Title: The Not So Bad Escape
Fandom: Hogan's Heroes
Character: Staff Sergeant Kinchloe
Warning: It's Hogan's Heroes fic. If you find the premise of the show offensive, this isn't going to be any better. Read at your own risk.
Notes: Written for MMOM 2012, Day 29. Prompt from Khylara. Unbeta'd. Comments and concrit somewhat warily welcome.
Summary: There's one special tunnel under the camp.
War does a lot of things to a man.
Kinch knew he was lucky, or at least as lucky as guy could be when he’d been shot down like a mug because his escort plane ran out of fuel. It could have been worse. Hogan was a good guy, and at least he and the fellows were still fighting the war from the confines of the Stalag. There were guys in his squadron; good men, better fliers than he’d ever be. They didn’t make it. Bought it over the Channel or ran into the kind of German who was more interested in kills than POW’s. Or some who’d ended up in those real nasty places in Poland and Lithuania. So yeah, he had it good.
Which sure as hell didn’t make it all right that he hadn’t been able to touch a woman in over three years. That was harsh, especially on those long, cold, German nights. He figured Hogan and Newkirk were making time with some of those fine Russian spy ladies who showed up from time to time. Even LeBeau had some hinky-dinky par le vous going on. But not him. He might as well be in Macon, Georgia for all the chance he was ever going to get at some local talent.
It was getting so bad that every time Newkirk got dolled up like some pretty girl in a fancy dress, it gave him ideas. The wrong kind of ideas, but they wouldn’t go away. Today it had been a red number, with a bit of cleavage, something like his girl Leona might wear to go out to a fancy nightclub. Kinch wasn't sure exactly how LeBeau had engineered it, but from a certain angle, with the right light…damn. If the allies didn’t get this war won soon, Kinch was considering heading to Berlin himself, just to punch Herr Lunatic in his smug little face for putting them all through this. His damn master race wasn’t worth Kinch laying on his cot with a boner the size of Detroit, thinking about some Limey in a makeshift dancing dress with fake boobies.
Not all that much privacy in the damn barracks anyway, and he sure as hell didn’t want Carter getting all curious. This wasn’t exactly the time for esprit de corps. Luckily, there was a way out, or rather down. Praise the lord or General Patton, as if anyone could tell the difference these days. Those tunnels were good for something besides getting in and out of the camp. Hell, some of them were nicer than the barracks themselves. Certainly cleaner.
“Where you going?”
“Need to check on some equipment. We got a weird signal out of the Alps today. If Hitler’s going skiing, we might be able to set up an avalanche.”
“Want some company.”
“Nah. I’ll be fine.”
That was close. Few more minutes and he would have grabbed Carter’s hand and told him to do it for him AND to do his Marlene Dietrich imitation while he was at it.
It really wasn’t bad down there. There was one special tunnel. Hogan had designated it for this purpose and made sure it was properly “furnished,” including candles and a Victrola. LeBeau had a special concoction that was good for keeping things nice and smooth. He was so hard he could barely stand it. It didn’t take much. Just a few strokes, a few squeezes, and some day this war would be over and he’d go home and marry Leona, and not be stuck in a hole in the middle of Germany thinking about a man in a damn dress. No, not thinking of that at all. I’m coming home Leona…coming home….coming!
He’d have to talk to Hogan about ventilation. Not a whole lot of air in that place. Just enough oxygen to do what he had to do, clean up and pretend it had never happened.
Until the next time.