It all seemed such a long time ago, so long that Carter sometimes had trouble believing he had even existed before that night. In some way it seemed as if the Andrew Carter of distant memory had died, leaving an empty shell behind, something that looked and sounded like him, but had no real connection to the past.

The court martial, his loss of rank and transfer to another squadron - those events had passed by as if he was just watching them, as if they had nothing to do with him at all.

Somehow he'd started to function again. Never quite the same as he'd been before, always slightly out of kilter, but a reasonable working facsimile of himself, at any rate. And then he'd fallen into German hands a second time, and been sent to Stalag 13 to sit out the war as a prisoner.

Now here he was, on a fall afternoon long distant from that terrible night, loitering with a particular intent outside the barracks in the company of the senior Allied officer and a couple of the other prisoners.

"Okay, there's our boy," said Colonel Hogan. "LeBeau, Carter, go for the intercept."

As Sergeant Schultz traipsed across the compound, Carter and LeBeau set off, arguing volubly. Their path crossed Schultz's in the middle of the yard, where they came to a halt, both talking at once, neither of them listening to the other.

"Carter, LeBeau, what is going on?" Schultz, lumbering heavily towards them, seized LeBeau's shoulder and gave him a shake, not too hard. Both the prisoners ignored him.

"And I'm telling you, Himmler wouldn't make it. He doesn't wear those glasses just for show, he can't see past his own nose without 'em," said Carter.

"So he would keep them on," LeBeau shot back. "There's no reason why he shouldn't."

"While he's swimming? Yeah, sure, that'd work. He wouldn't get twenty yards out."

"And you think Goering'd get that far?"

"Look, LeBeau, it's a well-known fact. Fat floats. Course, he could get mistaken for a whale, but..."

"Quiet!" bellowed Schultz. Then, as LeBeau and Carter turned to stare at him, he went on, "Now, please tell me what you are arguing about. One at a time!" he added, as they both started at once. "Carter, you tell me."

"Well, gee, Schultz, we were just trying to work out, if Hitler ordered all his top brass to swim the English Channel, which one would get farthest before he drowned," replied Carter. "And LeBeau thinks..."

Schultz interrupted quite brusquely. "That is a very stupid thing to waste your time with," he said, glaring severely at the pair. Then, after pausing for deep thought, he added, "It would be Admiral Dönitz, of course. He is a naval man, so naturally..."

Carter had already collapsed into helpless laughter, but LeBeau stayed serene, regarding Schultz with an indulgent smile. "Isn't that sweet, Carter? He thinks sailors can swim."

This was a pretty standard diversionary tactic, they'd been doing this sort of thing since before Carter had joined the team. Like most of their work, it had its risks, but he'd soon gotten the hang of it, and he'd found this new life easier to deal with, somehow, than what he'd left behind.

He hadn't thought it possible, when he first arrived after being captured. He'd been a prisoner of war before, he knew what to expect, and he was utterly terrified, but not of the Germans. Rational thinking, which told him he had nothing to fear from his fellow inmates, had no chance. The only thing which could override the pure physical terror of the situation was an even greater dread. Those few words Major Staller had spoken in the hospital had done their work, and Carter would have endured anything rather than have anyone suspect what had happened.

So he kept quiet, learning to live under conditions of intimacy which almost drove him insane with fear, even allowing physical contact when he had to, forcing himself to stay awake at night in case some nightmare caused him to cry out in his sleep. It wasn't easy, but it hadn't taken long for Colonel Hogan to bring him into the undercover operation that ran from the camp, which at least gave him something to work at, to keep the dark thoughts at bay.

Gradually, he found he could trust his fellow prisoners. Gradually, he started to feel safe.

Then one of his attackers turned up at Stalag 13, and Carter went to pieces all over again.*

It had almost ended in disaster, but he'd gotten through it. Hogan had put him back to work pretty quickly, and for the next couple of weeks he didn't allow himself much leisure, or for that matter much sleep. But at least he was still part of the team. Of course, every time a new prisoner arrived, or a batch of customers for the Travelers' Aid part of the operation came in, his anxiety level went stratospheric, but he managed to keep that to himself.

"He seems to be doing okay, Colonel," observed Kinch, as the distraction of Schultz continued.

Kinchloe was one of only two men in camp with whom Hogan could freely discuss Carter's progress. The story had been contained, and apart from Hogan, only two of the other prisoners knew what had happened back in England. Sergeant Mills had learned about it during his own time at the 182nd, Kinch had discovered it by accident.

Hogan leaned against the door frame, watching the conversation. "He looks okay," he murmured. "But I'm not sure." He fell silent, his eyes on Carter.

"I'll tell you something, Kinch," he said, after a while. "The first time we took him back out, I was worried. I wasn't sure he'd make it. But it went without a hitch, everything was perfect. When that munitions train went up, it was just beautiful. And Carter...he looked as if he'd suddenly found himself safe at home after he'd given himself up for lost. I really thought he was going to be alright."

"He's getting there. He just needs a bit more time. It's not even a month since Jackson was here."

"Yeah, I know." Hogan continued to watch the conversation across the compound, his eyes narrowed against the bright afternoon light.

"There," he said suddenly. "Did you see that?"

It was fleeting, it scarcely lasted a second. But something had happened. Some momentary change of expression had flickered across Carter's face.

"I didn't see anything," replied Kinch. Then, after several seconds, he added, "He's not saying much now, is he?"

"He's not saying anything," said Hogan. "He's leaving everything to LeBeau."

His gaze flickered towards the Kommandant's office, catching the swift movement as Newkirk slipped out of the building and strolled over to join his pals. Carter took no further part in the debate, which continued for only a minute or so longer, before Schultz, with a dismissive gesture, went on his way.

It didn't seem much. But in the course of that conversation, outside Hogan's hearing, something had thrown Carter off balance. Whatever Schultz had said, it had hurt.

Perhaps Kinch was right, and Carter just wasn't ready yet. But the war wasn't going to wait for him. Hogan had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but the cold, callous fact was, Carter had no choice but to get over it. If he didn't then his part in the war effort might be finished.


*A Dark Night, Long Ago