"Forrest, a moment?"

"Of course, LeBeau. What's the matter?"

"I am going to skip morning roll call," LeBeau announced.

"What? Why? The Jerries will go absolutely spare!"

"I know. I will 'oversleep,' and when they find me still in bed, they will put me in the cooler for a few days. Probably not more than a week."

Forrest studied him for a moment. "Well, give Newkirk my regards," he said.

LeBeau smiled. "Ouais, I will."

"But, LeBeau… there is one other thing," Forrest said. "Yes, the Jerries will be a bit sore. But have you considered that the colonel likely will be, as well? How do you plan on explaining this to him?"

"Explain?" LeBeau shrugged. "I overslept. What is there to explain?"

"Oh, pull the other one," Forrest said. "You know he's not going to be fooled by that. He's going to know perfectly well that you did it in order to check on Newkirk. And, seeing as how he specifically ordered you to do nothing of the sort, that is not going to go over well."

"I don't care," LeBeau said. "Let him be as angry with me as he likes. He has already decided that Pierre is not worth saving. And I have already decided that this Hogan is an utter—"

"LeBeau… be fair. He's got some good ideas," Forrest said. "I didn't know there were miners in camp. Did you?"

"No. I did not. Nor did I know that you would be so ready to abandon our friend the moment an officer snapped his fingers." LeBeau did not tack on any of the epithets that would have expressed his opinion of such an attitude more succinctly. But then, given his expression and tone of voice, he didn't really have to.

"I'm not abandoning anyone, LeBeau, and I don't ruddy appreciate the implication that I would, either," Forrest said sharply.

"Well, I did not appreciate being told that Pierre was no longer my concern. That is not for this Hogan to decide, rank or no rank!" LeBeau shook his head. "Enough. Pierre is my friend. I am going to the cooler, and I will make sure he is all right, and that he knows he is not alone. If that means le colonel casts me aside as well, so be it."

"LeBeau, you're being needlessly overdramatic. He'll be released, just like always, probably in another couple of weeks at most. At which point he'll be back down in the tunnel with us, just like always, except this time we'll have someone there who knows what they're doing, and no more mistakes, damn it all! There is nothing to be gained by making an enemy of the CO, and, frankly, I'd say we all have a great deal to lose! Including Newkirk!"

"Yes! A very great deal to lose. If we leave him there much longer, what we lose will be Newkirk!" LeBeau took a deep, ragged breath. "You heard the colonel. A 'disgrace to the uniform?' Pierre is 'right where he ought to be?' He has no intention of getting Newkirk released. He will have him transferred, or leave him to rot in the cooler, where he can continue to crucify himself over an accident none of us caused and no one could have prevented. I will not let this happen, do you hear me? I will not!"

"An accident? What accident would that be?"

Both men spun about, identical looks of shock on their faces. Hogan was leaning casually against a bunk, his arms folded casually across his chest. The only thing about him that was not casual was the steely do-or-die look in his eyes.

"How long… Did you… What do… oh, God," Forrest sputtered.

"How long? Five minutes or so. Did I, what? Did I hear your little strategy session? Yes, I did. Interesting stuff. I'm almost sure I remember telling you gents that I don't like being left in the dark, and I especially don't like being blindsided by my own men," Hogan said. "Now answer the damned question. What's going on here? What's this accident you're talking about?"

"Browning," LeBeau said. "We are talking about the accident that killed him. And which will kill Newkirk if something is not done soon."

Hogan's eyes narrowed. "Newkirk. Suddenly I'm beginning to suspect that the corporal wasn't being nearly as forthcoming as I thought. Talk. Now!"

Forrest sighed. "If you recall, sir, we mentioned that several weeks back, there was a partial collapse? A few men were trapped in it. Newkirk was literally buried alive, and Louis, here, damned near suffocated."

"And Browning?"

"Rockfall," Forrest said. "You've seen the tunnel. You know how unstable it is. In order to rescue the men, we needed to move a great deal of dirt very quickly, and that triggered a few secondary collapses. Browning was caught in one of them. Saying that he had been in a fight was the only cover story we could come up with on the spot."

"Wait a minute. Even if that was the story you told the Krauts, why the hell would he tell me he'd murdered Browning?"

LeBeau shrugged. "Did he? Or did he say he was to blame?"

Hogan narrowed his eyes. That sounded like semantics. He suspected that it wasn't. "If it was a tunnel collapse, why would he be blaming himself, either way?"

"Probably because Newkirk is under the impression that the sun would not rise in the morning if he didn't tell it to do so," LeBeau said. "Browning was injured while aiding in the rescue; Pierre was the one trapped; therefore it is his fault." He scowled. "He is my friend, but there are times when it would be a great pleasure to beat some sense into his stubborn head."

"I see," Hogan said slowly, replaying a number of comments in his head. I told Kinch to leave me. It's my fault. Browning should never have been there. They sounded a lot different, this time around. He frowned. "And the reason the guard told me that you all wanted to kill him?"

"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time," Forrest said. "A bit of reverse psychology, you know? We were trying to convince Lange that he'd suffer more in here with us than he would in the cooler. And it worked, too, at least at first."

Hogan lifted an eyebrow. "At first?"

"Until Lange heard that an officer was coming and became nervous that you would think the worse of him for it if we were to execute one of our own under his very nose," LeBeau said. "That is a privilege he reserves for himself."

"I'm not sure how much worse I could think of our esteemed Kommandant, but I can see his point," Hogan said. "The Red Cross might have had something to say about it, too."

"I doubt it. They haven't yet," LeBeau muttered.

Not entirely true, but this didn't seem like the time to explain about Stephens and his complex association with the Red Cross. "So," Hogan said, still putting all the pieces together. "Browning was hurt when the tunnel caved in. You all claimed that Newkirk killed him because you were trying to prevent the Krauts from finding the tunnel… and then you all threatened to kill Newkirk because you were trying to prevent the Krauts from tossing him in the cooler. This is some crazy war we've got here. I never knew that being a prisoner of war would be so blasted complicated."

"For what it's worth, sir," Forrest said ruefully. "I didn't, either."

Hogan shook his head. "Well, one thing is simple enough. I need to mosey on down to the Kommandant's office and sweet-talk him into springing Newkirk. Any corporal who can cause this much trouble when he's not even here is too valuable to leave in solitary."

LeBeau beamed. "Thank you, mon Colonel," he said.

"Yeah, don't thank me yet. Finagling Lange isn't going to be any picnic; just going on my first impressions of the guy, he's got this strange aversion to doing anything that would make a prisoner happy. As I'm sure you're well aware." Hogan shoved his cap back. "You know, this would have been a whole lot easier if you men had been more honest with me. And your friend might have been out of the cooler a lot sooner."

LeBeau met his eyes. "Sir… I have been here for quite a while," he said quietly. "I've seen a lot of men come and go. Including several officers. And not… not all of them were trustworthy. Pardon, sir, but there were more lives than just mine—just ours—at stake."

Hogan couldn't really argue with that. "I understand," he said. "Thank you for telling me."

"You have all of our lives in your hand now, Colonel." LeBeau shrugged. "There is nothing for us to do now except to wait. And to see what you do with them."

Hogan nodded. He had started this conversation in a state of high dudgeon, but somehow, he wasn't angry anymore. Truth be told, he was too intrigued to be angry. These men, with their byzantine plots, their apparently well-founded paranoia, and the undercurrent of bone-deep loyalty, were a great deal more than they seemed. Bringing this Newkirk back into the mix, he suspected, would change everything he had observed in this volatile barracks. Either his presence would stabilize the entire group, or something would blow sky-high.

A certain mischievous voice in the back of his head commented that, whichever way things turned out, it was going to be very interesting to watch.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Two days later, Hogan was lurking near the Kommandantur. LeBeau was waiting at the gate of the cooler, impatiently waiting for Newkirk to emerge. And when he did, Hogan was bemused to see that, roughly two minutes after their genuinely delighted reunion, they were arguing.

(Two days after that, he understood that he might as well get used to it, because they weren't going to stop. Two months after that, he understood that it was their idiosyncratic way of expressing affection. And two years after that, well… he just plain understood.)

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Things were comparatively quiet for a couple of weeks. Two absolutely brutal poker games and a mysteriously missing wallet later, they were back in the black market, which meant LeBeau was back in the kitchen. Sam had transferred into Barracks Two, lock, stock, and tailoring gear, which meant that the rest of the men were learning Russian in self-defense. The tunnel hadn't gotten much further, primarily because the two miners had taken one look at it and appeared to fight off simultaneous heart attacks. One had turned green. The other had gone sheet-white. Hogan was no judge of subterranean engineering, but their reactions had not, to his mind at least, indicated a great deal of confidence in the construction. Foxton had actually been a bit insulted.

Hogan had a lot of plans in mind. Oh, yes, a great many plans. Slowly but surely, he was getting his feet under him, and he thought he was really getting a handle on this camp, these men, this mission.

At the risk of mixing his sports metaphors, the fight seemed to come straight out of left field.

A number of prisoners had formed a rough ring, within which two men were circling each other, fists doubled and ready. Both were already a bit battered—a dribble of blood here, the beginnings of a black eye there, and so forth—but neither man looked even close to backing down. Indeed, both were grinning just a bit, anticipatory or amused.

Hogan did not appear amused to recognize the combatants as Sergeant Kinchloe and Corporal Newkirk, and even less amused to realize that at least half of the spectators were betting on the outcome of the fight. Said spectators included most of the guards, who apparently had nothing better to do with their time.

Kinchloe fought like the trained boxer he was. He was steady, methodical, carefully pacing himself for the long haul, taking note of every minute flaw and opening in Newkirk's defenses and taking full advantage of each one. Newkirk fought like a ruthless street thug who knew that there were only two possible outcomes—victory and death—and knew, moreover, which he preferred. Mercy was not in his lexicon; he didn't offer it, and he certainly didn't expect it. Kinch was bigger, stronger, and far more skilled; that was his advantage. Newkirk didn't seem to notice or care how much punishment he took along the way so long as he was the one who was still standing at the end; that was his. Hogan had to squelch a momentary impulse to let the fight continue and see which technique won out. It didn't occur to him until much later that their tactics said a lot about their respective personalities.

"All right, knock it off! Both of you; stand down!" he barked, shoving his way into the ring. "What the hell's the matter with you? You're supposed to be on the same side, damn it!"

Three eyes met his. (One green eye was already turning a fascinating shade of purple, but who was counting?)

"Ah, Colonel Hogan," Kinch began.

Hogan wasn't having any. "Would anyone like to explain precisely what in the name of God is going on out here? Fighting? In front of the Krauts? You'd better have a damned good explanation!"

Newkirk took a deep breath. "It was me, sir. I provoked 'im."

Kinch growled. "Damn it, Pete; don't you ever get tired of falling on your sword? Colonel, it wasn't a real fight. Just a little bit of sparring. For fun. And, um… a few side bets."

"Well? Which is it?" Hogan asked. "Were you fighting, in clear contravention of the rules of conduct, or were you fraternizing with the enemy by gambling with the Krauts?"

"Er… Which one will get us a lighter sentence, sir?" Newkirk asked.

"Are you trying to be funny, Corporal?" Hogan barked. "If so, I'd strongly advise you to reconsider that as a strategy!"

Newkirk, who quite obviously didn't have another strategy on which he could fall back, went silent. So did Kinch. The silence stretched.

"My office. Both of you. Now." Trusting that they would follow, Hogan turned on his heel and stormed into the barracks.

The two men in question traded glances; Kinch shrugged, and Newkirk sighed minutely as they followed Hogan across the compound. The other POWs wandered off in twos and threes; the guards, disappointed, did, too. Watching two prisoners, especially two such mismatched prisoners, having a fight was at least a bit of a distraction; a public dressing down from an incensed superior officer carried the potential for humor. A closed door offered neither, and several of the guards felt cheated.

"Just bloody marvelous," Newkirk groused.

"At least the Colonel can't send us to the cooler," Kinch replied, without much hope in his voice. He explored a split lip with his tongue, and grimaced. It was going to swell up like a cantaloupe, he could tell.

"Ours can't. Theirs can. And usually does," Newkirk said, rolling the one eye that was still in working order. Looking on the bright side was not his forte at the best of times, and being half-blind wasn't helping.

LeBeau and Forrest caught up with them at the door. "I left Richmond to finish settling the bets," Forrest said. "There was some grumbling, of course, but everyone will get back exactly what they started with, so there shouldn't be much trouble."

"Oh, good. That was really weighing on me conscience," Newkirk sniped. "Never mind that. Did it work?"

LeBeau grinned. "Bien sur! Like a charm," he said triumphantly.

"Well, that's a bit of all right," Newkirk said, and smiled.

Kinch's eyes glittered. "That's a big bit of all right," he corrected. "Makes it all worthwhile. But I have to say—Newkirk, you have got to be the dirtiest fighter I've ever seen."

"Gutter scum, mate," Newkirk said cheerfully. "Might not be pretty, but I've walked away from any number of fights with the same number of body parts I 'ad when I walked in. What more can a bloke ask?"

"He could ask that his men obey orders," came a voice from the depths of the barracks. It was not a happy, cheerful voice. Not even a little bit. "He could ask that they not sabotage camp morale. He could ask that they not make us look ridiculous in front of the Krauts! My office, Corporal! On the double!"

Newkirk sighed again. "Nice knowing you, mates," he murmured, and walked into the barracks.

The other three exchanged looks, and followed. Hogan was standing by his desk, eyes ablaze and the rest of him a study in cold fury. "Close the door behind you," he said.

LeBeau did.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: Apologies for the cliffhanger, folks.