Chapter Text
(*Author's note: This is a revision of the first fan fiction that I've ever written and it is the first fan fiction that I'm posting here at the Wonderful World. I have the unrevised version of this story on ff.net so, if this story seems familiar to anyone, that's why. A note about language in this fic: since I do not know German, I'm not using it (or, if I do, it'll just be a Herr here and there). Basically, if two characters are German, they're speaking in German. Not a whole lot different than the show, really. And I think that's all you need to know. Enjoy the ficcie!*)
Disclaimer: Hogan and his heroes as well as Sam and his friends all have one thing in common: none of them belong to me. And, as that is the case, I make no money from this publication. Thank you.
Leaper, Don't Be a Hero!
Chapter 1: Leaping out and Leaping in
He was pretty sure that he had been drugged. And kidnaped. Why was beyond him, but he was almost certain that that was the case. He had to have been drugged: his head wasn't injured, at least, there was no pain, and yet, he found that he couldn't remember things. Important things, like his name.
'Unsettled' was not nearly a strong enough word to describe his current feelings.
So far, no one had come to check on him in this curious, light blue room. On one hand, he didn't mind because it gave him a chance to orient himself. On the other, his efforts at orienting himself had only served to make him feel more confused. His mind was filled with a jumble of strange images: a banner with an odd crooked cross; men in black uniforms shouting and marching around with an almost hypnotic symmetry; an infuriating man, one who inspired a strange mix of admiration and irritation along with a smattering of something like friendship, smirking at him; a fat man saying something about prisoners . . . Those were the things that seemed familiar, anchors to who he was.
But there were more images, disconnected from the others: Katie; Tom; Al - those names and the faces they were linked to didn't seem right. It was as if they didn't belong to him. As if they weren't his memories at all --
That was absurd, of course. How could he remember someone else's memories?
He shook his head. This was getting him absolutely nowhere. He needed answers and he needed them now. After scraping up his nerve, quite a feat under the circumstances, he opened his mouth to demand that someone, anyone, tell him why he was here, tell him when he could go home . . . where home was.
But before he could actually voice his demands, a hidden door opened and in stepped someone he remembered - not from the memories he thought were his own but from the others he wasn't sure about. She was a tall, graceful, Negro woman wearing what looked to be a lab coat. She smiled at him and he stared at her warily. Though the memories of her told him to trust her, he didn't completely trust those memories. But he was reasonably sure about one thing: he knew her name.
"Hello, Verbena."
He couldn't imagine that the look of surprise on her face could have been greater if he had suddenly grown another head. Her face blanched ever-so slightly (with her dark skin, it was hard to see) and she gaped at him as if he was a ghost. "Sam?"
He took a moment to consider it. Sam. Was that his name? While he had no way to be sure, he didn't think so. He shook his head and felt saddened to see the hope leech out of her brown eyes. Whoever this "Sam" was, he must have been important to her.
After a second or two, she had recovered herself, though a faint look of disappointment remained. Mainly, she seemed curious now that the shock had passed. "All right," she began, her tone cool and professional, "what is your name and how did you know mine?"
He felt a bead of sweat form on his brow. And here he'd thought that she could tell him who he was! "I don't remember what my name is. I was hoping that you could tell me." When she only nodded, he continued, "As for knowing your name . . . I'm not sure that I understand it myself. I remember you but . . ." How could he explain without sounding like he'd lost his senses?
A disturbing thought crossed his mind: what if had lost his senses? Maybe that was why he was here in the first place. But, if this were some kind of hospital, wouldn't this woman know who he was?
"But what?"
He hesitated before deciding that, as it stood, he had little to lose if she thought he was crazy. "It's difficult to explain. I remember your name and your face, but it's not me who remembers."
She looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"I have memories that I think are mine and then I have these others that aren't: they don't fit." He shrugged, beginning to feel uncomfortable under her close scrutiny. "I can not explain it any better than that."
A flash of understanding crossed her features. "These memories that 'don't fit,' what do you see?"
He licked his lips and wondered, as a sick knot formed in his stomach, whether or not Verbena would share her insight with him. Somehow, he doubted it. "Some names and some faces: yours, Al, Gooshie, Tina, Tom, Katie - some others." He shook his head. "But I'm not attached to them."
Verbena was nodding to herself. "It makes sense."
She'd said it softly but, in the silence of the room, not softly enough. "It does?" He tried not to sound as desperate as he felt but he couldn't stop himself. He dearly wanted to know what was happening to him and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand being kept in the dark. "Please, what is happening?"
Her smile told him that answers to his questions would not be forthcoming. "I can't disclose all of the details but I can tell you that you are safe and you won't be harmed while you are here." Her expression softened. "I'm sorry, but it's really for the best."
"But why can't I remember anything!" His frustration overcame his fear and he stood. "Can't you at least tell me that!"
"I'm sorry," she said again, sounding sincere. "I wish that I could tell you, but I'm afraid the truth would distress you more."
He was incredulous to say the least. "More than thinking that I'm crazy? I don't even know what my name is."
Slowly, she reached out her hand and laid it on his shoulder. "Your memories will return in time. It'll all come back to you."
While he wasn't sure if he trusted this woman, whatever those other memories said, he couldn't deny that her gesture calmed him a little. "What about these other memories?"
Now she seemed unsure. "They may or may not fade. This hasn't happened much in the past so we haven't been able to study it." Then she seemed to sense his true concern. "You're not insane because you remember them."
He wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved. All he had was her word and her talk of 'studying' didn't sit well with him considering his current situation. Still, what choice did he have but to believe? "Where am I? How long will I be here?"
She shook her head. "I can't tell you that." Taking her hand off his shoulder, she offered him another smile. "It'll be all right." Then she straightened her lab coat and suddenly looked apologetic. "I have to go now, but I'll be back soon. Just sit tight, all right?"
He nodded only because he knew that she'd be leaving whether or not he made a fuss.
"Goodbye," Verbena said as she turned away and the hidden door opened again.
A second later she was gone and he was alone.
As Sam's senses returned and the blue light of the leap faded, he immediately became aware of two things: he was holding a telephone receiver and his host was in the middle of being shouted at by an irate man speaking German on the other end. How he understood what the voice was shouting about, Sam wasn't sure. Possibly, German had been one of the languages he'd forgotten that he knew or maybe he had been left with enough of the host's mind to translate the language.
Either way, he understood the words and he didn't like what he was hearing.
" . . . I don't think I need to remind you that General Metziger is very influential in Berlin. You are to make sure he is kept comfortable and impressed - if anything happens while he's at Stalag 13 to give him a bad impression of the Luftwaffe., I promise that you will be packed off to the Russian Front so quickly your head will spin!" There was a short pause before the shouting man screamed: "Do you understand, Klink?!"
"Y-yes, sir, I understand, sir. Leave everything to me, sir." The nervous ramble popped out of Sam's mouth without conscious thought. His chest felt tight and he wondered what he was so nervous about. Another 'gift' from the host? He shifted uneasily in the chair he was sitting in and hoped that this conversation would end soon so he could figure out what was going on this time.
"Excellent. I'm glad that we have an understanding. I'll contact you if I learn anything else. Goodbye, Colonel Klink."
Before Sam replied, a part of his mind suppled the other man's name. He was both disturbed and relieved at the ease which the name came to him. "Goodbye, General Burkhalter."
"Heil, Hitler!"
What? "Heil, Hitler?" Where was he this time? Or, maybe more importantly, when? He hung up the receiver and stood, looking around the office, for office it was, for some clue as to what kind of mess he had landed in. His eyes were immediately drawn to the red and white Nazi banner in the corner and the framed picture of Hitler that hung beside it.
That didn't bode well. He looked down at himself and saw that he was dressed in a uniform. It looked like a an old fashioned German uniform; either it was an actual article (in which case, it had held up well over the years) or the work of a very good tailor. As he ran his hand over the metal eagles and the iron cross, he had to admit that it certainly felt real.
What was this? Some kind of re-enactment? He seemed to recall leaping into a doctor and trying to resuscitate a patient without realizing that he'd leapt into an actor. But there didn't seem to be any cameras this time. Besides, if this was a movie or something, why would the man who called stay in character on the phone when no one but Sam could hear him. It didn't make sense.
But, if he wasn't a re-enactor . . . What was going on? Was he some kind of Neo-Nazi? Then who was this 'General Metziger' person and what would being influential in Berlin have to do with anything? Where did that leave him?
His gut had been telling him the same thing since he'd saw his uniform and, until now, Sam had successfully ignored it. But it wasn't possible: the second World War had ended years before he was born. According to his String Theory, leaping outside of his lifetime wasn't possible. At least, it shouldn't be.
But, if his gut was right . . . well, then the String Theory was wrong and so were the underlying principles of the Quantum Leap Project itself. And, if they were wrong, who knew what else was?
However, before rewriting his theory, Sam decided to investigate.
After digging through piles of requisition reports on top of the desk and rifling through a drawer full of thick folders, Sam had found an appointment book. It was filled in by someone with very neat and very old fashioned handwriting. Every page had a date at the top and, as he flipped to the last filled in page, Sam was disheartened to learn that he might have to rewrite his theory after all. The date was September 3, 1943, almost ten years before he had been born.
While he still could not be completely certain that this appointment book was real, he had to acknowledge that, if it was fake, someone had put an insane amount of effort into it. But was that more or less believable than the idea he'd some how leaped into World War II?
"Oh, boy," Sam sighed as he slouched down into the chair and dropped the appointment book on the desk. However he looked at it, this whole situation was not boding well. What was he going to do? And how was Ziggy supposed to find him if he actually was outside of his lifetime? And, if he was, how could he leap out again?. It was a disturbing proposition all around.
He found himself taking a sip of liquor that he could not remember pouring. First he glared at the bottle (Schnapps?) that had somehow appeared on the corner of his desk as if it was its fault that he'd given into the habits of then host. Then he stared at the glass in his hand with more than a little annoyance.
Great, he thought resentfully, not only have I leaped into a Nazi, I've leaped into a drunk Nazi. Deliberately, Sam placed the glass back on the desk. He didn't usually drink, as far as he could remember, and he had no intention of starting now . . . But the glass did look tempting . . .
Abruptly, Sam stood. "Okay," he said aloud, more to take his mind off the glass that sat invitingly on the desk than anything else, "I'm not going to find any answers waiting around here. Maybe I can find out where I am. I already know when I am and it doesn't look like Al's going to turn up any time soon." He carefully avoided thinking about the fact that Al might never turn up. There were enough problems to worry about without adding that fear to them.
Besides, it didn't bear thinking about; Al always came through.
Sam walked over to a hat stand by the door and took the grey coat that was hanging on it. After slipping it on, he looked back at the desk. The idea that he was running from a drink galled him, but he comforted himself with the thought that there was nothing more to be gained by hanging around this office. His sense of dignity wasn't completely mollified but he was able to ignore it well enough to turn and walk out the door.
To be continued . . .