The train ride from Hammelburg to Essen was about a ten hour's journey. James got use to the gentle rocking of the train car and the grinding halts. Every thirty minutes he smelled the sour odor of tobacco from Newkirk lighting a cigarette.

The rocking acted as a great lullaby for the boy who had a terrible night's sleep. He kept on nodding off into a light slumber only to be awaken by either the bellowing train whistle or knocking his head against the window. The soldier let him sleep, which James was thankful for. A terrible night's sleep mixed with the new fear of the Gestapo being on the train really did not make him the most chipper person in the world.

He'd been asleep for probably forty minutes before he felt someone shaking him. The honey yellow glow of electric light penetrated the bandages over the kid's eyes, and he blinked a few times to come to. "What?" he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

"Our stop, chap," Newkirk said, gripping James by the shoulder and helping him up. After ten hours of sitting, James' legs felt like they had cement bricks attached to them. It was a similar, though less painful, feeling he had when he ran through the woods to find Stalag 13.

The whistle cried and the wheels screeched to a halt. Newkirk kept a firm grip on James' shoulder as the doors opened to the sound of air being released. James gripped his trench coat parcel close to his chest as they walked out of the train and onto the platform. Cool night air nipped at the edges of his face.

"Alright, let's find a taxi to take us to our next contact," Newkirk instructed, leading James out of the train station and onto the sidewalk. The duo approached edge of the sidewalk as Newkirk yelled out taxi and halt in German. The roar of an engine stalled in front of them before the Brit started pushing James into the back seat of the car. A door slammed once Newkirk entered and set his suitcase onto the floorboard.

"Where to?" the driver asked. His voice sounded like he grew up smoking at least ten cigarettes a day.

"The Mondlicht Hotel," Newkirk replied. The driver grunted in response before starting the car again and driving in the direction of the hotel.

The ride was in silence except for the radio which played a mix between German ballad's and the news. James only half paid attention to it because the anchors spewed the same drivel he'd heard from the Major and Captain. The music also wasn't very entertaining either. Clearly meant for an older generation.

His ears did perk up, however, when he heard mention of Gestapo listings. With a rough translation, James felt sure he heard the anchor say, "Still no sign of the escaped diseased prisoner from Hammelburg. The Gestapo are working closely with Major Klaus, the Commandant of Heidelburg prison camp and Colonel Klink, Commandant of Stalag 13." The reporter then gave a very basic description of James before announcing the next song.

Had Newkirk caught any of that? Was he even paying attention? James assumed since they were going to a hotel that meant they were staying here the rest of the evening. That made James' stomach do summersaults. The longer he stayed in Germany, the likelier it would be that he got caught.

The car stopped just as James felt that familiar heaviness settle into his chest. One hand reached for Newkirk's while the other cradled his parcel. There was a rustling of fake German marks before the soldier grabbed the boy's wrist and pulled him of the car. Not two seconds after the door was shut behind him did the car speed off down the street looking for its next patron.

The sound of lively music waltzed out onto the street that only became louder as the duo approached the hotel. "Newkirk," James whispered, unsure who was around them. "I don't think we should stop for the night. At least not here."

Newkirk scoffed and pulled the other along. "Nonsense. We already have it arranged to stay here by the underground," Newkirk replied.

The bubble of music got even louder as the soldier opened the door to the hotel. Though it was still partially muffled as this was only a lobby of some kind. Their shoes squeaked on the floor as they walked to the counter and were handed a room key. James didn't speak again until they made it to their room via an elevator with a doorman.

Once inside the private lodgings, James removed the bandages over his eyes and saw the decadent room. The front looked like his grandmother's parlor and had two doors leading to other rooms on one wall. He didn't have time to gawk at the surroundings, however, as Newkirk needed to know what he had heard.

"Were you listening to what was on the radio in the taxi?" James asked, setting his trench coat down on the floral printed couch.

"No. Why? You hear something?" Newkirk responded, taking off his coat.

"Yeah. Something about the Gestapo having a search out for me," James said. He folded his arms over his chest, starting to think maybe the Gestapo on the train weren't looking for some old man.

Newkirk paused in his actions of getting comfier and stared at the boy. "Well, I mean, Hogan did say Klink called the Gestapo…"

"He called the Gestapo in Hammelburg. Why would they be broadcasting such news in Essen?"

Newkirk bit his lip a few times over while trying to think of a response. The only thing he could tell the boy was, "Try not to worry, alright mate? We'll get you out of Germany without tipping off the Gestapo any more than they already are."

"You honestly think they won't go to the Netherlands and drag me back to Germany?" James protested, sinking onto the armrest of the couch. "And what about you? What if you get caught? It would rat out the entire underground." The tightness in his chest came back and his lungs felt like they could only hold a few milligrams of air.

He saw flames engulf a morphed image between Stalag 13 and the club he had been pulled out of the night he was arrested. Dogs barked over the screams of those trapped inside, and gun shots rang out against those trying to escape the burning building.

The image faded into inky darkness and soon the only sound he heard was his own labored breathing. Around him he felt something strong holding him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Newkirk standing above him, giving him an awkward embrace. James slowly calmed down before relaxing against the other's chest.

"You really need to relax, mate," Newkirk said, keeping the other in his arms. "We've done plenty of transfers with higher profile people than you before. Sure, things may get sticky, but you just gotta keep your head."

The boy nodded and sniffled. Keep his head. Right. They wouldn't have been so highly praised if they half did every job. James stayed in the other's arms a few minutes more before pulling away and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Newkirk patted his shoulder before presenting him with a small glass filled with a brownish liquid. "What's this?" James asked, taking the glass between this thumb and index finger.

"Liquid courage. It'll take the edge off," the Brit explained.

James took one whiff of the stuff and wrinkled his nose. "It's alcohol. I-I don't drink."

"Blimey. Not even wine?" Newkirk asked. "Just take it in one go. You'll barely even taste the thing."

The boy looked down at the glass with the questionably colored liquid. He sipped wine with Mathieu and his dancers every now and then, but never hard liquor. He and his friends had passed around a bottle of beer once in high school and James threw up from that. Though he'd take anything long as it calmed him down.

James brought the glass up to his lips and tipped it into his mouth. It tasted like gasoline smells and he all but spat it back up. He braced himself against his knees as he hacked at the poisonous taste. Jeeze. How did people drink this for fun?

"Heh. Got a kick to it, innit?" Newkirk joked, patting the boy on the back as he coughed. "Come on then. We gotta go back downstairs to meet our next contact. I'll buy you a nice stout glass of milk for your trouble."

James was still coughing as Newkirk wrapped a fresh set of bandages around his eyes. He would have preferred the Brit go alone, but honestly how safe was it to leave a newly blind person alone in an unfamiliar room?

They rode the elevator back down to the main floor before meandering to the room where the music was just as lively as ever. There was laughing and talking and many bodies that they had to squeeze through. The room had an intoxicating scent of perfume, cigar smoke, and the putrid smell of liquor.

He felt the lacquered top of a bar counter and gently put his hand atop a wooden bar stool. Newkirk let go of his left shoulder as the boy sat down. He heard the Brit order two drinks; one beer and one milk. After the drinks were served, James asked, "Who are we meeting?"

"A man that speaks Dutch," the other replied absently. Probably to help get across the Dutch border. A passport would only get you so far if you didn't speak the language.

James slowly sipped his milk, trying to give Newkirk plenty of time to locate and talk to their contact. The night felt like it dragged on and James was starting to sip his milk less and less. The liquid only intensified more pressing matters below the belt. Ten hours of being on a train with no bathroom, and then one of the few things he'd drank was a shot of liquor really makes a guy pressed for a toilet.

Due to the bandages, James couldn't very well find it himself. As embarrassing as it was, he needed Newkirk's help finding the nearest rest room. Because Newkirk had been on his left side when they stopped at the bar, James found it only logical he would be seated to his left. James placed his hand on his own thigh before reaching across to Newkirk's, hoping to get his attention. However, he found only empty air waiting for him.

Odd, but maybe he had turned the other way. James pulled his hand back until he felt the top of the wooden stool. He brushed his hand across the surface, and not once did he encounter Newkirk.

Strange. It wasn't like the Brit to just walk off without saying anything even if he had spotted the contact. James figured Newkirk was on his right side then because he wouldn't have left him there to fend for himself. He did the same thing as before until this time he landed on a thigh.

"Hey," he said, squeezing to get Newkirk's attention. "C-Can we find a restroom?"

The response he got was a harsh shove that caused the seat beneath him to topple over. James fell to the floor with the chair between his legs. He instinctively brought his arm up to shield his face from any blows.

"What the hell are you doing?" came the slurred voice of someone clearly not Newkirk. Before James could respond, the music and voices quieted to allow for a sharp gasp from the crowd as the man gave a swift kick in the gut to the boy. "Feelin' me up like some queer."