Gestapo/SS major who had a creepy obsession with a certain POW.
Burkhalter didn't consider himself an unreasonable man. If anything, he felt he was quite lenient most of the time. Any other general would have replaced the officer known as Wilhelm Klink a long time ago with somebody less buffoonish. But Klink, incompetent as he often acted, had always prevented any escapes from Luft Stalag XIII-C. Burkhalter knew why. There was much more going on there than met the eye, things only those in the know were privy to. What he didn't understand was how Klink managed anything when the man had seemingly lost his backbone after World War I. Burkhalter didn't care to dwell too much on it, however. Klink already managed to give him enough migraines as it was.
Despite being Burkhalter's problem camp, Stalag 13 was also an endless source of entertainment. It was all the general could do to keep from laughing sometimes when shenanigans occurred. The prisoners themselves often bounded about from one thing to another, reminding him of children on a playground. Hogan himself acted like the biggest one of all. Between the way he regularly acted hurt and gave Klink puppy dog eyes, Burkhalter felt the two officers deserved each other. They certainly fought often enough! He personally had little patience for such antics…but didn't mean they weren't amusing when they weren't his personal problem. Unfortunately, today's events did not fall under that category.
First Klink had begged to be transferred to the Russian Front, something Burkhalter had no intentions of doing.(1) True, the Luftwaffe desperately needed pilots in Russia; that was no secret by this point. But with his damaged eye, Klink would be unable to fly a plane again anyhow. A transfer meant he would be made to fight as part of the ground forces, and most likely killed within a few hours. Cowards didn't survive very long. Burkhalter still remembered his own experiences there, even if they had been from the last war. He knew all too well how viciously the Russians fought. The general wasn't about to send one of the few decent people left in Germany to die needlessly, especially not with the meat grinder that the Eastern Front had become. Somebody had to protect that dummkopf from himself!
Burkhalter had felt confident his scathing remark about the Front needing "fighting men" would be the end of it. Klink wasn't a brave man anymore. But when he'd come out wearing what'd appeared to be a mockery of General Patton's uniform, Burkhalter had given in. He was positive Klink's sudden desire to "contribute to the war effort" was Hogan's doing anyhow – the nonsense about hot tubs full of buttered vodka wasn't something Klink would've come up with on his own. Having seen Hogan pay a visit to the Kommandantur about ten minutes prior to the whole debacle only confirmed that in Burkhalter's mind. He'd never believed in coincidences before the war; he certainly wasn't starting now. Besides, he'd known the kommandant for decades. He knew how Klink thought, how he reasoned, what sorts of ideas he got into his head. That knowledge had helped Burkhalter nip potential problems in the bud more than once, ensuring Berlin wouldn't pay the unusual POW camp any mind.
He knew many things about the wily American as well, one of which was Hogan's vested interest in keeping Klink in command and why. Not that Burkhalter had mentioned it, of course. He was waiting until after the war to drop that bombshell. One of the patterns Burkhalter had noticed was how whenever Hogan said or did something to endanger Klink's odds of remaining at the camp, he always found a way to reverse the damage. The same could be said for Schultz. So Burkhalter had played along, making a show of being impressed by Klink's newfound ruthlessness before agreeing to send him to the Eastern Front. As an added precaution – because one didn't leave things to chance when dealing with Hogan – he'd told Klink to take Schultz with him. Even if Hogan and his band of troublemaking imps had been willing to let Klink go, Burkhalter was certain they wouldn't let Schultz leave. The fluffy sergeant was too close to them for that to be a viable option.
Sure enough, the events that had followed had been something best described as a circus act, ending with Klink and Schultz crashing through the wall of a nearby barracks. Maybe Burkhalter would have moved faster if he hadn't already had a pounding headache from being ill, or a cramping pain in his belly from his lunch at Stalag 13. Prison camps weren't exactly known for their gourmet dining. As it was, Schultz had wound up landing on top of him, thereby making the situation even worse. Burkhalter hadn't been faking his rage when he'd screamed at the two men. However, he had taken the disaster as an opportunity to reverse his decision without looking suspicious. It had taken every ounce of self-control the general had possessed to turn and limp away without punching the smug smirk off Hogan's face.
Klink had firmly insisted that he stay at Stalag 13 to recover, both from being sick and injured. Burkhalter usually would've told him to go to hell; the last thing he wanted was to be sick in an inconvenient place on top of everything else. But he didn't think he could make it up the stairs to his front porch with as much as his leg and back hurt. Nor did Burkhalter particularly want to deal with his wife, if he was being honest with himself. Not until Bertha was through dealing with a situation he didn't care to think about. Besides, he rather liked it when the kommandant showed a backbone. It reminded him of the man he'd met on the battlefield decades ago and actually liked, rather than the irritating sycophant Klink had somehow become after being shot down.
Burkhalter had begrudgingly accepted the offer. To his surprise, he had found himself housed in the infirmary rather than Klink's quarters, on the grounds that it was closer to Wilson's office. Or what the medic used for one, at any rate. Normally, Burkhalter would have berated Klink for even suggesting such a thing…but he just wasn't feeling up to it. Nor did he want to hear the usual babbling Klink did. If there was two things Burkhalter had little tolerance for, it was nonsense and stupid people. There were days when those traits made him feel he was in the wrong line of work entirely. On others, Burkhalter relished being able to take out his frustrations on the poor souls below him. It just depended on the day.
After being looked over by Wilson – who appeared rather disgruntled by his newest patient – Burkhalter chose the softest looking bed the infirmary had. The old metal creaked under the weight of his sizable frame. He carefully laid down, wincing with every movement. Everything in Burkhalter's body currently hurt, from his head to his feet. He mentally pressed his thumbs that nothing unusual would happen during his recovery.(2) Once he managed to get somewhat comfortable, Burkhalter soon drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
~~HH~~
Wilson headed into his office, intending to get started on the medical supply requisition forms Hogan had put him in charge of filling out. He actually preferred it that way. After all, he knew better than anyone else what supplies the infirmary needed, and his commanding officer was a busy man. Wilson had no objections to lightening the colonel's workload however he could. Given how often he found himself dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to patch up one or more members of the Unsung Heroes, it gave the medic peace of mind to know exactly what supplies he had access to.
He had barely gotten settled into his office when Schultz came in, puffing like a locomotive. Wilson raised a curious eyebrow. He silently got up and fetched a glass of water, which he handed to Schultz. All was quiet while the fluffy sergeant gulped it down.
"Da, danke. Whew," Schultz panted. He handed back the glass and added, "I always hate rrrunning."
"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Wilson deadpanned. "What's the rush, Schultz? There a free strudel giveaway?"
"Ha, jolly joker," Schultz grumbled. "Do you think I would be talking to you if there was?"
"Valid point." Wilson smirked. "So why are you running for then? Please tell me it's not 'cause Hochstetter's here again."
"Ach du lieber, do not even suggest that!" Schultz shuddered. "Nein, it is Colonel Hogan. His boys told me he is sick, but he rrrefuses to come to see you. So Newkirk sug-ges-ted I come tell you because you can make him go."
"That doesn't surprise me," Wilson sighed. He got to his feet and began searching for his bag. "Colonel's infamous for hiding an illness any time he gets sick. Says he can't afford to be lazing about in bed when he's got people to take care of."
"Ja, he is a verrry good leader. All of you are lucky to have him instead of a grrrouch like the big shot," Schultz said. "You will go take care of Colonel Hogan quickly, ja? He will not die?"
"Not if I have anything to say about it, he won't," Wilson promised. "Did Newkirk say anything else I should know about?"
"Well, he made a not-so-nice rrremark about officers, but that is nothing new. Then he said something about payback for making him dress up as a woman, but that sounded like mon-key business, so I stopped list-en-ing." Schultz thought for a moment. "Oh! Colonel Hogan injured his shoulder and ankle. How, I did not ask because I cannot know nothing if I know something. But I think that is im-port-ant."
"Very much so," Wilson agreed. He patted the fluffy sergeant on the shoulder. "Don't be a Gloomy Gus, Schultz. He's not gonna die from any of that. Colonel's a tough guy. Trust me, he's been through much worse with the SS. Told me their hospitality sucks, though. Also doesn't recommend staying at the Torturers R US Hotel – says they really get into the whole theme there."
"If you had seen some of the things I saw in the last war, you would be morbid too," Schultz said darkly. He cleared his throat. "I go with you, Wilson. Colonel Hogan is going to be verrry unhappy when you show up. I will run interference for you so that you may trrreat him. If necessary, I will handcuff the colonel and we will bring him back here."
"Now that I wanna see," Wilson chuckled. "Sure, Schultz. Let's go."
~~HH~~
"No," Hogan said firmly. "Not happening."
"Yes you are," Wilson shot back. "You need medical care."
"I'm perfectly fine," Hogan rasped. "I never get sick."
"What happened to your phenomenal immune system then, huh?" Wilson asked. "Because you're clearly ill, sir. I can hear it in your voice."
"You're imagining things, Joe." Hogan sneezed into his handkerchief. "I'm the picture of heath over here."
"Uh-huh, suuuure," Wilson replied, his tone snarky. "Did you or did you not just sneeze?"
"I have allergies!"
"To what, your own BS?"
Hogan pointed a warning finger at him. "Joe –"
"I told you this would happen, didn't I?" Wilson continued on. "I distinctly remember telling you "Wear your coat, you'll catch a cold" during that snow storm a few days ago. But no, you told me you'd be fine without it!"
"Carter needed it more than I did," Hogan said defensively. "Still does, actually. The last visiting SS kraut we had thought it'd be real funny to see how fast a combination of leather and sheepskin could burn. Klink already sent my complaint and request for a new one to the Red Cross via expedited mail, but we have to wait for them to bring it to Carter. He doesn't have anything to wear until they do."
"So as the Senior POW Officer, you decided it'd be better for you to catch hypothermia instead. Got it," Wilson remarked. He slowly clapped his hands, the sarcasm ringing through loud and clear. "Bravo, Colonel. Great command decision there."
"What else did you expect me to do, Joe? I'm sure not gonna stand by and watch one of my good friends freeze to death!" Hogan snapped. He crossed his arms over his chest, wincing slightly. "Come on, you should know me better than that. The men under my command come first, no matter what. I do everything I can to take care of them."
"I'm well aware of your philosophy, sir, and I appreciate it. That's a great quality for a leader to have," Wilson said. "Doesn't mean you're not hopelessly bad at self-care, though. Not taking preventive measures to keep yourself healthy in this kind of weather could easily lead to your death. All it takes is one little cold to turn into pneumonia. You catch that, you'll literally drown to death on dry land."
"I keep telling you I'm –"
Hogan went into a coughing fit, effectively cutting himself off. It wasn't the first one he had lately, but this one hurt worse than the others. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. He had things to do, an operation to run, people to take care of. Somebody had to make sure Newkirk and Carter ate all of their food. Both men had hearts of gold – although Newkirk would die before he ever said as much – and often tried to sneak some of it to him instead. Why, Hogan didn't know. They were both much skinnier than he was; they needed it more. Thankfully, between his own eagle eyes and Kinch watching his blind side, Hogan was able to stop them each time.
His vision swam once the coughing fit ended, leaving Hogan disoriented for a few seconds. Colored dots flashed in front of his eyes. He made an indignant sound when the medic took advantage of the opportunity presented to shove a thermometer under his tongue. Hogan quickly yanked it out, not wanting to give Wilson any reason to admit him to the infirmary.
Wilson muttered something rude under his breath. "Jeez, you're the most uncooperative patient I ever had! Even Newkirk isn't this bad!"
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment," Wilson growled. "Let me take your temperature."
"No," Hogan said stubbornly. "I'm not sick, dammit! I don't need any help!"
"And I say you are," Wilson snapped. "It's up to you where I put this thermometer, Colonel, but I am taking your temperature and you are going to cooperate. Medic's orders. If you're truly healthy, you have nothing to worry about."
Hogan gritted his teeth. If there was one thing he hated, it was how medics could override anyone, no matter what their rank was. He gave Wilson a hard look that would've had most men running for the hills. Unfortunately, it did no good. Hogan reluctantly opened his mouth for the thermometer, feeling his stomach twist when it was removed a few minutes later. If it still said what he thought it would…
"102 degrees, sir." Wilson announced. "You've got a fever."
"No, no. I just drank some hot coffee before you came in here, that's all," Hogan lied. There was no way in purgatory he was going to admit he'd had a persistent fever for several days! "Must be running extra hot because of it."
"Good, then you won't mind if I take your temperature again in thirty minutes to confirm that, will you? Gives your body temperature time to go back to normal that way," Wilson told him. He chuckled softly when he got no reply. "Face it, Colonel, you're good and sick. Be glad I caught this before it got any worse. Don't worry, though. You should be good to go again after spending two weeks in the infirmary."
"You don't understand, Joe. I can't," Hogan insisted. He summoned his inner strength, making a renewed effort to avoid the one place he hated even more than the cooler. "I'm not going anywhere and you can't make me."
Wilson didn't bother to respond. Instead, he opened the door to stick his head outside. "Hey, Schultz? I'm gonna need to take you up on your offer."
"Oh, hell no!" Hogan exclaimed, backing up towards his room when the fluffy sergeant pulled out his handcuffs. "Don't you even think about it, and that's an order!"
"I apologize…but you brrrought this on yourself," Schultz informed the colonel. "Please, do not rrresist. I do not wish to hurt your other shoulder or ankle."
"Oh yeah, you did mention those earlier, huh?" Wilson clicked his tongue. "I'll have to look at both of 'em once we get to the infirmary."
"Schultz, you big mouth!" Hogan angrily hissed. "How could you sell me out like this after all I've done for you?!"
"I have seen too many people die from minor ill-ness-es to not worry about you, Colonel Hogan," Schultz answered somberly. "Some even started out sounding the way you do now. A few weeks later, they were no more. But I like you and I want you to live."
"My men…"
"Don't worry, I watch over your boys until you rrreturn," Schultz promised. "I am certain there will be much mon-key business waiting for you, of which I want to know nuuuuthing!"
Hogan let out a defeated sigh. There wasn't much he could do at this point when his hands were cuffed in front of him. He needed them free first. But it didn't mean he couldn't plot. Hogan decided to act like they'd worn him down, using the time he was walking to figure out his game plan. He could make an escape back to the safety of his quarters once everyone's guard was down. Yes, that's what he would do. Nobody held Robert E. Hogan captive unless he allowed it.
(1) "To Russia Without Love", Season 6, episode 18.
(2) Germans say "press my thumbs" instead of "cross my fingers".