It was only when the metal door clanked shut that Newkirk let a small hint of panic set in. There was almost to no way to contact Hogan or anyone part of the underground here. Not to mention something had to be done tonight or James would be right back where he started. The Brit didn't even want to think about what was in store for him.

A guard pulled him to his feet, so the officer could continue to question him. "So, now the question begs, who are you?"

"Henry Gobshire. Corporal for the RAF. Serial number 73489," Newkirk stated. "I don't have to give any more information than that according to the Geneva Convention."

"You think I believe that?" the officer asked, pulling the suitcase towards him. Newkirk made no remark as the other unclasped the lid and opened it up. On top the officer found Newkirk's forged papers bearing the name Ronald Ratzenberger. These the officer glanced at them before throwing them aside. Underneath were some clothes which the officer threw aside as well. After running his hand along seam of the suitcase's lining, the officer tossed it aside. He then grabbed trench coat parcel and undid the knot James had tied. The insides collapsed once the walls were down. A mess of clothes and money spilled out. The officer paid no mind to it and instead inspected the trench coat a little more closely.

"Too small to be yours, but too big to be his," the man commented, scanning the collar. "Mathieu. That's a French name. Who is he?"

Newkirk shook his head. "I don't know. James knew him. They were mates." The Brit thought he could save the kid some way.

"Doubtful. Men like him don't just have what you call 'mates'," the officer explained, setting the trench coat down. "Makes me wonder about you as well."

Newkirk's jaw tightened at the dig. Some part of him knew that conclusion would be mentioned, but he didn't want it to. To banish the inkling that he would be like that, the Brit let something vile slip, "I'm not a queer like him. He's more of a dame than some of the fräuleins I've met."

The old criminal in him was talking. Panic woke it up. That fighting spirit and the need to stay free itched at him like poison ivy. Of course, a pit grew in his stomach after saying it, but he meant it.

"Based on that reaction it's clear this is bigger than a little shag quest," the man noted. Newkirk said nothing. The Gestapo would get zero out of him. The man smirked. "We have ways of making you talk. Maybe you're staying silent to protect that boy. Maybe to protect your group. But you're just delaying the inevitable. One way or the other we will wring the information out of you. Literally, if need be." He signaled to a guard to grab Newkirk as they were preparing to move. "Once that boy is gone we'll see how long you last. Take him away, then. Tomorrow will be the real fun."

The guard grabbed Newkirk by the shoulder and led him out the door. James' screams still seemed to echo in the room. Some papers spilled on the floor gave evidence of his struggle. The Brit was escorted past that and down a hall full of cells. They walked down to one of the last ones where Newkirk saw James curled up on the bed through the bars. The guard unlocked the door before pushing Newkirk in. The lock clicked, and the officer walked off.

Newkirk walked over to where James was and gently put a hand on his shoulder. No response. He gave a shove and still there was no response. The kid was out cold.

The soldier still had the pencil sharpener in his boot. The Krauts hadn't been smart enough to search him. The lock on the door seemed simple enough. If anything, he could just break it and subdue any guard. Usually they only posted one. He could then walk out the front door and book it back to Stalag 13 before anyone had time to miss him, including James.

"Bugger it," he seethed, kicking the wall. There was that selfish part of him again. The part that lived by the criminal's code and not the law of no man left behind. How easy those ways called back to him. And how much easier it would to leave James knowing the kid would never talk. Not when he clung to Newkirk like a puppy every time he had a fit.

These thoughts weighed heavy on the Brit and he needed to take a seat. He slid down the wall opposite of the bed and stared at James' passed out form. Did Newkirk give off those vibes? He'd only meant to be welcoming after seeing the ruddy state the kid was one. Maybe he'd been too friendly. Some wires got crossed. But boys like that weren't raised where he was from. Boys grew into men, not pansies.

That must be it then. As close as James was to him on almost a daily basis, surely it was rubbing off on him. In that case, James really was carrying a disease. From now on, he would have to be dealt with at arm's length. Maybe more depending on how much longer they would be together.

Newkirk wouldn't abandon the kid, however. No, he would follow the mission. Just had to get in contact with Colonel Hogan or someone else in the underground to get them out of this sticky wicket.