Clouds hung low and thick, a dark grey day, normal enough for January. Wind ripped through my clothes and cobblestones pressed against the worn soles of my boots. I lifted my head, wondering if snow were possible. I hurried towards my flat, eyeballing the Nazi flag hanging from a nearby building. Bloody Nazis, I thought. The only good thing about this bleeding ghetto is it is in London. The air smelled faintly of smoke.

I twisted down a narrow alley, only stopping when I heard fighting. I don't get involved in fights, after all they occur daily. This one was right in front of me, the men I saw were idiots who only fought when they heavily outnumbered the victim, and well, I was bloody tired and aching for a fight.

My knife rested along my back, the same knife I had in Stalag 13 a lifetime ago. I pushed through the crowd, not surprised by the smell of alcohol. Some poor black haired sod gasped against the wall of a building. I stepped between him and Johnson. Idiotic johnson, a bully and all around jackass. I grinned when I saw him. He sported a black eyes and obviously broken wrist and several of his colleagues did as well, "Finally lit into someone who could actually fight back, did you, Pauly?" I jeered.

"Sod off, Newkirk!"

"Don't think so, mate. You're on my doorstep. 'Sides, what 'as this bloke done?"

"He's a damn Yank."

That got my back up. Yes, the US government screwed us. Nowhere near as bad as the bloody Irish but still, the US government stabbed us. Yanks weren't well liked. 'Course, I liked the Yanks. Certain ones, at least. "They toss their poofs here like everyone else, Johnson. This poor bloke doesn't 'ave any more choice than us."

"They deserted us."

"Their government did. " I watched Johnson closely. He was dumb but could fight. "Not all Yanks are bad." I heard the man behind me straighten up.

Johnson's face got uglier, a fact I didn't think was possible. "You always were a Yank lover," he sneered. "How many did you blow in that camp?"

I choked down the red hot rage boiling in my throat. "At least I fought. Didn't laze around on my arse."

"You were too busy kissing Nazi ass."

That tore it. I grabbed Johnson's broken wrist and squeezed, making the stupid blighter squeal like the pig he was. "Bugger off before I break every bone in your arm!" I shoved Johnson into his mates and then simply stood there, fingers itching for a gun or at least, my knife. Johnson must have seen I would kill him because he faded away, his friends with him. I watched them leave, speaking over my shoulder. "'Ope you can walk, mate. You can come to my flat to clean up."

"Thanks, Newkirk."

The hair rose on my neck and I whirled around. My heart pounded as Colonel Hogan grinned at me. "Gov'nor!"

I had to smile at the stunned look on my thief's face. I ignored my aching side and grabbed him into a rough embrace. He held me tight, whispered my name as if in disbelief. "This way," he said, grabbing my hand. He pulled me towards a large bakery, pungent with the smell of bread and rolls. "Come on." he opened a door that revealed a narrow staircase. "I 'ave the flat above the bakery."

I expected something shabby, yet the flat was large and airy and gleamed from a recent scrubbing. Everything shone, spic and span. "Nice." I said,

"Not bad. A palace for the ghetto. I even have hot water most of the time." Newkirk hung up his coat and turned to look at me. He smiled. "Huh. Aren't you the toff?"

I looked down at myself and felt ashamed. I wore a thick wool overcoat and nice slacks as well as new boots and a thick sweater. Newkirk wore a carefully patched shirt, worn jeans, and old boots. Newkirk shook his head at me. "Fighting," he sighed in mock disappointment. "How low class of you, gov." His smile made my own lips quirk. "Let me clean you up. Have a seat."

I glanced around. This flat could be a monument to Spartan living. A tiny table, a few wobbly chairs, a battered sofa, and most likely a ratty mattress in the unseen bedroom. I compared this to Stalag 13 and realized there wasn't a lot of difference. Newkirk brought over a basin of warm water and a bottle of iodine. He cleaned my cuts gently, tsking over my cut knuckles and sponging my cut cheek. "You're going to have a black eye."

"That's OK." I studied Newkirk. Gaunter than I'd ever seen, he also had long shaggy hair. He walked into the kitchenette, came back with rolls. "I work downstairs. These are good."

"Thanks." They were good, multi grain rolls with jam. I also smelled coffee. "Newkirk, no!"

"I have plenty." That I doubted but I drank gratefully. One thing Newkirk did well was make my coffee the way I liked it. Newkirk sipped his. "Why are you here?" he asked. An odd tone made his voice quaver a moment.

"I came to get you." I rubbed my sore jaw. "I knew Americans weren't well liked but not this bad."

"The US government abandoned us," Newkirk said. He didn't seem angry.

"I know. I can't believe we signed that damned treaty,"

"Roosevelt's death, Truman's illness. It's not like the US had to worry about the Nazis anyway." That hurt. He must have seen me flinch because he leaned close. "You didn't sign that treaty." He drank his coffee. "You came for me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I bit back a scream of rage. "Did you think I would leave you here?"

He shrugged, lifting one bony shoulder. "I'm 'ardly in the service anymore," he said.

"I wouldn't leave any of my men here, much less you!"

He smiled then, a surprised smile that took years from his face. Then the smile faded. He inhaled. "I'm not here by mistake, gov."

I nodded. "I know." He jerked with surprise but I had wondered a long time about Newkirk. Sometimes in unguarded moments, I'd seen him glance at others with fleeting moments of desire. He and LeBeau had been close as well. Yet, Newkirk had made moves on every woman he'd seen. And damn, I had wanted Newkirk sometimes. "You being homosexual isn't an excuse for what the Nazis have done." Homosexuals all branded, tattooed. Forced to live in this tiny part of London. Made to wear pink triangles. No contact with non homosexuals except for work or business reasons. Segregated buses.

"I live here, gov, I know."

"Even the Jews live better," I growled.

"They have some rights. We don't."

Newkirk sounded so damn weary. I put down my mug and pulled him into a hug.

He hugged me back, shaking. He smelled faintly of lavender and I felt bones under my hands. "Thank you for rescuing me," I said.

"Anytime."

"I planned on rescuing you."

He smiled sadly,a smile that broke something in me. "How? We're all marked, gov. And unless you're attached to the US embassy here, you can't move around."

"US Air Force- Red Cross laison," I explained, reluctantly letting him go. "I have been thinking. Are there a lot of fighters here?"

"Sure," Newkirk said.

I felt my smile growing. "And they're angry."

"Of course. We all know what 'appened to the German Jews." Newkirk swallowed and I saw the fear in his eyes. "The newcomers don't help with what they tell us. We won't go to the ovens--that's too good for us."

"Russia's still fighting. Doing well, too."

"I know. So are Canada and Australia."

I finished my coffee. "Would these people be willing to fight?"

His eyes widened. "Are you talking an army?"

I smiled again. Damn he was sharp when he wanted to be. "We get through the walls and across the Channel and join the Resistance in France."