"I'm telling you, this is neither the time nor the place for practical jokes, Sergeant!" Sergeant Jamison Finch yelled at his rival, Sergeant Buddy Stern.

"Aw, lighten up, Jamie. We were just having a little fun." Buddy shrugged, and brushed by Jamison on the way back to his bunk.

Jamison followed Buddy. "I do not call having all of our cabins searched because someone decided it would be fun to give the guards ink candy. Giving them black lips does not inspire kind feelings towards us."

Buddy turned around to face Jamison again. "When do they like us? Never! A little prank just livens things up."

Jamison frowned. By now, the seven other prisoners had gathered around the stove, far away from the argument. "Liven things up? You nearly had our new tunnel discovered!"

"I didn't know about any tunnel. So how was I supposed to be cautious?" Buddy threw his hands into the air.

"You should always be cautious. You can never tell when we have a tunnel started, or when we need the guards less vigilant to carry out our escape. Think, Sergeant."

Buddy glared at Jamison. "You think, Jamie! We slave here all day under these Jerries, and then we stay up half the night doing heaven knows what. We need a break."

"Says who?"

"Says everyone! Right, men?"

Nearly all the soldiers gave their support to Buddy's statement. Two were silent because they weren't paying attention to the quarrel and didn't hear the question.

Jamison rolled his eyes, catching sight of one of the men lying on his bunk. "Boyd, what are you reading?"

I looked up, keeping the place in my novel with one finger. I glanced at the navy paper cover, typical except for the lack of a title. "Nothing, sir."

Narrowing his eyes, he focused his attention on me instead of Buddy. "Boyd? You certainly cannot be reading 'nothing'."

I rolled my eyes. Trust him to start in on me. "Sir, I mean that it is of no importance."

Jamison came over, the standing seven moving quickly out of his way. "Boyd, you should not speak to a superior officer as such."

Why did he have to say that? I couldn't help myself. I really couldn't. "When you become a 'superior' officer, I'll stop with the smart ass remarks."

"Boyd, that is not appropriate." Jamison tried his best to look authoritative. There was reasons why he was only a sergeant; this was one of them.

"Stick to the script, Jamison." I noted the page—seventy-two—and shut the book.

"Me stick to the script? There was nothing written about you staying on your bunk." Jamison was growing flustered, he dropped his English accent to speak like the American he was.

Sighing, I slid my book under my blanket discreetly. "There wasn't anything about 'Sergeant Finch notices Boyd's book' either."

Jamison made a frustrated sound and stalked off the set, muttering to himself. "I can't work like this. I just can't work like this."

"Aw, Penn, what'd you do that for? Now we'll never get through the scene." Buddy flopped down on the bunk across the room. I sat up, bare feet unable to reach the floor. I hate being short.

"Buds, it wasn't my fault. We've been stuck on this scene for the past two days because 'Sergeant Finch' wants it just so." The sarcasm was clear in my voice.

"Hey, who decided to make James pull the diva act?" Michael Robertson poked his head out of the officers' quarters, or as he used them, the director's observation room. Robertson didn't like to draw more attention to the fact that there were cameras recording our every move, and so kept himself away from the action.

No one said anything. We had become really close in the five months we'd been shooting together, mostly because we all had something in common—dislike for James Philippe, onsite Sergeant Finch.

"Come on, guys. Really, who was it?" Robertson crossed his arms. He was young; barely twenty-two. Prisoner of War was his first big project, and we all hoped not the last. He did try to keep everyone satisfied, and allowed our input on scenes. Unfortunately, that was also what got us doing one scene for two days straight.

I stepped off the bunk. "Sorry, Rob. I'm just so sick of reading on my bunk."

Robertson shrugged. "Well, James wasn't happy with things, and since he's a principal character…"

"That's no reason to make us suffer for it. Make him practice in his dressing room if he wants to be happy with it. We want to do something new." I crossed my arms over my chest, with the rest of the cast agreeing, standing resolute behind me.

"Fine. I can see that, I'm sick of it too. Let's do…" he consulted the clipboard, seeing what scenes didn't require James, "twenty-nine. Cards. This is for, um, Buddy, Roxie, Pete and Penn."

I shrugged and dropped down on the bench. Anything was better than doing yet another take of Buddy and James' argument. "Five card, aces high?" I asked, waiting for the confusion to cross the other players' faces. It wasn't long in coming.

"Okay," Roxie was the first to speak, "Penny, we know you're the resident hustler, but please, go easy on us."

"Yeah," Pete said, accepting the deck from Robertson, "you're the one who's supposed to suck at this."

I grinned, "Too bad for you I don't," and waved the hand now wearing Pete's plain silver ring in his face. "All right, we'll play euchre," I said, cutting out the lower cards, the unused portion of the deck.

Roxie picked up her five cards. "Okay, girls against guys."

"I don't want to play with Pete!" Buddy complained, but he did pick up his cards. "He isn't any good, and he always tries to cheat."

"Suck it up, Buddy. I'm playing with Roxie, and I have to pretend I'm the worst player ever." I rearranged my cards.