LeBeau slipped into Hogan's office as soon as Newkirk was gone.

"Mon Colonel, can I have a word with you about Newkirk?"

"Of course, LeBeau," Hogan replied. "But talk fast. The rest of the guys will be back soon."

Hogan suppressed a sigh. LeBeau was a real mother hen when it came to their resident pickpocket and thief, but he usually had good reason. As tough as Newkirk looked to most of the men, he had shown a different side of himself to LeBeau on many occasions before the Americans arrived in camp barely over a year earlier, and Hogan knew it.

"He's brooding, Colonel Hogan," LeBeau said rapidly. "He hasn't had any letters from home for four mail calls in a row. That's more than a month. Can you find out why the British prisoners aren't getting their mail when the rest of us are?" He looked at Hogan breathlessly, his brown eyes pleading.

My God, Hogan thought, do they all have to look at me with puppy dog eyes? At moments like this, they weren't even LeBeau, Carter and Newkirk. They were Brown Eyes, Blue Eyes, and Green Eyes. Thank goodness for Kinch—he was the only member of the team who didn't have the power to make Hogan melt, or at least had the decency not to use it.

"It's not all of the British prisoners, is it?" Hogan asked, frowning. He should have been paying more attention to this. He could swear he'd seen a few of the Scots waving around letters from home just that afternoon.

"I think it's mostly the Londoners, mon Colonel, but there are a lot of them. And Newkirk is taking it very hard. He worries about his sisters even in the best of times, but when there's no news…"

"It's worse. Yes, I can see that," Hogan agreed. "All right, LeBeau, I'll look into it."

At that moment, Kinch, Carter and Newkirk came tumbling into the room. The mission for the night ahead was straightforward: Rendezvous four miles from camp with Willy, the elderly Swedish underground agent who played a critical role in moving escapees down the line, to receive the contents of a locked briefcase.

"I'll do it, Sir," LeBeau volunteered. Always eager for a mission, he spoke up because he'd met Willy and therefore he knew him on sight.

"I appreciate that, but this one's on me, LeBeau, and I need you fresh tomorrow to route our package through the Gelsenkirchen cell," Hogan said. "We're dragging a civilian out of his home after midnight, and a foreigner at that. I need to be there in case any trouble erupts, just in case we need to improvise. Newkirk, you'll be with me to open that briefcase. SS uniforms for both of us."

"Yes, Sir," Newkirk said. He grinned at LeBeau, who nodded reluctantly.

As the men scattered, LeBeau sidled up to Newkirk. "Be careful out there," he said softly.

Newkirk lit a cigarette, handed it to LeBeau, and then lit another for himself. "I'm always careful, Louis, you know that. Come on, help me with the uniforms?" Together they head back to Newkirk's sewing hut. Newkirk pulled garments off the rack and handed them to LeBeau, asking, "Do you have time to help me with the irons?" Pressing a German uniform to military standards was a time-consuming task that typically required three hot irons in rotation. LeBeau had never ironed before Newkirk got hold of him, but now he was pretty good at it, and he was good company to boot.

"What did Colonel Hogan say to you about Harper?" LeBeau asked quietly as they settled into their work. There wasn't anyone else who could get Newkirk to open up quickly, so the job fell to him. He knew Newkirk wouldn't be on top of his game if he was holding on to anger.

"Oh, the usual," Newkirk replied. " 'Ignore him. He's a b-bully. Let mmmmme handle it.' All good and w-well, except when you're the one b-being humiliated."

There it was. Humiliated. Newkirk could slough off a lot of things, but humiliation wasn't one of them. What man could?

"We all miss our families, Pierre. Mais ta maman te manque le plus, mon pote. Quiconque a un cœur comprendrait cela." He looked up, saw Newkirk struggling to translate, and smiled indulgently at his dearest friend. "Anyone with a heart would understand how much you miss your maman," he said.

Newkirk let out a big sigh. "It j-j-j-just hits me out of the blue sometimes, Louis. Ffffifteen years is a long time to get used to a death. I should b-be over this by now instead of getting all sssoppy like a little g-g-girl." No wonder my brothers loathe me, he thought to himself. I need to grow up and be a man. "Anyway," he continued. "Carter keeps talking about his mum like they've been apart ffforever. It's been a bleeding year, and at least he'll sssee her again and she sends letters and pictures." He gulped. "At least he remembers w-w-w-what she looks like," he said, his voice breaking.

LeBeau was at his side now. "Take out the picture," he said gently.

Newkirk wiped his eyes irritably, annoyed with himself for losing his composure, but he did as he was told. He reached into his breast pocket and into the tiny pocket he'd sewn inside it. From there, he extracted a small photograph, folded in half and crinkled from wear. It showed a petite brunette woman with sparkling eyes, wearing a crisp dress and proudly holding a chubby toddler who leaned into her adoringly. Their eyes matched. No one else in camp but LeBeau had ever seen it.

"There she is. She's very beautiful, and you are quite adorable," LeBeau said, rubbing a circle into Newkirk's back. "Take a nice long look so you'll remember what she looked like and how much she loved you. Drink her in."

"Drink her in," Newkirk repeated as he gazed at the photo, finally allowing himself a small smile. "Drink her in."

After a long while, he looked up at LeBeau and tucked the photo back into its hiding place. "The only reason I still call her Mummy in my sleep is because I was little when she passed," he said almost as if he was speaking to himself. "It's j-j-just a habit because that's what I remember calling her. If I'd been older, I'd probably say Mum, but I never got the chance. Mmmaybe if Harper knew that, he'd bleeding well belt up about it."

"Harper wouldn't understand anything as beautiful and deep as your love for your mother, but I certainly do," LeBeau said. "She'll always be your Mummy. That's how I think of her, too."

"Then you can say Mummy when you talk to me about her, as long as w-we're alone," Newkirk said decisively. "But no one else has the right to do."