If Stalag 13 Had Been Like Bagram:
Alas, Hogan's Heroes. And poor LeBeau. He never stood a chance. The second that Sgt. Schultz discovered the receiver in the coffee pot and then sputtered a report to Colonel Klink, who then discovered the comically obvious bugs in his office, LeBeau's fate was sealed. But there was so much to go through before the sweet kiss of death finally sucked the last breath from the ill-fated Frenchman.

Sure, when Klink called Col. Hogan to his office, Hogan expected to do the usual song and dance - flatter Klink, make implicit threats about the Commandant's status within the Luftwaffe, plant yet one more bug, wink at Helga, Klink's big-titted secretary (would Hogan have it any other way?), head back to quarters, and send more messages to the Allies about Nazi plans. Except not this time. No, when Hogan entered Klink's office, the monocle was off and Gestapo Officer Hochestetter was there with two big guards. Hogan wasn't sure what happened when the first rifle butt hit him in the nose, but the next thing he knew, his clothes were being cut off him and a hood was being placed on his head. He heard the Germans laughing at his cold, frightened, shriveled cock, disappearing like a turtle head into his body. Then Hogan made his biggest mistake.

Every other time Hogan had invoked the Geneva Convention (for instance, "Colonel Klink, I must protest as a violation of the Geneva Convention the private interrogation of my men by a Gestapo officer"), Klink had crumbled like a house of cards. But when he tried this time, he was slammed face down on Klink's desk as the Commandant exhaled a frustrated, "Hooogannnn. I'll show you what we think of the Geneva Convention." And then Hogan heard a thick sheaf of papers being rolled tightly. Well, this is poetic, Hogan thought, just before he felt the searing pain of the Geneva Conventions being shoved into his ass. Schultz protested briefly, but Klink asked the bumbling Sergeant what he would say to any investigators.

"I see noth-ink," he exclaimed. "I see noth-ink."

Hogan would not crack. He would not give up the names of anyone who had collaborated with him to enable the Allies to stop so many attacks, so many Nazi plans. By the time they threw him into the freezing cold cell, near the cells where LeBeau, Kinch, Newkirk, and Carter cowered, all naked, all chained into forced kneeling positions, Hogan had been beaten repeatedly, he'd had electrodes attached to his nutsack, he'd been half-drowned over and over, but he wouldn't give them a name. Even when they raped him with Klink's swagger stick, Hogan stayed true to his men, his mission.

God, the way the months progressed after that. The dogs they used on Kinch, the way they bundled Newkirk and Carter up in the middle of the night and sent them to Nazi areas of Northern Africa, where they would be tortured and mutilated until they gave up every bit of info they had and lied about so, so much more. How many times can you be hung by your ankles, had your balls pressed in a makeshift vice, your asshole probed with broomsticks, snakes, and ballpeen hammers, how much can you take until you are willing to say anything, sign anything, consign your family to death. Carter lasted about six months until the poor, dim bastard didn't have anything else to make up and he took one electric shock too many. It was worse for Newkirk. He lived until just about the end of the war, when, in a panic, the Gestapo sold him to a caravan of lonely Bedouins.

But LeBeau. The Gestapo decided to use LeBeau as a way to soften up Hogan, that tough motherfucker. They screamed at him, kept him awake for three, four days at a time. They forced him to stand for hours and hours and every time he fell, they would kick him in the side of his leg. They'd chain him by his arms and legs, a modified rack, and force him to sing "Deutschland Uber Alles," to call himself a "filthy Jew," and more. When he'd shit himself, they'd force him to roll around in his own shit and then hose him off with freezing water. They would take him down occasionally, to show him to Hogan, to question him some more. LeBeau would twitch, his muscles stretched to uselessness, uncontrollable. The twitching would enrage his interrogators, and they would beat him more. When Schultz finally started beating him, LeBeau just gave up. His official cause of death was a heart attack, caused by blood clots from all the torture. C'est la vie, eh?

Hogan was sent home after the war. When he is asleep, when he is awake, he hears screams, from his men, from himself. Fifty years of screams. And he thinks he's lucky.

Remember: Hogan's Heroes were guilty. They committed espionage. They thwarted the Germans every chance they could. The Germans in this version were being good soldiers, according to the paradigm the Bush administration has created. They were trying to stop imminent attacks on their own men. Hogan and the other prisoners wouldn't have given up any information if the niceties of the Geneva Convention had been followed, right?

And if they had been innocents, if LeBeau had simply been driving past Stalag 13, delivering wine, well, that's just collateral damage. It's a shame, but, god, don't you understand the price we must pay to sleep safely at night?