Hogan's Heroes Show, 3419 Hayhurst Lane Southfield, Miami, FL (2026)

06/05/2026

"Colonel," Kinchloe's voice was low and perfectly calm.

Hogan looked up from his cup of synthetic coffee.

"Yes, Kinch?"

"You might want to step over to the drafting table."

Hogan walked across the dirt floor of the underground tunnel.

LeBeau was standing by the wooden table, chewing nervously on his thumbnail.

"I tried to stop him, Colonel," LeBeau said. "I really did."

"Stop who?"

"Carter."

Hogan looked down.

The drafting table was completely empty.

"Where is the master map?" Hogan asked.

"Upstairs," Kinchloe said quietly.

"In Klink's office?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"Because Carter thought the edges were curling," Kinchloe explained. "He wanted to flatten it out."

"So he ironed it?"

"No. He glued it."

"To what?"

"A backing board."

Hogan stared at Kinchloe.

"Which backing board?"

"The one attached to Kommandant Klink's new portrait."

Hogan didn't panic.

He rarely did.

He simply buttoned his leather jacket.

"Is Carter up there now?"

"He and Newkirk just went up to rehang it before Klink gets back from lunch."

"Klink didn't go to lunch," Hogan said. "His chef burned the strudel. I saw him walk into his office two minutes ago."

LeBeau gasped.

"If Klink turns that painting around, he will see every tunnel we have!"

"Then we better make sure he doesn't look," Hogan said.

Klink was sitting at his desk, admiring his own reflection in a silver paperweight.

Hogan burst through the door.

"Colonel Klink!"

Klink jumped, dropping the paperweight.

"Hogan! What is the meaning of this? You did not knock!"

Hogan marched straight to the desk.

He grabbed Klink's right hand.

He yanked Klink to his feet.

"I just want to express my deepest, most profound admiration for your administrative skills."

Klink winced.

He tried to pull his hand back.

"Hogan, let go of me."

"I can't, sir. The sheer emotion of the moment overpowers me."

"You are crushing my fingers!"

"It is the grip of pure respect, sir."

Behind Hogan, the door creaked open.

Carter and Newkirk shuffled into the room.

They were holding a massive, heavy wooden picture frame between them.

Facing Klink was not the painted canvas.

It was a bright blue architectural blueprint of Stalag 13's entire underground network.

Carter was sweating profusely.

Newkirk had a forced, innocent smile plastered on his face.

"What are those two idiots doing?" Klink asked.

He tried to look past Hogan's shoulder.

Hogan violently yanked Klink's arm to the right.

"Idiots, sir? They are patrons of the arts."

"Arts? It is a painting of myself!"

"Exactly. A masterpiece requires perfect lighting."

Carter’s boot hit the edge of the Persian rug.

The giant wooden frame wobbled.

"Steady!" Newkirk hissed.

"It's heavy!" Carter whispered back.

"What was that?" Klink demanded.

"Mice, sir," Hogan said smoothly.

"Mice do not speak English, Hogan."

"These are captured mice, sir. They pick things up."

Schultz opened the office door.

He stepped inside, holding a tray with a coffee pot.

"Herr Kommandant, your coffee is—"

Schultz stopped.

He looked at Hogan.

He looked at Klink.

He looked at the giant blue tunnel map passing three feet behind the Kommandant’s head.

Schultz froze.

His mouth opened.

His eyes darted to the bright white letters that said 'ESCAPE SHAFT 4'.

"Herr Kommandant..."

"What is it, Schultz?" Klink snapped. "Put the tray down!"

Schultz’s eyes went perfectly round.

He looked at Hogan’s calm, terrifying smile.

He looked back at the blueprint.

"I..." Schultz swallowed hard.

"Speak, you idiot!"

"I... I see nothing."

"What do you mean you see nothing? You are looking right at us!"

"I mean I hear nothing! I know nothing!"

Schultz slowly backed out of the room.

He pulled the door shut with trembling hands.

"That man is an embarrassment to the uniform," Klink muttered.

"A tragic case, sir," Hogan agreed. "I think he needs a vacation."

"He needs a firing squad," Klink corrected.

Newkirk and Carter reached the door to the hallway.

Newkirk grabbed the brass k**b.

He twisted it.

Nothing happened.

"Bloody hell," Newkirk whispered.

He twisted it harder.

The k**b just spun.

Carter panicked.

"Colonel," Carter stage-whispered. "The door is stuck!"

Klink stopped trying to free his hand.

"Carter? Is that you?"

"No," Hogan said smoothly.

"I just heard his voice!"

"Auditory hallucination, sir. A known symptom of a highly evolved brain."

"Nonsense."

Klink grabbed his monocle from his desk.

He wedged it back into his right eye.

"I am turning around, Hogan."

"I wouldn't do that, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because you will ruin the surprise."

"What surprise?"

"The one General Burkhalter sent."

Klink froze.

"Burkhalter?"

06/05/2026

It was the first time in Stalag 13 history that Colonel Klink looked at Sergeant Schultz with absolute pride.

Schultz, meanwhile, looked like he was about to explode.

"Exemplary," Klink said, tapping his monocle.

He clamped a black-gloved hand onto Schultz’s shoulder.

Schultz froze. His eyes bulged out of his head.

His cheeks were puffed out to the size of large grapefruits.

Ten minutes earlier, inside Barracks 2, the atmosphere was entirely different.

"It is gone!" LeBeau shouted, waving a wooden cooking spoon furiously.

Carter looked up from a complicated pile of wires on the table.

"What's gone, Frenchie?"

"The absolute prize of my kitchen! A three-pound, perfectly smoked Bavarian sausage!"

Hogan sat casually on the edge of his bunk, drinking a hot cup of coffee.

"Calm down, LeBeau. Sausages don't just walk out of camp on their own."

"This one did, Colonel," Newkirk said, peering out the barrack window. "And it happens to be wearing a grey uniform."

Kinchloe leaned back from his hidden radio headset, adjusting the dial.

"Forget the sausage," Kinchloe said in his slow, steady voice. "London just signaled. We need the Munich train schedules. Today."

"Where are they?" Hogan asked.

"Gestapo courier dropped them off ten minutes ago," Kinchloe replied. "They're sitting on a clipboard right now in Klink's outer office."

Hogan set his coffee cup down.

"A clipboard in the outer office?"

"Right on the desk," Kinchloe confirmed. "Waiting for his signature."

"Newkirk," Hogan said smoothly. "Bring your camera. We're taking a walk to the Commandant's office."

Carter smiled brightly, holding up a strange mechanical object.

"Hey, Colonel! If you need a distraction, I just invented a radio-controlled rat! I used a motor from an old fan."

Hogan looked at Carter's metal contraption.

"Hold the rat in reserve, Carter. Let's try walking through the front door first."

Back in the Commandant’s outer office, the situation was rapidly deteriorating.

"A true soldier," Klink announced to the empty reception room.

Schultz did not answer.

He couldn't.

He was currently hiding half a pound of unchewed bratwurst in his mouth.

Worse, he was hiding the other three pounds of the giant, stolen German sausage directly behind the very wooden clipboard Klink was admiring.

Klink squeezed Schultz’s shoulder affectionately.

"Reviewing the camp security manifests during your lunch hour. It brings a tear to my eye, Schultz."

Schultz swallowed loudly. It sounded like a heavy rock dropping into a deep well.

"Herr Kommandant," Schultz squeaked.

The wooden door from the compound clicked open.

Colonel Hogan walked in, followed casually by Newkirk.

Hogan stopped in his tracks.

He looked at Klink.

He looked at Schultz.

He looked at the massive, greasy end of the sausage protruding slightly from behind the wooden clipboard.

"Beautiful day for paperwork, isn't it, Commandant?" Hogan asked smoothly.

Klink stood taller and puffed out his chest.

"Ah, Hogan. Take notes. This is true German efficiency. My Sergeant is completely consumed by his duties."

"He looks pretty consumed, all right," Newkirk muttered under his breath.

Hogan stepped closer.

He didn't care about Schultz’s stolen lunch.

He cared about the top sheet of paper attached to the front of that clipboard. The Munich train schedules.

"Read it to me, Schultz," Klink commanded, crossing his arms behind his back.

Schultz squeezed the wooden board so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Herr Kommandant?"

"Read the first paragraph. I want Hogan to hear the flawless German protocol."

Schultz stared blindly at the paper. Then he stared at Hogan.

"I... I left my reading glasses in the barracks."

"You don't wear glasses," Klink said.

"A sudden condition," Schultz stammered nervously. "Very tragic. It runs in the family."

Hogan stepped smoothly between them.

"Let me help the Sergeant out, sir. I'll read it."

Hogan reached for the clipboard.

Schultz violently pulled it back.

If Hogan took the board, the three-pound sausage would fall directly onto Klink’s highly polished boots.

"No!" Schultz yelled loudly.

Klink blinked in absolute shock.

"Schultz, did you just yell at an Allied officer?"

"Yes, Herr Kommandant. I mean, no, Herr Kommandant."

"Excellent," Klink beamed proudly. "Show them no mercy. Hand me the clipboard, Schultz. I will read it."

Schultz took a step back, holding the clipboard tightly against his chest. The sausage squished slightly under the pressure.

"Herr Kommandant, I cannot. I am not finished memorizing it."

"Memorizing it?" Klink asked, thoroughly confused.

"For security!" Schultz nodded aggressively. "If I memorize it, I can eat the paper. Then the prisoners will never know our secrets."

Newkirk rubbed his chin.

"He's got a point, Colonel. The man is a human safe."

"Nonsense," Klink snapped, losing his patience. "Give me the clipboard right now!"

Before Klink could grab it, the front door suddenly flew open, slamming hard against the wall.

Major Hochstetter stomped into the room.

"Klink!"

Klink jumped backward. "Major Hochstetter! What an unexpected honor."

Hochstetter pointed a stiff, angry finger at Klink.

"Where is the Munich train schedule? Berlin called. The routes must be changed immediately."

"It is right here," Klink said, pointing proudly at Schultz. "My top sergeant is currently guarding it with his life."

Hochstetter narrowed his cold eyes at Schultz.

Schultz looked at Hochstetter. His cheeks puffed out again in sheer panic.

"Give it to me," Hochstetter barked.

Schultz didn't move an inch.

"Give me the clipboard, you fat idiot!"

"Major, please," Klink said nervously. "He is just being very thorough."

Hochstetter stepped right up to Schultz, invading his personal space.

"I will count to three."

Hogan glanced at Newkirk.

Newkirk slipped his hand into his jacket, touching his mini-camera. He couldn't get a shot with Hochstetter standing right there.

"One," Hochstetter said.

Schultz looked at Hogan with desperate, pleading eyes.

"Two," Hochstetter hissed, his face turning red.

Hogan casually leaned against Klink's desk and crossed his legs.

"You know, Major, I wouldn't touch that clipboard if I were you."

Hochstetter stopped. He spun to face Hogan.

"What is this man doing here? Baah! What do you mean?"

06/05/2026

The door to Barracks 2 swung open exactly three seconds too early.

Sergeant Hans Schultz stepped into the room, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards, his rifle gripped tightly in both hands.

His eyes immediately darted toward the central wooden table.

Corporal Louis LeBeau was frozen in place, both hands clamped desperately around the sides of a massive, hollowed-out loaf of crusty bread. Sticking halfway out of the baked dough was a freshly forged, highly illegal Gestapo travel document.

Sitting beside him, Corporal Peter Newkirk had both hands raised in the air, offering a wide, entirely unconvincing smile of complete innocence.

"What is going on here?" Schultz asked.

"Just admiring the local agriculture, Schultz," Newkirk said.

Schultz took a heavy step inside.

"There is a piece of paper in that pumpernickel."

"Paper?" LeBeau squeezed the bread tighter. "This is not paper. It is... extra crust."

Schultz leaned forward.

"It has a sw****ka stamped on it."

"Very patriotic crust," Newkirk offered.

Colonel Robert Hogan stepped casually out of his private quarters. He didn’t run. He didn't blink. He simply walked to the table and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Morning, Schultz," Hogan said. "Checking the breakfast rations?"

Schultz pointed a thick finger at LeBeau.

"Colonel Hogan, LeBeau is putting official German documents into the bakery!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Schultz," Hogan said. "LeBeau is a chef. He would never ruin a good loaf of bread with government paperwork."

"I saw it!"

"You saw a recipe," Hogan corrected smoothly.

Schultz blinked.

"A recipe?"

"My grandmother’s," LeBeau chimed in, catching the rhythm. "A secret recipe. Highly classified."

Schultz lowered his rifle an inch.

"Why does your grandmother's recipe have an eagle stamped on it?"

"She was very strict," Newkirk said.

Hogan took a slow sip of his coffee.

"It’s a surprise for Colonel Klink’s anniversary as Commandant. We were going to bake him a special cake."

Schultz’s eyes widened. He looked at the bread. He looked at the paper.

"A cake?"

"A massive one," Hogan said. "But if you report this, the surprise is ruined. Klink will be furious. You know how he gets when he doesn't get his cake."

Schultz swallowed hard. The rifle barrel dropped toward the floor.

"I..." Schultz looked at the ceiling. "I hear nothing, I see nothing, I know nothing!"

He turned toward the door.

Just as Schultz reached the handle, the door flew violently open, knocking Schultz sideways.

Colonel Wilhelm Klink marched into the room, slapping his riding crop against his leather glove.

"Schultz! What is the meaning of this delay?"

"Herr Kommandant!" Schultz snapped to attention, accidentally knocking his helmet against the doorframe. "I was just... inspecting the patriotic crust!"

Klink frowned.

"Patriotic what?"

Klink’s monocle gleamed as he scanned the room. He spotted Hogan. He spotted Newkirk.

Then, he spotted LeBeau.

LeBeau was still clutching the bread. The paper was still sticking out.

"Hogan!" Klink barked. "What is that man doing with that bread?"

"He’s French, sir," Hogan said. "They get emotional about carbohydrates."

Klink marched straight toward the table.

"There is an official document protruding from that loaf!"

"An optical illusion, sir," Newkirk said, his hands still raised.

"Silence!" Klink snapped his crop against the wooden table. "Hand it over, LeBeau!"

LeBeau looked at Hogan.

Hogan gave a barely visible nod.

LeBeau slowly pulled the paper from the bread.

Before Klink could grab it, the trapdoor under the bunk bed rattled open.

Sergeant Kinchloe poked his head out.

"Colonel, Berlin just called on the wire," Kinchloe said calmly.

Klink spun around.

"Berlin? What did they say?"

"They’re looking for a missing travel pass," Kinchloe said, completely deadpan. "Apparently, a highly dangerous spy is trying to leave the country today."

Klink puffed out his chest.

"Aha! You see, Hogan? The Third Reich is always one step ahead. They know everything. And this..." Klink turned back to the paper in LeBeau’s hand. "...is obviously the missing travel pass! You fools were trying to smuggle it out in a loaf of bread!"

Hogan sighed.

"You caught us, sir."

"Of course I caught you! Wilhelm Klink has a nose for espionage!"

"We almost got away with it, too," Newkirk muttered.

"But now," Klink sneered, snatching the paper from LeBeau’s hand, "I have the evidence. I will mail this directly to Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin myself! I will show them that no one, absolutely no one, runs a tighter camp than Colonel Wilhelm Klink!"

Hogan looked down, feigning defeat.

"That’s going to look great on your record, sir."

"It will guarantee my promotion to General!"

06/05/2026

Colonel Robert E. Hogan rarely smiled when he was three seconds away from a firing squad. Today was the exception.

He stood perfectly rigid in the center of the camp courtyard.

His right hand snapped a crisp, flawless military salute.

His left hand, hidden entirely out of sight behind his back, gripped thirty pounds of solid steel.

They were heavy-duty, industrial German perimeter wire cutters.

Directly in front of him stood Colonel Wilhelm Klink.

Klink puffed out his chest, completely oblivious. He lazily returned the salute with his riding crop, a smug smile stretching across his face.

"A magnificent display of discipline, Hogan," Klink said.

"Only for the best, Kommandant," Hogan replied, his voice perfectly smooth.

Inside Barracks 2, four faces were pressed against the glass of the window.

"He is completely stuck," Kinchloe said softly.

Newkirk squinted through the dirty pane. "The Gov'nor's got a pair of snips the size of a bicycle behind his back."

"How did he even carry those out there?" LeBeau whispered.

"I think he was going to cut the east wire before Klink walked out of the office," Carter said cheerfully. "Should I go out there and ask to borrow them?"

Newkirk turned slowly to look at Carter.

"Borrow them?" Newkirk asked. "From behind his back? While he's talking to the Kommandant of the camp?"

"Well, yeah," Carter nodded. "I could tell Klink I'm doing some landscaping."

"You are insane," LeBeau muttered.

Kinchloe adjusted his cap. "Nobody moves. We wait for the Colonel to make a play."

Out in the courtyard, Hogan felt the heavy iron handles of the cutters digging into his wrists.

"I must say, Hogan, this newfound respect is refreshing," Klink said. He tapped the riding crop against his thigh.

"It's the crisp air, sir," Hogan said. "Makes a man want to stand at attention."

Klink took a slow step to his left.

Hogan smoothly pivoted his entire body to his left, keeping his back perfectly hidden.

Klink frowned. He took a step to his right.

Hogan pivoted to the right, his boots crunching in the dirt.

"Are we dancing, Hogan?" Klink asked.

"Just adjusting to the sun, sir. Glare in my eyes."

"There are no clouds, Hogan. The sun is directly above us."

"It's a very tricky sun, Kommandant."

Klink narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward.

"You are acting very strangely today."

"I am merely admiring your new riding crop, sir. Is that mahogany?"

Klink smiled, instantly distracted. He held the crop up to the light.

"Ah. You noticed. Yes, a gift from General Burkhalter. Or rather, I requisitioned it from his car when he wasn't looking."

"Brilliant tactical maneuver, sir."

"I thought so," Klink said, polishing the wood with his glove.

The door to the Kommandant's office clicked open.

Sergeant Schultz lumbered out, carrying a stack of files. He hummed a quiet Bavarian folk song, completely at peace with the world.

"Schultz!" Klink barked.

Schultz jumped, dropping two files into the dirt. "Herr Kommandant!"

"Come here, Schultz. I want you to observe something."

Schultz jogged over, breathing heavily. He stopped next to Klink.

"Observe the prisoner, Schultz," Klink commanded.

"He looks very... American, Herr Kommandant."

"Look at his posture! The rigid spine! The unwavering salute! Walk around him, Schultz. Take in the full measure of his discipline."

Hogan's polite smile did not move a millimeter.

"That really isn't necessary, sir," Hogan said.

"Nonsense!" Klink snapped. "Schultz, inspect the prisoner."

Schultz nodded eagerly. He walked a wide circle around Hogan.

He stepped to Hogan's left. He stepped behind Hogan's back.

Schultz froze.

His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

Staring directly back at him was a massive, sharp, heavy-duty pair of perimeter wire cutters, resting perfectly against the back of Hogan's leather jacket.

Hogan subtly wiggled the giant metal handles.

Schultz swallowed hard. A bead of sweat instantly appeared on his forehead.

"Well, Schultz?" Klink asked, looking away toward the guard towers. "What do you see?"

Schultz began to tremble. "I... I see..."

"Yes?"

"I see absolutely nothing!" Schultz yelled, backing away quickly. "Nothing at all! Not even a little bit!"

Klink turned back, annoyed. "What is wrong with you, you idiot?"

"It is too much discipline for me to look at, Herr Kommandant! I must go check the kitchen!"

"You will stay right here," Klink ordered.

Inside the barracks, Kinchloe sighed.

"Schultz saw it," Kinchloe said calmly.

"He's going to crack," LeBeau said. "Look at him. He is sweating through his coat."

"We need a distraction," Newkirk said. "Carter, what have you got in your pockets?"

Carter dug into his jacket. "A piece of string. Half a biscuit. And a small smoke bomb I made from boot polish."

Newkirk grabbed the smoke bomb. "Right. I'm going out the back window."

In the courtyard, Hogan was losing feeling in his left arm.

"Kommandant," Hogan said politely. "If the inspection is over, I should return to my barracks."

"Not so fast, Hogan." Klink tapped his chin with the crop. "Schultz's reaction was very strange."

"Schultz is a strange man, sir."

"He looked as if he had seen a ghost."

"Perhaps he remembered he skipped breakfast."

"Schultz never skips breakfast," Klink said suspiciously. "He was looking at your back."

Hogan didn't blink. "My jacket is very dusty, sir. It offends his German sense of cleanliness."

Klink stepped closer.

"Turn around, Hogan."

"I'd rather not, sir."

"I am giving you a direct order."

"I have a terrible pain in my spine, Kommandant. The doctor said if I turn too quickly, I might paralyze myself."

"You are lying, Hogan."

"I assure you, sir, the medical risks are severe."

Klink pointed the crop at Hogan's chest. "You are hiding something."

"Just my deep admiration for your leadership, sir."

"Schultz!" Klink yelled. "What is he hiding?"

Schultz squeezed his eyes shut. "I was not looking! I am legally blind in this sunlight!"

"I will count to three, Hogan," Klink warned. "One."

"Sir, I must protest."

"Two."

06/04/2026

It is a universally acknowledged truth at Stalag 13 that whenever Colonel Klink is yelling, someone is getting away with murder.

Or, in Colonel Hogan's case, high treason.

Hogan knew it was going to be a beautiful morning the moment he heard the Kommandant start screaming.

"Dummkopf!" Klink roared.

He sat behind his heavy wooden desk, leaning forward so aggressively his monocle nearly popped out of his eye. His finger pointed like a loaded weapon directly at Sergeant Schultz.

Schultz stood stiffly at attention, wincing. He gripped his rifle tightly against his chest, looking as though he desperately wished it could magically transport him to a quiet bakery in Munich.

Hogan stood casually to the right of the desk. He leaned in, wearing a relaxed, completely innocent smile.

His left hand rested gently on the desk's edge.

Right next to a highly classified Allied operational map.

The map was covered in bright red markings. It was sticking halfway out from under Klink's large green desk blotter.

All Klink had to do was look down.

"I ask you to do one simple thing, Schultz!" Klink shouted. "One simple inventory of the officers' mess!"

"Herr Kommandant, I did the inventory," Schultz pleaded, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"You ate the inventory!" Klink snapped.

Hogan gently tapped his fingers against the desk. He used his thumb to slowly push the map.

A quarter-inch further under the blotter.

"He makes a fair point, sir," Hogan said mildly. "You can't really count sausages by tasting them."

Schultz looked betrayed. "Colonel Hogan, I was merely checking for poison. Security is my highest duty."

"And we appreciate your sacrifice, Hans," Hogan smiled.

He pushed the map another quarter-inch.

Almost out of sight.

Suddenly, Klink slammed his fist on the desk.

The green blotter jumped.

The map slid two inches backward.

It was now blatantly visible again. A giant red target circle practically glowing against the green leather.

Hogan didn't blink. He just let his hand rest casually over the corner of the paper.

"Colonel Hogan, do not defend him!" Klink barked, adjusting his collar to look authoritative. "Wilhelm Klink runs a tight ship. My discipline is legendary."

"Legendary, sir. They sing songs about it in London," Hogan said smoothly.

"They do?" Klink paused. His chest puffed out slightly. "What kind of songs?"

"Mostly ballads. About your posture."

Klink smiled. "Well. Naturally."

He began to look down toward his desk.

Hogan immediately leaned closer, blocking Klink's view of the blotter entirely.

"But sir, if word gets out that your guards are eating the inventory, Berlin might think you're getting soft."

Klink's head snapped back up. The smile vanished instantly.

"Soft? Wilhelm Klink is made of iron!" He glared back at Schultz. "Thirty days confined to barracks, Schultz!"

Schultz groaned. "Herr Kommandant, please!"

"Dismissed!"

Schultz turned to leave. As he did, his heavy boot caught the edge of the small wooden side table.

A stack of Klink's pristine paperwork slid off the table and scattered dramatically across the floor.

"Schultz!" Klink screamed.

"I know nothing! It was gravity! Gravity is a saboteur!" Schultz cried, dropping to his knees to gather the papers.

Klink stood up furiously. He marched around the desk to yell directly at the top of Schultz's helmet.

This was Hogan's chance.

He slid the map fully under the green blotter. Safe.

Or so he thought.

Down in the tunnel beneath Barracks 2, Kinchloe sat at the radio table. He took off his headphones.

He looked perfectly calm.

"We have a problem," Kinch said.

Newkirk looked up from a deck of cards. "The Gestapo?"

"Worse," Kinch said smoothly. "Carter."

LeBeau groaned from the tiny stove where he was stirring a pot. "What did the boy do this time?"

"He sneaked into Klink's office through the emergency panel ten minutes ago to plant the new listening device," Kinch explained.

"And?" Newkirk asked, raising an eyebrow.

"And he dropped the drop-zone map," Kinch said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Hogan is up there right now trying to hide it."

Newkirk threw his cards down. "Blimey. If Klink finds that, we're all taking a permanent vacation against a brick wall."

Carter walked in from the armory, wiping his hands on a rag. He smiled enthusiastically.

"Hey guys. Did you see my map? I think I left it upstairs."

Kinch stared at him.

Newkirk stared at him.

LeBeau held a large soup ladle as if heavily considering using it as a weapon.

"Carter," Kinch said quietly. "Are you aware that map has a giant red circle around the exact field where the RAF is dropping our radio parts tonight?"

Carter blinked. "Yeah. I used a red crayon so we wouldn't miss it."

"Right," Newkirk muttered. "Very helpful, mate. I'm sure Klink will really appreciate the color coordination."

"We have to create a diversion," LeBeau said, tossing the ladle down. "I'll go to the wire. I can pretend to have a breakdown and insult Hitler's mustache."

"Save the dramatics, Frenchie," Newkirk said. "We need something fast. Carter, go up through the trapdoor outside the office and start a small fire in the trash can."

Carter's eyes lit up. "Oh, a fire! I have some magnesium powder that burns real bright!"

"Small fire, Carter," Kinch sighed. "We want to distract him, not melt his monocle."

Back in the Kommandant's office, Klink returned to his chair.

Schultz had finally stacked the papers and stood sweating by the door.

"Get out of my sight, Schultz," Klink muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant." Schultz hurried out, closing the door behind him.

Klink sighed. He looked at Hogan.

"Colonel, why do I tolerate him?"

"He brings out your eyes, sir," Hogan said without missing a beat.

Klink smiled slightly. "He is utterly incompetent. But I suppose a brilliant leader needs a few fools around to make his genius shine brighter."

"It's a heavy burden, sir."

"It is." Klink reached for his pen.

He looked down at his desk blotter.

Hogan noticed something terrible.

The map was completely under the blotter, yes. But Carter had used a thick red wax crayon. The crayon had transferred slightly onto the underside of the green leather, creating a strange, bumpy lump perfectly visible from Klink's angle.

Klink frowned.

He ran his hand over the green blotter.

"What is this?" Klink asked.

"What is what, sir?" Hogan asked innocently.

"My blotter. It is... bumpy."

Klink dug his fingernails under the edge of the leather pad.

Hogan's mind raced. He had approximately three seconds before Klink flipped the pad and found a map directing the Allies to a German forest.

"Sir, I wouldn't do that," Hogan said sharply.

Klink froze. "Why not?"

"Termites."

Klink blinked behind his monocle. "Termites?"

"Wood-boring mites, sir. Brought over in the last shipment of Swiss cheese for the guards' mess. They seek out high-quality leather. Once you let the air in, they swarm."

Klink slowly pulled his hand away from the blotter as if it were on fire.

"Termites? In my office? This is an outrage!"

"It's a tragedy, sir. I’ll have my men come in with some fumigation powder right away."

Klink nodded rapidly. "Yes. Yes, see to it immediately, Hogan."

Hogan smiled and took a step toward the door.

He was almost safe.

Then the door swung open.

General Burkhalter walked in.

He looked large, impatient, and in a terrible mood.

"Klink!" Burkhalter barked.

Klink leaped out of his chair, nearly knocking over his inkwell. "Herr General! I did not expect you!"

"That is usually how surprise inspections work, you idiot," Burkhalter grumbled, removing his heavy gloves.

He noticed Hogan. "What is he doing here?"

"Colonel Hogan was just leaving, Herr General," Klink said nervously.

"Actually," Hogan said smoothly, "we were just discussing the termite problem under the Colonel's desk blotter."

Burkhalter stared at Klink. "Termites?"

"Yes, Herr General! Vicious Swiss termites!" Klink nodded furiously.

Burkhalter looked at Hogan, then at Klink, then down at the green blotter.

"Klink, you are a fool. There are no Swiss termites in January."

Burkhalter walked aggressively toward the desk.

He reached for the edge of the green blotter.

Hogan's Heroes Show

06/05/2026

06/05/2026

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