Skipper was shaken awake at what he would complain was two in the morning, though was actually closer to eleven that night.

"She's a goddess, Skipper!" the scientist whispered looking like he'd just discovered the unified theory.

"Kowalski…" Skipper moaned, sitting up to see his dress uniform clad companion, "What?"

"A goddess Skipper! As beautiful as the fundamental theorem of calculus." Kowalski swooned.

"Lola's cute but I wouldn't go that far," Skipper answered, "anyway, I saw her first."

"I'm not speaking of the evening's barely talented entertainment," Kowalski scoffed.

"Marlene then? I always thought you preferred blonds, but…"

"Doris, Skipper, Doris!" the scientist interrupted, "I could have danced and talked of carbon allotropes all night…"

"You're crazy." Skipper groaned, turning over, "Now let me get some shut eye."


Skipper was starting to get the feel of the atmosphere of the barracks, something more than a little expected after several months, which could go from severely depressed to completely insane; the tide of this based mostly on Rico and Ringtail. He was starting to like the unusual sergeant, Rico, though Maurice had told him the man hadn't really gotten that close to someone since Manfredi and Johnson had tried to escape. It wasn't that the man wasn't social, quite the contrary he could be found at every race and dance Julian arranged, but it was never any deeper than that.

"I don't understand it!" Skipper thought aloud, tearing the stale bread Kowalski had gotten him after making quite certain to show him the decent looking stew he'd managed to procure for himself and using it to mop up the remainders, "it was almost like they were waiting for me this time."

"Well Blowhole kind of was." Maurice replied disinterestedly.

"'Eah, on th' edge 'a his seat." Rico added, playing with the mouse he'd been grooming for the next race.

"I just keep thankin' that girlfriend of Kowalski's for bringin' you back every time."

"I mean, he knew exactly where I'd be at exactly what time," Skipper continued, snatching his dinner off the table before the mouse that had escaped Rico's grasp could take off with his precious crumbs, "It's almost like there was an informant," Skipper mused, "But the only people who knew were in this barracks!"

"Well of course there are informants," Maurice replied, "Half the barracks are informants."

"What?!" Skipper exclaimed, "Y'mean people here are turning on their own?" And Kowalski had so emphatically told him that was just another one of his paranoid dreams.

"How else d' ya stay alive?" Rico answered.

"So you're telling me," Skipper snapped, "that in theory you could have been the one to have ratted me out?"

"There's an unspoken rule here," Maurice answered, "we don't rat out escapes unless we've got no choice. We don't say anything about where we were stationed either. It's an unspoken rule, of course, and some people don't follow it. However, if you read your contract it may have mentioned in the escape planner/client confidentiality clause that I can't say anything about your escape even to your best buddy, standard clause in jungle law."

"What is that, anyway?"


"How far did you get this time?" Kowalski asked as Skipper was once again forced back into the barracks, "How many attempts have you made since last year?"

"Too many." Skipper replied, "I got almost to the woods. Doris says hi, by the way."

"Oh Doris…" Kowalski automatically began to swoon.

"Sna' outa it." Rico grumbled playfully taking a swipe at the scientist.

"She also said she wants to talk as soon as convenient." Skipper answered. Immediately Kowalski jumped up making a dash for the door just as Skipper had predicted. After all, 'as soon as convenient' in Kowalski code meant 'right now'. Skipper sighed. Kowalski was a real sucker for that dame. Luckily he'd talked her onto their side.

Kowalski stumbled across the perpetually muddy ground. Nobody interfered when Doris waved a hand from where she was standing on the porch.

"Let's talk inside." She whispered and Kowalski opened the door for her then stepped into the simple room, but luxurious compared to what he'd seen in the last two years. The first thing he noticed was the trunk waiting packed and ready by the door.

"Doris…?"

"I'm going away, tomorrow." She spoke quietly. Kowalski seemed to be at a loss for words, "The other side of Europe, really. I'm probably not coming back. Ever." Kowalski still couldn't make much more than a strangled squeak.

"Wh… Why…?" He finally managed.

"Do you remember Hans?" Now Kowalski looked like he was going to faint. He went pale as a sheet. One of the downsides to being a genius was he could tell where this conversation was going.

"Th… That general?"

"Yes, the one that inspected the camp last week," she replied, "He asked me to marry him and I accepted." It was worse than Kowalski had predicted. Kowalski struggled to process this new data for several seconds.

"Marry him?" he at last repeated.

"Yes." She confirmed, "Oh, don't think I love him," She added quickly, "I still love you and I always will… Kowalski, I can only do so much here, but Hans, he's at the front. They send him the latest most top secret plans, he makes big decisions that I can influence."

"Well, that doesn't mean he'll tell them to you, married or not." Kowalski immediately protested, "I mean, what if you end up with the guy 'till death do you' part and you realize he won't say a thing and…"

"I've already tested that Kowalski," She replied, "I had tea with him a couple of weeks ago, and I got about half the plans for the next bombing raid…"

"Well your brother still might…?"

"He likes to kid himself that he's still someone, but ever since he lost his eye they've side-lined him." She countered, "Frankly, he's not going anywhere any time soon." Kowalski still wasn't prepared to accept this.

"Doris, you still don't have to…"

"You said so yourself," She interrupted, "This is bigger than both of us."


Skipper was staring blankly at the wall wondering just what he was going to do. It was all very well for Kowalski to start acting like a teenager whose first girlfriend had broken up with him, but he had a real problem. Skipper called something a real problem when it was a problem that could get him or one of his men killed. In this case, it might get him killed: without Doris around, Blowhole was going to kill him at the most convenient excuse he could find. And what he was hearing about happening at other camps, that convenient time was going to be sooner rather than later. He had to get out.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a commotion going on out in the yard. A group of about fifteen men, most in civilian clothing – poor devils were about to be shot as spies – with a couple in uniform; probably shot down in the action last night. Skipper made his way to the window and watched as the resistance members were separated from the airmen. They seemed to be the primary concern since their transport was already arriving, and the airmen were marched into their barracks awaiting processing.

Naturally, new visitors were greeted with the usual excitement, but Skipper honestly wasn't interested in what they were doing back home. He was going to find that out when he got back home.

"Well he's not French." Someone to the left of him, probably Archie, speculated, "His French is an affront to the language!"

"You mean worse than yours? Perhaps he is of de Canada?" Julian suggested.

"I do take offence to that on behalf of the Canadians present, Julian. No, I know the Quebecois accent," Mason countered, "And that's not it. Listen to him! He's getting his verb tenses all wrong and he's putting his adjectives before his nouns." Mason leaned forward, whispering in Maurice's ear, but Skipper still heard it, "I'm telling you, he's a Brit in disguise! No idea why he wants to hide it, though."

The subject of his fellow prisoners' examination was stood quietly in the corner. He was a small fellow, looked more like a boy than a man, wearing a baggy, torn and blood splashed Free French uniform that barely fit him. The boy seemed to notice Skipper was watching him and his eyes flashed with recognition, though Skipper had never seen him in his life. The boy, after taking a few glances around, hurriedly made his way towards him, drawing him over to an isolated corner of the barracks.

"Please, sir," his whispered urgently. Mason was right, he was a Brit, "you can't let them search me!" He glanced nervously out the window, "Please!"

"Why not?" Skipper asked.

"Just don't let them!" He hissed, "I'll make it up to you, I really will, but they can't…" On the other side of the camp the first of the trucks drove away. Skipper winced.

"Alright," he glanced at the boy's dog tag, "Pierre Moreau," He grabbed Maurice's attention, dragging him away from his intelligence gathering, "I'll see what I can do. Hey, Maurice! Bring Sad Eyes with you! See if you can swap him in for the search, don't leave him in for questioning, though, he'll blow the whole thing like last time."


Skipper watched, outwardly calmly, as one by one the prisoners were processed and it got closer and closer to 'Pierre's' turn. Kowalski was still shaken up over Doris, so was a little off his game, constantly fretting an analysing the boy's progress.

"You rehearsed it with him, right?" Kowalski asked again.

"Didn' 'sactly ha' time." Rico countered.

"I told him, name, rank, and serial number and nothin' else." Skipper replied, "And only answer if someone says it in French, otherwise just look blank." Kowalski nodded.

"He looks so nervous; he's not going to make it." Kowalski spoke again after barely a few seconds.

"He is making it." Skipper corrected. Pierre stepped up to Blowhole's desk, "See there, Blowhole asked him his name – you can read lips, see for yourself. He's replied "Pierre Moreau" and he's given his serial number." Kowalski was now pacing nervously on the other side of the room. Skipper sighed and decided to continue with the commentary, "Blowhole's writing it down, he doesn't see anything wrong with it. He just asked the kid his age, kid didn't answer – good job! He's asked it again in French. Kid replied "Je suis vingt" – like hell he's twenty!"

"Blowhole said that!?"

"No, I did. Blowhole looked young for his age, he doesn't seem to notice. Alright, he's getting on to some of the tougher questions, and the kid's not answering. Good job… wait, nope he just said he was stationed in… No, that's completely out of date. Realistic, though, Blowhole didn't realize it… He keeps clutching his chest like he's cold, every time he's nervous, he keeps doing it."

"I noticed that too," Kowalski concurred, once again at Skipper's side, studying the kid intently. "I wonder why."

"People act strange when they're nervous," Skipper brushed it off.

"Nah, the kid's hiding something." Maurice countered, "I know it."

"I wonder what it is." Kowalski mused.

"Well you can ask him when he gets back." Kowalski shook his head.

"No, I don't think I need to," Whatever it was Kowalski had just deduced made him look more than a little awkward.

"Out with it, then." Skipper ordered. Kowalski bit his lip.

"Well, his small size, delicate manors – from what I've seen of him – that miniature lunicorn doll in his pocket, the way he keeps grabbing his chest, ducking away whenever some tries to touch him," Kowalski replied awkwardly, "It could only mean one thing." He stopped there.

"And what is that one thing, Kowalski?"

"Skipper, I think 'Pierre' is a woman."

"A woman!" Skipper exclaimed, "They don't let women into fighter planes!"

"Well, he – she – does do an excellent job of remaining undetected…"

"Kowalski, that's crazy!" But when 'Pierre' came back Skipper was very quick to hold the door open.