The rumble of the tanks, clattering along the road, grinding any stray bits of stone or sand into dust, was unlike any other. It was like a summer thunderstorm, or the sound of an approaching tornado. You never forgot that sound.

Personally Carter kinda liked the sound. Of the tanks anyway. The heavy clank-clank-clank-clank of the treads knocking against one another, the hydraulic hum of the turrets, the squeal of the gears. The whole thing was so simple, and yet, in all its simplicity, deadly. It was like standing real close to the tracks when a freight train went by.

"You mind not smilin' so much, Carter. You're supposed to be daft, but not that daft." Newkirk chided softly beside him, hitching up the stocking on his left leg for the fifteenth time.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I like tanks. And I'd rather look at the tanks, then you." Carter sniped then turned his attention to the basket of loaves of bread that he carried, aligning the top loaf and squeezing once he judged one of the passing armored vehicles to be in position. The loaf of bread clicked obediently.

Newkirk finished fiddling with his stockings and gave Carter a dirty look. "That's a fine way to speak to your dear ol' mum." He groused then slipped into his old frau voice. "After all the sacrifices I've made for you, you'd think I'd have a grateful, kind boy. But nooo…"

Newkirk went on complaining, fussing with the wig and winking at one of the soldiers marching alongside the tanks. The private had made the mistake of staring too long at the curiously ugly old woman and he gave a repulsed sneer when Newkirk smiled fetchingly in return.

Once the soldier had passed Newkirk sneered right back. "There's another ungrateful louse." He muttered in his own voice, then went back to watching the tanks and half-tracks roll by.

They weren't the only citizens on the street of course. The parade of men and machines had drawn most of the children and women from the houses and businesses. It wasn't a gay occasion, and there was little good expected to come from an influx of hungry soldiers marching into town but it was a break from the monotony.

For Newkirk and Carter it was a chance to get exact numbers, photos, and locations through the underground to London so that this particular Eastern Front-bound unit could be blown to smithereens before they got there.

"Now, Mama." Carter said, snapping a few more photos before craning his neck to judge just how many more vehicles were coming.

Newkirk followed his line of sight, then slapped at one of Carter's wrists, earning a surprised look and an, "Ow!"

"Stop squeezing the bread, Sonny." Newkirk warned, in character, then pointed at the crowd of overgrown Hitler Youth who had once again focused their attention on the two disguised POWs.

The group had been following them around town most of the morning, hanging back, but clearly intending to make the "old woman" and her son the target of mischief.

Carter gave Newkirk a look of consternation, about to remind him that the hidden camera was in the bread and he didn't have a choice but to squeeze it. Then he remembered that the phrase was code for the mission ending.

"But I love the way it feels, Mama! Can't I just have a taste?" Carter begged, his voice taking on an unattractive whine that caused at least one woman on the street to wrinkle her nose in their direction.

Carter put out his arm and Newkirk linked his wrist over the American's, tottering slowly up the street. "Now, sonny. Those things are meant for your dear father, who's stuck in bed. You keep squeezing those loaves and he'll think I'm serving him pancakes. You know how your father hates pancakes."

The patter continued as the two headed down the sidewalk, going slow enough for Newkirk's old woman act to be believable. His stockings were falling down again, but both men were suddenly more than a little anxious to get out of town, so Newkirk let them fall.

When he felt the rolled-up cuff of his black pants start to give way, however, he pushed Carter into the nearest alley and ran to the other end. Once they were able to duck out of sight of the main road, Newkirk leaned against the cold brick and nodded to his partner.

"Dig that camera out and let's get back to camp." Newkirk ordered, and ripped the dress up and over his head taking the wig and glasses with it as he did.

Carter set down the basket and scattered bread crumbs digging for the small camera stuffed into the top loaf. Newkirk was tossing handfuls of moldy bread from the basket to get to the map and papers hidden on the bottom, and flashed the American with looks of annoyance when the crumbs landed in the space he was clearing.

He marked the maps quickly, drawing red circles around the fields outside Hammelburg where the tanks would be resting for the next week, then tucked them into a waterproof package that would go inside the lining of the coat Carter was wearing.

Newkirk was in the process of ripping Carter's coat off when he heard the male voices behind him and froze.

"Didn't I tell you, Franz? That little old lady had too nice of legs to be so frail looking."

"You were right, 'Dolf." Another voice cooed. "She isn't an old lady at all. But a man. A nancy man, too."

Newkirk tried to relax the set to his shoulders, and resettled the coat on Carter's back, intentionally squeezing down hard for a moment. Relax, the move said. Relax and we'll get out of this.

"You spilled some of your bread, Nancy boy." Dolf said.

"Yah, you're very skinny, Nancy. You shouldn't throw away good bread."

The maps were still in the basket, plain as day if anyone bothered to get close enough to look. The Englander didn't know for sure where the camera was but he turned slowly to face what he hoped was only two uniformed men. Instead there were five Hitler-Jugend standing just inside the mouth of the narrow corridor that branched off the alley.

"Aww," The tallest of the five said, his face contorting into what was probably meant to be a look of pity. "Don't look so frightened, little man. We just wanted to help you with your basket."

One of the Hitler Youth, a brown haired young man that looked too big for his age, had already picked up one of the pieces of bread. The tall one bent to do the same, making a face at the large spots of mold that covered the underside of the loaf.

From where he stood twenty feet away, Newkirk could see that only two of the five were armed, the guns holstered. These two were probably the glib Franz and Dolf.

Newkirk felt Carter bump against him and heard the rattle of the waterproof package a second later. That made the decision for him and Newkirk softly said, "Run."

They both took off down the alley and the Hitler-Jugend gave chase, shouting delighted at the prospect of a morning jaunt through the town.

Despite the list of things that Carter always managed to louse up in the middle of an emergency, the one thing that he could do well was run. As long as his uniform fit. And as long as he wasn't trying to carry dynamite and a detonator while he did it.

Or, apparently, a camera the size of a fountain pen.

They were most of the way down the alley when Newkirk heard the camera drop, splashing in a shallow mud puddle.

Of all the things they could have left behind, the camera wasn't one of them and Newkirk hit the brakes, sliding on filth and debris before reversing directions.

He heard Carter's frantic, "I got the film out!" a second later, but he was already committed.

He snatched the camera from the water, then turned and ran. Seconds later he heard the heavy pounding of feet behind him and was tackled by a gorilla.

He hit the ground and the camera popped out of his hand, tumbling down the alley in Carter's direction. Newkirk fought to get free of the body that had collided with him, staring at the camera's erratic path until it slid under the surface of a discarded pallet, out of sight.

Carter had stalled at the end of the alley though and Newkirk yelled for him to run, finally kicking free of the orangutan that had brought him down, and scrambling back to his feet. Instead of shots, or shouts he heard a feral laugh behind him that sent a chill down his spine.

He didn't look back, but rounded the corner moments after Carter did and pushed the American once more to top speed. They had to get to the factory district, then the railroad cut, and then through the woods to the emergency tunnel entrance. A two hour walk most days, but necessary for secrecy's sake.

Secrecy was going to be a moot point with Hitler-Jugend on their tail. They had to lose them, and fast.

The moment Newkirk spotted a clothes line he dodged for it, dragging Carter with him. The Englander shopped on the run, selecting two articles of clothing seconds before he passed them, yanking them off the line.

A corduroy jacket for him that barely fit and a pair of coveralls that he really hoped Carter could get into. The yard they had cut through was empty but the next yard wasn't, and the inhabitant was displeased, to say the least, at their sudden arrival.

Barking wildly and yanking on its chain, the dog still had far too much free rein as far as Newkirk was concerned. Carter was silent as they carefully skirted the animal's reach, checking the next yard before hopping the fence.

Scanning the empty lot, Newkirk pulled Carter to a halt and took the film and maps from him, and over the sound of his heart trying to beat out of his chest, gasped, "Change into that."

Carter yanked his cap off, then the jacket, stripping down to his own black pants and shirt before he stepped into the coveralls.

"These are about two sizes too big, Newkirk!" Carter complained, swimming in the clothes, his hands and feet hidden.

"Close the zipper and they'll stay on. We'll tailor it later." Newkirk bit back, securing the maps and film inside the cap Carter had been wearing. He spared a glance to the street in front of the house then flipped the hat onto his own head and said, "Our new pals have found us again."

Without another word they both took off, vaulting fences and ducking full clothes lines until they had left that neighborhood for a slum.

There were no fences here and they gained some distance, reaching the six lines of railroad tracks in time to scramble in front of a slow moving freight engine. The tracks divided the housing development from the factory district, and the train was heading in the direction they wanted to go.

Newkirk moved alongside the rumbler, determining just how smart it would be to hop aboard. He was about to grab hold of the side of a boxcar when he realized that Carter wasn't with him. When he looked back he caught sight of the frantic sergeant yanking at one of the pant legs of his coveralls. He was caught on a rail spike on the line opposite, and there was another train coming.

"Carter, if you'd stop bleedin' messin around..." Newkirk swore and scrambled across the tumbling ballast, yanking his toad sticker from its hiding place along his wrist and sawing desperately at the industrial strength fabric. "I can't take you anywhere."

"It's a whole lot easier to run when you're not wearing a parachute." Carter snapped, shooting frantic glances to the approaching train until he felt his leg pop free with a hundred feet of empty track to spare.

As they stood back from the rush of wind, noise and metal, Newkirk watched the rumbler's caboose disappear in the opposite direction and pointed his hand at the spout of dissipating steam. "And there goes our ride, Andrew."

Shaking his head Newkirk knealt again and sawed off the bottom four inches of cloth on the other leg of Carter's coveralls, making them as even as possible, then scanned the parallel lines of track for anymore unexpected traffic.

"Well at least we lost those five guys." Carter brought up. "And we still got the film and the maps."

Newkirk nodded, absently, certain they were pressing their luck with even that bit of good news. "Let's get outta this town," he suggested.

Carter nodded, and led the way, running around the gated perimeter of a brick factory complex belching smoke and the stench of burning oil.

When they got to the road Newkirk suddenly understood what had become of the Hitler-Jugend.

They had a car and sat waiting on the other side of the building with their guns out, accompanied by a group of bored looking sentries.

Newkirk and Carter pulled to a stop fifty yards away, both expecting shots or shouts or something. They were clearly visible to the Hitler Youth but none of the 'boys' made any effort to approach them.

"What do we do now?" Carter asked, checking the route behind them, just in case this was part of a pincer movement.

"Guess that depends on what they do now." Newkirk responded, squinting at the far too confident face of the tall one.

"What are they waitin for?"

"Us, to keep them entertained with this chase." Newkirk spat out angrily.

"Well that's just lousy." Carter said.

"Come on," Newkirk said, starting back the way they had come on tiring legs. "Maybe there's another train we can catch."

As soon as he turned the shouts started and the car engine roared into life. The sound of spinning tires on gravel gave both POWs another jolt of adrenaline and they doubled their speed instantly, shooting out onto the tracks again. Newkirk took off down the length of the rails this time, and glanced over his shoulder long enough to make sure that Carter was with him.

The car veered around the corner minutes later and shots popped against the rocks at their feet, spitting up shards of stone and dust. One shot hit a rail and whined as it flew, before it was stopped by flesh, and Carter went down, rolling hard on the ballast.