LeBeau set a plate of piping hot food in front of James and told him, "Bon appétit." The metal plate held a generous helping of powdered eggs, bacon, and French toast. Alongside it, the Frenchman laid a cup of coffee. James' eyes went as wide as saucers.

"I-I hope I'm not taking food off of anyone's plate," the young man said, tentatively grabbing a fork.

LeBeau waved his hand dismissively. "We get most of our food from the underground. Do not worry. Eat," the man reassured him.

James did not have to be told twice. Within seconds he was inhaling the food. The chef laughed at the boy's voraciousness and waved Corporal Newkirk over. "Look, someone who enjoys my cooking even more than the Krauts," LeBeau joked.

Newkirk took a seat and shook his head in disagreement. "I think even a cup of the old gruel would look like a five course meal to him. He's railway thin," the Brit commented. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a match before taking a drag.

After taking a few seconds to cough from the smoke James wiped his mouth and blushed. "Sorry. While it has been some time since my last meal, it did taste great," he told the Frenchman.

"Did the Krauts not feed you?" LeBeau asked.

The boy looked down at the almost empty plate before replying, "Not every day. Sometimes not even for weeks. But….we managed. I'm still here aren't I?"

Newkirk tapped the cigarette ash into a cup and tried to change the subject. Remembering the condition the boy had been in last night, he knew the kid probably didn't want to talk about it. "I think the better question is what kind of American goes to France for work. What were you? One of them interpreters?"

LeBeau saw the shift in conversation and nodded. "Ah, oui, what kind of work did you do, Mon ami?" Really any conversation about his beloved country excited him. It had been so long since he heard anything about his homeland.

James scraped his fork on the side of his metal plate. Grease from the bacon made soft trails at the end of the prongs. "I was with an entertainment company. They did a brief tour in America and I followed them back to France," he said.

"What kind a entertainment? Hogan did tell ya I did part-time as a magician, yeah?" Newkirk asked. He extinguished his cigarette on the table top before pulling out a deck of cards from inside his coat pocket. "Wanna see a trick?"

The young man shook his head. "Maybe later. I was a dancer. A ballet dancer to be exact."

There was a brief pause in the barrack. Newkirk and LeBeau gave each other a look while James continued to fiddle with his fork. It ended up being LeBeau who broke the tension by asking which company the kid danced for.

"The Pauper," he answered, poking at his eggs. Another silence crept up on them but James stopped it by continuing, "I saw my feet when Sergeant Carter re-did my bandages. They're all cut up and swollen. And even if they weren't, I've practically lost all the muscle in my legs. I don't think I'll ever dance again." Newkirk darted his eyes down to James' feet. Apparently they had found some boots for the kid to wear because his feet were clad in old leather.

Another opportunity to change the subject showed itself, and Newkirk took it. "I see you've got a pair of shiny new rubber. Bet a new outfit would make them look even better," he said as he stood up. "Come on then to the back room so I can take your measurements." James stood, supporting himself with the table. Newkirk allowed him to use his shoulder as a crutch and they made their way to the room the Brit had been in last night. LeBeau gathered the dishes and set what was left of the meal into the scrap bucket for the dogs.

Newkirk and James hobbled into the backroom where James found a stool to rest on. The Brit grabbed a strip of white measuring tape, a pencil, and a notepad for taking the measurements with. "Alright mate, take off that coat so we can get started," he instructed, gesturing to where the boy could put it.

James tensed and gripped the bottom of his chair. "Can't you take the measurements with the coat on?" he asked.

"Well I could, but then they would be inaccurate. You'd be wearing a suit that'd fit like that coat," he told him. "Now take it off so we can get started."

James shook his head again and held it tight around his thin frame. "My clothes are rags underneath. I'll catch a cold within minutes."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Oh, rubbish. Just take the bloody thing off. This won't take more than five minutes." He stepped toward the boy in hopes to just yank it off him, but James jumped and fell back off the stool. The Brit halted mid step and stared down at the mass before him. The boy tucked himself into fetal position.

The soldier looked at the boy below him. He was cowering in fear over a simple coat. Unsure of how to proceed, Newkirk slowly bent down and extended his hand. "If this is about your weight, don't fret over it. None of us are in the exact shape we want to be in, eh? But I really do need to take ye measurements without the coat or else you'll end up with a suite sized for Schultzie," he explained.

James shook his head. "N-no. I-I can't. You wouldn't help me if I took the coat off," he replied.

Newkirk sighed. "Unless you were wearing a German uniform under that old thing, nothing could scare us away, mate," he assured.

"Will you tell Colonel Hogan what's under it if I take it off?"

The Brit stayed silent a moment before replying, "As long as it doesn't put us in danger, I will not tell Colonel Hogan."

The lump on the ground stirred as James moved to stand up. Newkirk got up as well and backed up a few paces. The coat fell to the ground in a soft, brown heap. Newkirk's grey eyes didn't know where to rest. Even the boy's clothes seemed to hang off him; not to mention just how much bone peaked up from the neckline of his shirt. That wasn't what battled for his attention though. No, what fought quite a great war for the Brit's gaze was a pink triangle sewn into the shirt with a serial number underneath or the same number branded onto the boy's arm