June 22, 1941 – Hammelburg, Germany

"What were you doing hiding near that farm?" Pause.

"Who gave you the civilian clothes?" Another pause.

The interrogator suddenly stopped his questioning, angrily telling Newkirk, "You gain nothing by remaining silent. We already know as much, if not more, than you do!" He paused again, briefly, waiting for an answer.

There was nothing.

"Fine, then if you won't tell us, we'll just have to tell you. How would you like that?" His only answer was the continued silence.

"Who should we start with? Perhaps Phillips, your pilot?"

There wasn't so much as a flicker of recognition on Newkirk's emotionless face. His life on the street had at least been good for that much.

"I don't know who you're talking about," he said, finally breaking his self- enforced silence. "I've told you a thousand times that I was the only survivor of the crash. I stole the clothes from some poor farmer's washing line and I was trying to walk through to Spain."

Reading off the notes in his folder, the German started flatly reciting the facts. "Pilot Officer Ronald Phillips was captured on the third of June while stealing eggs from a farmhouse that was being used to billet soldiers. But, of course, you know that already. You were hiding at the edge of the yard in a clump of brush with the tail-gunner from your plane. The two of you bolted when you saw what was going on."

He nonchalantly flipped the page, surveying Newkirk casually for any sort of response. Newkirk didn't give him one. He sat, bound to the chair, staring straight ahead.

"You did well in avoiding the search parties up until then. But after your pilot was captured, you weren't quite so lucky. It was down to just the two of you then," the interrogator continued. "You moved at night and hid during the day. It was a good plan, except you couldn't move far if the moon was out. And, most importantly, you needed to eat. That proved to be your downfall again."

"You were the one gathering food this time when a patrol stumbled across Lloyd James's hiding spot. You would have been caught then too, but you had the good sense to stay put this time. Had you followed the same course of action you did when Phillips was caught, you would have been caught along with your friend."

He paused again in another attempt to gauge Newkirk's reaction. Still nothing.

"What day was that again? Ah, yes, June the fourteenth, not even two weeks after we captured your pilot."

Newkirk glared across the room at the interrogator, one of his first emotional responses of the day's questioning. "Let's shoot you down over England and we'll see how bloody long you last," he retorted.

"Don't get me wrong, corporal," the interrogator said condescendingly, "I think that you did a surprisingly good job on your own. It was another five days before we finally found you. That was almost, what? Two months after we shot down your 'Lucky Lady' before your luck finally ran out."

Stepping forward, threateningly, he added, "As has my patience with you."

Snapping the folder shut, he tossed it carelessly to the floor, the papers scattering. "Now, answer my questions. Who helped you?"

Silence.

His voice raised angrily, the grating false pleasantness of before gone. "You were not captured in uniform. We have no reason not to execute you as a spy! That is, unless you choose to give me a reason. Now answer me!"

With his eyes pointed resolutely at the scarred cement wall in front of him, Newkirk didn't even spare a glance over at the interrogator. He wasn't a spy; he had proof. Under the Geneva Convention, they couldn't touch him, and he knew it. He was secure in that knowledge.

"Do you have anything at all to say for yourself?" No answer.

"Guards, turn him around," the interrogator ordered harshly, motioning the guards forward. The two bulky goons stepped forward out of the shadows and lifted Newkirk, firmly tied to his chair, rotating him in a half-circle.

There was nothing at all to look at except yet another pockmarked cement wall. It was identical to the one he had been facing, except for one thing. The wall behind where he had been sitting was stained an ominous rusty brown. "That was the last person who refused to co-operate with us," the interrogator explained, pausing to let the implication sink in.

"Now, is there anything that you would like to tell us?" In the silence following the question, there were two soft clicks as two pistols were armed.

Newkirk swallowed hard. "Yeah," he answered brokenly.

"Well, well, well," the German chuckled. "So, you've changed your mind." He stopped laughing abruptly, all traces of mirth gone instantly from his voice. "Hopefully what you have to say has been worth my time," he added threateningly.

There was a minute pause before he asked, "Who aided you and your friends?" Each word fell heavily in the tense room.

After a moment came the halting answer. "Peter Newkirk, corporal, Roy—"