As soon as they saw one of the runners fall the car full of overeager Hitler Youth slid to a halt, the doors popping open.

Newkirk had scrambled to Carter who was already picking himself up. The American looked only dazed, but Newkirk spotted the splash of crimson on the back of the coveralls, just behind Andrew's left shoulder.

The sergeant was reaching for the wound like it itched, but Newkirk pulled his hand away, yanking Carter's arm over his own shoulders and pushing them forward, towards the train that was coming their way. A train that he hoped would slide between themselves and the Hitler Youth and provide the cover they needed to disappear. Somehow.

Dolf had spotted Newkirk's intention with the train quickly enough and started shouting orders to his goons.

"W-why aren't they shootin' at us?" Carter asked, unconsciously putting more and more of his weight on Newkirk's shoulders.

'Because we won't be much fun to those twisters if we're dead.' Newkirk thought, but he pushed the wounded man to move forward faster and said, "Don't know, Carter. Keep movin'."

They were a hundred feet from the front of the train, then seventy, then fifty when Carter grunted softly and said, "My back kinda hurts, Newkirk." A second later Andrew had gone limp, crashing to the ground. He would have gone face first into the ballast if Newkirk hadn't been holding onto him.

The Brit felt a surge of panic rush through him that he barely stifled, tearing at the damp, red hole in Carter's overalls, finding the wound and pushing his hand down hard against it. Carter was still breathing. Newkirk could feel the rise and fall of his chest under his hand, but he could also feel the pressure of the blood trying to escape.

Thrusting his head up, Newkirk could see the Hitler-Jugend waiting patiently through each of the gaps between passing cattle carriers, Dolf and Franz still wearing cruel smiles.

The train…he couldn't get Carter on it, and he wasn't about to leave his mate just to save himself. But the least he could do was reduce the amount of trouble they were both in. Newkirk stood, one hand dripping with his mate's blood, and walked in the direction the train was going, picking up speed until he was even with a boxcar. It didn't take much to climb aboard and duck into the empty container, but he immediately balked at the horrible smells of refuse and death.

He didn't know what had been transported in the car, but whatever it was, was better off where it had been shipped, he was certain. It took him a few seconds to find a spot in which to wedge the hat; maps, film and all. Then he made his exit, leaping from the car and withstanding the punishment of the ballast.

The Hitler-Jugend were panicked when the train finally passed and they realized that one of the men had got away. They were subsequently furious when they finally spotted Newkirk a hundred and fifty feet down the track. Despite having his hands in the air, and walking at a leisurely, unthreatening pace Newkirk was the recipient of shouted threats.

Two of the five ran to put him into custody, grabbing at the shoulders of the corduroy jacket. Newkirk was fully prepared to cooperate up until he saw one of the men standing over Carter, nudge at his mate with a foot.

Newkirk flew into a rage, pushing one of the Hitler Jugend to the side, where the man tripped over a rail and went down. The other received a solid smack on the mouth before Newkirk tore down the track, shouting that the "bloody krauts should leave off."

The men standing over Carter only laughed, the two that were armed pointing their guns at the Englander and pulling the triggers.

Both the shots went wide but the strong instinct for self-preservation that went through Newkirk's system, stopped him cold for a split second.

Moment's later Newkirk was on the ground, under the weight of two of the five, taking blows to the body from fists and then boots. A careless heel smashed into his nose and he heard cartilage break, and began to choke on the gush of blood. Curling up, he did what he could to protect his stomach until repeated hits to his back broke one of his ribs, halfway down his side. His cry of pain brought the beating to an end, the seething young men backing off to recover their breaths and gloat about their victory.

Newkirk barely felt the globs of spittle landing on him. He did notice the unnecessarily handsy pat down from one of the youth that ended abruptly when a voice shouted from the road. He didn't know what the voice had said, who had said it, and he didn't know why it made a difference, but the moment the voice fell silent, the five men backed away.

"Next time, Nancy boy, you shouldn't run." Dolf said, delivering a final kick before the group walked away. "Just stay and take your punishment like a real man, uh?"

A train passed by, a few tracks away. Slow and rumbling. Newkirk tried to get up. His head swam and his face throbbed, his chest stabbed at him and he changed his mind, shifting on the hard rocks until he had at least reduced the pressure on his rib cage.

"Carter?"

The man in a heap a few feet away didn't respond. Newkirk craned his neck back trying to at least see if Carter was breathing, but he was limited to the soles of the sergeant's boots. One of them twitched, then was pulled out of sight and he heard a groan.

"Carter?" He tried again, making another effort to at least drag himself to his hands and knees. His rib sent hot pokers down his spine but Newkirk pushed past it and managed to sit up, holding tightly to the ground until the world stopped spinning.

He heard the ballast shift under the weight of footsteps behind him, and dug for his toad sticker again, determined this time that someone else would be bleeding before he went down. When the shoes that belonged to the footsteps finally appeared in front of him he was shocked at their appearance. For one thing, they were barely there. What had once been soft-leather buckled shoes, were now soft leather, buckled scraps with holey stockings sticking through the toes.

And the toes, and the shoes, were tiny. Barely bigger than the length of his fingers. The waif that belonged to the shoes had grown a size too big for the dress she wore, and had had her hair sheered off at some point, so that the puff of fur sprouting from her head made her look like a dandelion.

She had snot running down her face, caked with coal dust, and tiny scratches on her arms and legs that were red enough to be mildly infected. Her round, brown eyes were steady on Newkirk but she made no effort to speak.

Newkirk slipped his knife back up his sleeve and gave the girl one last look, not having the foggiest idea where she came from or what to do about her, then tried calling his mate once more. "Carter?"

There was another groan, and Carter's legs moved again.

"'Xcuse me, miss." Newkirk said and crawled forward, moving slow and careful until he reached the American bleeding into the ground.

"They go away?" Carter asked, his words muffled by the press of the ballast against his cheek and the obvious pain that breathing was bringing him.

"Got…called off by an officer I think." Newkirk grunted. The little girl had followed him, her footsteps patiently pacing him as he crawled, but she'd made no effort to touch or speak to him.

"Oh…good." Carter said, drifting a little.

"Can you make it to your feet?" Newkirk asked.

Carter's breathing intensified, building momentum as his mind prepared him for that which his body wasn't sure it could do. None-the-less the American gave it a go, and managed to push up with one arm and both thighs, getting to his knees. He hung his head, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, but he was up.

"Don't think I can make it back to camp. But…ya know…up..maybe I can do."

With something new to look at the little girl had taken a few steps forward until she was standing in front of Carter, and she squatted a little, tilting her head until she could see Carter's face. She stayed there, apparently enraptured, until Carter opened his eyes and jolted at the sudden appearance of a child in his field of vision.

Carter groaned at the pain the jolt had given him then ducked his head, eyeing Newkirk in confusion.

"No idea, mate." Newkirk said, wiping at the blood that was still flowing from his nose, his face inflamed by the injury. It took a few minutes of careful consideration, pros and cons and the like, to decide to get to his feet, and once he did he immediately regretted whatever foolish argument had led to the decision. "Come on…" He said, trying bolster some sort of 'can do' attitude. "We'll make it to the rail road cut…take a rest. The closer we get to camp, the better the chance that they'll find us when we miss noon roll call."

Carter wasn't completely oblivious to the irony that missing a noon roll call might mean getting rescued. The thought put a slight quirk on his sweat bathed face and to his surprise the little girl responded to it, a chubby cheeked smile popping onto her face through the grime. The smile warmed him from head to toe, and filled him with energy that he shouldn't have had, and a part of him still wished he had that camera, so that he could take a picture of this dusty little angel and keep it with him.

The thought reminded him of the reason they had been in Hammelburg in the first place and Carter looked up to the corporal who was slowly coming to his side. "What about the maps and the film?"

Newkirk bent as much as he could, his face flushing beet red as bone ground on bone. He got his hand down far enough to latch onto Carter's upper arm and tugged him to his feet, both men gritting their teeth and stifling moans.

"I tossed it…onto one of the trains passin' by. S'on its way west, one way or the other."

Carter felt sick to his stomach now that he was on his feet. He vaguely recalled the pharmacist handbook he'd carried with him since his capture, and the section on emergency medical aid that suggested that nausea, dizziness and weakness in the limbs went along with blood loss and something new called shock. Shock sure fit the description of how he felt.

He was even more shocked when he felt a hand wrapping around his pinky and ring fingers, and glanced down into wide brown eyes, and tiny pouting lips.

Newkirk had seen it too, and the two men shared a glance before the Englander took the first painful step forward, advancing about five inches. "Come on then…Carter. Long road ahead."