[Dialogue in regular print is to be understood as being spoken in English. Dialogue in italics is to be understood as perfect, fluent French. Dialogue consisting of horribly-phoneticized attempts at very bad French are to be read as such; Newkirk is not, at this stage in the game, particularly good at any language other than his own. Bold text is German. The title phrase, 'Traduttore, Traditori' is Italian… because what we really needed was another language… and means 'The translator is a traitor.']

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The small man had put up one hell of a fight, and Newkirk took off his metaphorical hat to him, but these sort of affairs only ever ended the one way, and the sound of the cell door slamming shut on the newest addition to their happy little family was appallingly final. It wasn't the sort of thing that improved with familiarity, but the first time in the solitary cells was a special sort of horror. Poor sod.

The guard's jackbooted footsteps echoed on the concrete as he stormed away. Krauts never seemed to walk if they could help it, not if they could stamp, stride or strut instead. Was it the boots that made a man want to stomp angrily around, Newkirk wondered, or was it simply that the sort of man who wore them was the type to stomp anyway? Chicken or the egg, really. Which came first, the Nazi or the nasty?

Tabling that little bit of philosophical inquiry for later—God knew there was plenty of 'later' to look forward to in here—he took a deep breath and shouted as loudly as he could.

"Oi! Kriegie, can you 'ear me? You all right in there?"

"What did you call me, you English barbarian?" LeBeau would be the first to admit that it wasn't the friendliest greeting of which he was capable, but it had been a truly horrible day, and he felt entitled to a little show of ill-temper, especially given the fact that there was a fairly good chance that the Englishman wouldn't understand him in any case. And shouting at someone—anyone—was oddly satisfying.

"Anglay! Right, I know that one. That's 'English,' that is. Parley-voo anglay?"

"Good God. I knew the English were illiterates, but this is ridiculous." LeBeau scowled at the wall and the voice wafting through it. "Leave me alone, you buffoon; I'm not interested in anything you have to say. And stop butchering my language; France has suffered enough from this war without that final insult!"

"Charming. Sounds like a no on the English. Guess we'll 'ave to start from scratch. Bonjore, kriegie. Common tally-voo?"

Silence.

"Yeah, well, kriegie, it's 'ard, I know. We've all been there. Can't blame you for not wanting to talk about it. That's all right."

Silence.

Newkirk soldiered on. "Look, I can't keep calling you 'kriegie,' now can I? You've got to 'ave a name… wait, I remember the word. Apellay… er, no. Jim apell Newkirk, all right? Neewwkirrrk. 'Ow about you, then? I mean, quell, um, quell apellay-voo?"

More silence… then, finally, "I've heard parrots who could speak better than that. Your French is a crime."

Newkirk chuckled. "Daresay it is, and you've already 'eard most of what I know. You'll 'ave to teach me more."

"Why should I?"

"You 'ave anything better to do? Don't know about you, but I sure don't 'ave any pressing appointments on me calendar."

LeBeau thought about that, conceded the basic truth of it without surrendering an iota of his disinclination to play tutor to an English fool. His curiosity, however… "You call me 'kriegie.' What does it mean, this word?"

"Oh, that. Serves me right for bringing a third language into the mix. It's not an insult, 'onest it's not. It's Kraut for 'prisoner of war.' You and me, everyone else 'ere at the 'Itler 'Ilton, we're all kriegies. Short for 'kriegsgefangener.' Jerries sure do like words that all but break your jaw trying to say them, don't they?"

LeBeau understood perhaps a third of that, but he nodded once, lowering his hackles. Not an insult. Not a particularly flattering truth, perhaps, but he could hardly deny his status. "I see. Oui, I am a prisoner. Free French Air Force. Corporal Louis LeBeau."

"RAF, Corporal Peter Newkirk. Pleasure to meet you, mate, even if I can't say much for the circumstances."

"A pleasure to meet you, too, I suppose." LeBeau smiled, somewhat begrudgingly, but sincerely. He might be trapped in this dungeon waiting to be shot, questioned, or tortured, probably not in that order, with his only companion being an Englishman who was doing to his language what the Bosche were doing to his country, but perhaps talking was preferable to staring at the ceiling. "You must learn to speak correctly. Not 'bonjore.' Bonjour. Say it."

A week or two later, as they got more comfortable with the languages, and were well on their way to creating a French-English hybrid that would have given a linguist apoplexy, they'd learned a bit more about each other. LeBeau, for instance, was a chef. Newkirk was a magician. (He didn't feel the need to mention any of his other talents. At least, not yet.) LeBeau was Parisian, Newkirk was London to the core. It transpired that they held amazingly similar opinions on girls, Germans, girls, their current residence, and girls. Oh, and, as the guards found out, they both liked to argue.

They argued a lot.

A lot.

"Newkirk, you are a complete barbarian, and probably out of your mind as well. How could you possibly compare a quiche to a steak and kidney pie? I am becoming ill just thinking of it. Is there not a working set of taste buds anywhere in your dreadful country?"

"Kesker say, Louie? Didn't catch much of that, but what I did 'ear sounded a bit less than complimentary."

"Dear God, Newkirk, that accent! For the thousandth time, idiot, it is 'qu'est-ce que c'est.' Not 'kesker say!' Are you not listening?"

"Oh, I'm listening, all right, and when you finally get around to making sense, I'll be waiting right 'ere."

"Making sense? If that's what we're waiting for, we're screwed. I'm still waiting for you to stop spewing bullshit and say something sensible, and, two weeks in, I'm starting to think I'm wasting my time—"

"Okay, mate, I 'eard merde in there, which is usually my cue to ignore you till you stop using language that would make your old mum faint—"

The guards exchanged weary glances. One said, "How much longer until we can be rid of them? I'm going deaf."

"Today is Tuesday, yes? That means… seventeen more days." Richter winced. "Perhaps the Kommandant can be persuaded to either shorten their sentence or issue ear plugs to all guards."

"Or gag the two of them before the entire battalion deserts," Voight growled. "The Geneva Convention applies to us, too, after all."

"I say we shut them both up. Which one do you want?"

"The irritating one."

"Funny. You take the little one. I'll handle the Englander."

Richter was halfway to Newkirk's cell before the other guard could object to the assignment; LeBeau had left a definite impression on him when he had first been brought into camp, and some of the bruises had been visible for a week. The Englander was a pest and a nuisance, but at least he didn't bite.

Newkirk scrambled to his feet as the door swung open, his eyes wary. Richter's hand was already on his truncheon, and when the annals of fluffy teddy bears came to be written, his name would be conspicuous by its absence.

"Achtung, Englander!"

"Yes sir. Achtung-ing as ordered, sir."

"Silence!" Richter snarled. "You will be silent!"

"Yes sir. Silent, sir."

"No talking! Too loud! Verboten!"

"Right, sir. Verboten. Completely understand, sir; me mum always did say that I couldn't keep me mouth shut if me life depended on it… which it would seem it does, sir... but I do 'ope you'll accept me apologies for the racket, and let bygones be—"

And it might have ended there; a bit of penitent babbling, a bit of cringing to make the man feel important, and hey presto! The guard would have relieved his feelings with a few more shouted orders for quiet and maybe a cuff around the ear, and gone away. Ten months in, Newkirk could have written a book on the care and feeding of Kraut egos.

Maybe he should have. And sent LeBeau a copy. Because from what he could hear of the proceedings, it seemed that LeBeau could have used a bit of expert tutelage. The sounds from the next cell were rapidly graduating from 'scuffle' to 'fracas,' and that was not going to end well for anyone concerned.

"Kamerad, LeBeau! Say 'kamerad,' mate! Diss-le, manetennent!" Newkirk was no longer even pretending to pay attention to the increasingly irritated guard standing in the doorway. Someone down the hall let out a pained yelp; impossible to say who. And it was stupid—suicidal, even—but Newkirk shoved Richter aside and darted into the next cell before he could think better of it.

LeBeau was just picking himself off the ground, mouth bleeding, fists at the ready and eyes blazing hot enough that by rights he should have set fire to his eyebrows. Voight was doubled over, in no condition to pay much attention to his surroundings; LeBeau didn't seem to feel that Marquis of Queensbury rules applied, and had taken the phrase 'hitting below the belt' entirely literally.

But Voight had backup, and Voight had a firearm, and Voight now had a very good reason to deal with the situation in a lethal fashion. All Newkirk had was a split second's head start, a self-preservation instinct that had long since gone into hibernation, and a surge of adrenaline; he leapt onto the guard's back and brought them both crashing to the ground.

Richter, his weapon drawn, was in the doorway a heartbeat later, shouting in rapid German; it was probably something to the effect that they were in deep trouble, and that if they didn't stop fighting immediately, they'd be in even deeper. Six feet deeper, to be exact.

Newkirk rolled away from Voight, lifted his hands as the German—with, he had to admit, some minor justification—kicked him hard in the gut. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Kamerad?" He shot a quick look at LeBeau. "Both of us. Both kamerad. See?"

Richter, who, it would seem, knew a good idea when he saw one, kicked him again, let off another spate of German that was almost certainly not an invitation to high tea, and slammed the cell door shut on the two of them.

"Are you mad? What is wrong with you, you cretin? You could have been killed!"

"Sorry, Louie. Try that again, a bit slower, would you?" Newkirk, one arm wrapped around his middle, got to his feet. "Bloody Krauts."

"You… what did you do that for? Stupid!"

"'E would've killed you if I 'adn't distracted 'im. And then who'd've taught me to speak French?" Newkirk forced himself to grin, to keep his voice light. The adrenaline was fading, and it wasn't leaving anything pleasant behind. "Besides, mate, this way, until the tossers figure out that putting two people into solitary together rather defeats the purpose, we won't 'ave to wreck our throats shouting."

"I do not need a nursemaid or a guardian angel, you coward," LeBeau said, not fooled and not distracted. "If I choose to fight back rather than crawl, I do not need rescue."

"Yeah, mate, you'd've made a brave picture, lying 'ere in your cell with your 'ead a yard from your body. Done old Paris proud, that would—"

That was when LeBeau punched him.

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Author's note: This is an expansion of a scene in a previous story. (Freedom, Hanging By A Thread.) It takes place in late 1940 or early 1941, before any of the Americans were even in the war, let alone captured. No knowledge of that story is really necessary; suffice it to say that Newkirk is in pretty bad shape, and Lebeau isn't much better off. They're getting off to a somewhat volatile start, but give them some time...

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*Translated from Newkirkese to French to English. His accent really is appalling.

Parley-voo anglay?— Parlez-vous anglais?— Do you speak English?

Bonjore. Common tally-voo?— Bonjour. Comment allez vous?— Hello. How are you?

Jim apell Newkirk. Quell apellay-voo?— Je m'appelle Newkirk. Quel appellez-vous?— My name is Newkirk. What call you? (This is very, very butchered. If you are not in a POW camp shouting through a cement wall, there are better ways to ask a person's name.)

Kesker say— qu'est-ce que c'est— what's that

Diss-le manetennent— dis-le, maintenant— say it, now