James slumped in his seat. There was a size eleven boot bruise imprinted on his side, and his nose turned into a bloody faucet. The moving car was the only thing he could focus on without black dots popping into his vision.

"You good, kid?" Newkirk asked, his voice barely audible above the white noise filling his ears.

He groaned in response before his body became racked with coughing. He placed his hand over his mouth to try and muffle the sound. When he pulled it back, small drops of blood gleamed back at him. He didn't have the strength to tell Newkirk, so he wiped his hand on the man's sleeve.

Newkirk glanced down at his arm and saw three, rust-colored streaks. He reached over and patted James' head. "Don't worry, James, we'll find someone to take care of you," Newkirk assured seconds before the white noise overtook the rocking and James slipped into sleep.

James' dreams were plagued with images of a firing squad and Stalag 13 burning to the ground. The firing squad raised their rifles to him, but they forgot to give him a blindfold. He saw their faces blurred into familiar features. The eyes of his lover here, the jawline of his father there.

Their bullets exploded like fireworks before him. They fizzled and cracked next to his ear as they died in the air. The only sound that remained was the heavy thumping of his heart.

It beat like a war drum ready to burst from his chest. The sound became louder and louder as his heart got bigger and bigger to the point where his lungs popped from the pressure.

The air in his body depleted while his heart continued to grow. His chest caved in from lack of oxygen, falling around the monstrous organ. James couldn't even scream as his heart exploded from his chest and a white light surrounded his body.

James woke up screaming and felt something pushing down against his shoulders. His eyes adjusted to the bright light and saw Newkirk materialize in front of him. His breathing began to slow as he realized he was in a room with walls and a bed. Newkirk placed him back against the bed and wiped his forehead with a washcloth.

"Wh-Where are we?" James asked, noting that Newkirk was in a new outfit.

"Inside a contact's house," the other explained. "We're trying to pass word along to Colonel Hogan about the situation. No luck yet."

The idea that they were safe had yet to sink in. After all that there needed to be consequences. "What about Major Klaus and Captain Marx? They know who you are," James said.

"They know me face but not me name," Newkirk replied before scratching the back of his neck. "And…I may have shot one of them in the foot."

That made James bolt right up, causing him to cough uncontrollably. Newkirk gently patted his back until the boy calmed down. He set James back down on his side, and the kid curled into fetal position.

Shooting a German officer while also helping an escaped prisoner? Unheard of. Before Newkirk was looking at torture and solitary for the rest of the war, now the Brit would be standing shoulder to shoulder with James in front of a firing squad. Unless Newkirk could make it back to Stalag 13 before Klaus and Marx did.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, mate," Newkirk assured. "I've been in stickier wickets than this. I almost joined the German army."

Unease hung over James like a dark cloud. "If Colonel Hogan says to return to Stalag 13, I want you to go. I don't want you to be branded as a queer as well," James mumbled.

Newkirk shook his head. "Oh, rubbish. Who cares what those blasted krauts say?" he said. "They could put in me in a dress and call me Nancy, and I'd still be more of a man then them."

"Didn't seem like that earlier…" James was still pissed off over how the Brit had treated him the past few hours.

Newkirk didn't respond for a few moments. An uneasy silence crept in until the Corporal finally said, "I was being a nimrod. A proper fool. When I saw what those krauts were doing to ya…I couldn't just sit back and watch. It reminded me too much of my harsh times in London."

James looked up at Newkirk and saw the sincerity in his eye. The Brit really was sorry. Although it would take a little more to forgive him, James settled back against the bed to rest, feeling better about the hands he was in.

After eavesdropping on multiple conversations, James learned they were back in Essen at the Dutch man's hideout. There was minimal contact with the underground, but the message to Hogan was being patched through. Also, from very quiet conversations, their Dutch friend believed James may have a cracked rib. Could he still dance with a cracked rib?

With James mostly left alone relied on his own horrid thoughts for entertainment. After all this, he wouldn't be able to dance. He couldn't return to France until after the war. And the last scrap of his lover was burned until only ash remained.

At dinner time Newkirk relayed some good news to help ease James' mind. "Guess who just got back to us," the Brit said, setting down a tray of food across James' lap. The boy pulled himself up and propped a pillow behind him.

"Who?" he asked, looking down at the tray. There was a generous helping of potato soup and a side of bread. The meager meal would have been a feast a few weeks ago.

"Colonel Hogan. He said nothing seemed off at Stalag 13, but they would keep an eye out," the Brit reported. "He also said to go ahead with the mission as soon as we are able. We're gonna leave right after dinner."

James looked at Newkirk with wide eyes. "Are you crazy? We just got away from Klaus and Marx," the boy said. "We're probably the most wanted people in Germany!"

"If we stay put, we're bound to get caught, mate," Newkirk responded.

"How are we going to get out of Germany then? The Gestapo took our documents, remember? They won't let us cross the border if we don't even have an ID card."

"I already planned for that. I'll show you," the Brit said, getting up and setting his plate down on the nightstand beside the bed. Newkirk exited the room and came back with a long, black uniform. "I knicked it from the cleaners."

James stared at the uniform in disbelief. "You're going to pretend to be a Gestapo agent?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"What about me, then? Maybe they won't recognize you, but I'd need a new face before stepping out that door."

Newkirk rolled his eyes before setting the uniform aside. "You think I haven't thought of that?" he asked. "We're going to pretend to be moving cargo. You'll be in one of the crates."