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Kinchloe struggled out of his parachute harness and dropped quickly to the scrub below the tree from which he had been dangling. He had two priorities at the moment: get himself hidden, now; and see if he could find Captain Pritchard.

The bailout had been both quick and terrifying. When it became clear that they were outnumbered and had no chance of getting out of Europe intact, Pritchard had ordered Kinch to jump. Without taking the time to think, but amazed at how clear his mind was, Kinch had grabbed his parachute, strapped it on, and leapt into the air. The sensation was overwhelming. At first frightened of the fall, he soon felt more of a buoyant, floating sensation as he rushed toward the earth, with the wind and the noise whipping past his ears. When he pulled the rip cord on his parachute, he felt the anticipated "pulling up" sensation, and the noise softened and he began to breathe again. He tried to look around him to see if he could find Pritchard, but he soon realized that he needed to control where he ended up and concentrated on maneuvering his parachute in such a way to avoid hitting anything particularly dangerous on the way down.

Now, Kinchloe tried to pull his parachute out of the tree and bundle it up so he could hide it, or use it for warmth, if necessary. He mentally checked himself for injuries and blessedly found none. He wanted to call out for Pritchard but realized it would only expose himself to possible danger, since he had no idea if the Captain was anywhere nearby. In the end, he decided that the best option would be to keep himself hidden until he felt relatively safe, then see if he could wander around a bit when daylight appeared and try to find the man who had practically pushed him out of the plane.

What remained of the night was long, and Kinchloe found himself jumping at every little sound, be it a leaf falling from a tree, or a jack rabbit running across his path. He was hungry, and he was cold, and he was more than a little scared. But he felt okay otherwise and decided to just keep his eyes open and think of his family and pray.

His body had other ideas, though, and after settling himself into a small, covered area of scrub away from the main path, he fell asleep, and when he woke up later, it was light. He tried to figure out where he was, but in the end, he knew that was no use because they had veered well off course when they started getting cornered, and anyway, how did you know if you fell straight down when you fell out of an airplane?

Kinchloe stood up and tried to stretch his now-cramped muscles, making sure he still had his small pistol intact, the one Pritchard had insisted he take with him when they flew. He carried a small knife as well, and his emergency rations, which included dark chocolate and biscuits, which he broke into now as a sudden, overwhelming hunger started to gnaw at him. He checked his small water bottle and gave himself permission to have two small sips, until he knew he could make more water from the sparse snow spread on the ground.

Kinchloe took a good look around to make sure no one was in the immediate vicinity and then slowly emerged from his hiding spot. He noted the position of the sun, and realized that if he was going to find shelter and protection, he was better off heading west. Where that would eventually bring him, he wasn't sure, but west was definitely headed away from Germany, and that couldn't be all bad.

Time to find Pritchard. The thought pierced his brain for not the first time, and he scanned the area briefly, hoping for a sign of the Captain. Kinch was half hoping not to find anything, since any visible hint of Pritchard's presence would also give his position away to the Germans. On the other hand, if Kinch could find him first, they might somehow be able to elude the enemy and miraculously find a way home.

Some time later, Kinchloe practically stumbled over Pritchard in the tall grass. The Captain had gotten out of his harness—his parachute was nowhere to be seen—but he was badly injured, lying on his side, clearly suffering, and clearly precariously close to death. Kinch knelt beside him and turned Pritchard onto his back.

"Damned black fella," Pritchard gasped at him.

Kinch wanted to smile, but he couldn't. "I'll look after you, Captain."

"Don't be an idiot, boy—get outta here. The Jerries'll be comin' around soon. Get moving."

Kinch had not stopped trying to use some material from his own flight suit to clumsily dress the gaping wound in Pritchard's chest. Letting out a loud groan of pain, the Captain tried ineffectively to push the Sergeant's hands away. "Y'ear me, boy? I said get moving."

"Not without you, sir." Kinch kept working, trying hard not to look in Pritchard's face.

In a voice Kinch found surprisingly strong, Pritchard tried again. "'s'an order, Sergeant. And don't you dare disobey it, understand?"

Kinch paused briefly. Pritchard seemed to shrink against the earth, his breathing becoming more irregular and labored. "I'm sorry, Captain," Kinch said.

"Sorry?" Pritchard managed. He coughed agonizingly as he tried to spit out a laugh. "You gi' me the best chance in years to show the brass that they're a pain in the ass, and you're sorry?" He paused to catch his breath, then drew a shaking hand up to the young man's arm. "Look what we did, boy—a black man, flying a Pommie plane, against the Krauts." He tried to laugh again. Kinch fought back the stinging behind his eyes as he watched pain flood across Pritchard's face. "You save yourself, boy. You get yourself back home and tell 'em ol' Pritchard was right all along: the black boys have got just as much guts as we have. You tell 'em that, Kinchloe. You tell 'em I said so."

Kinch nodded, numb, as Pritchard closed his eyes against his agony. "Captain," Kinch said, trying to keep the officer conscious, "Captain, do you realize you got my name right?"

Pritchard forced his eyes open and squeezed Kinch's arm. "Had to get it right once before I go, right, Kinstow?" he replied. Pritchard bit his lip and drew in a sharp breath. Kinch felt himself trembling. "You tell 'em, Sergeant. Only Pritchard could have pulled it off, right? Only ol' Pritchard."

Kinch nodded again. "Yes, sir. Only you."

Pritchard's grip slackened and his hand fell away from Kinch's arm. When Kinch found the nerve to look at the Captain's face, he knew the battle was over. Closing the rebel's lifeless eyes, he let his hand rest on the side of the man's face as he said a silent prayer. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he realized what Pritchard had risked for him, and what kind of man had been lost today. The he reached under Pritchard's clothes, took one of his dog tags, and slowly walked away.

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Kinch carried his loss like a physical burden, and when German soldiers finally came across him, he was almost grateful for the release. At first almost too frightened to move and follow the orders they issued in halting English, the young man found himself surprised at the soldiers' lack of aggressiveness. He still had no idea where he was, but thought it was best not to ask at this stage, and he simply relinquished his weapon and walked.

It took almost two hours in the cold before they reached what could pass for civilization. Kinch was tiring quickly, both physically and emotionally, and he gratefully climbed into the back of a truck waiting at the edge of a small village. He tried to look for signs on the one or two small shops, and when he noticed the words "Bakkerij" and "Kleermaker," he guessed that he was still somewhere in the Netherlands.

Aside from the few words that the Germans aimed at Kinch to get him to do as they wished, the trip passed in relative silence, and the American lost track of time as the countryside passed around him. He watched carefully as the truck passed checkpoints and the soldiers spoke briefly, handing over papers and pointing to him and the three other men in the truck. Kinch wanted badly to talk to the others, but it was quite clear that talking amongst themselves was not going to be tolerated, regardless of how lax the guards seemed.

When the truck finally rolled up to what was clearly a German city, Kinch put himself fully on alert. He noted that the soldiers who had been so casual in their duties as captors suddenly got stricter and harsher when they got off the truck and had to work in the presence of their superiors. He was prodded roughly toward a building on which hung a large Nazi flag, and he responded with a grunt and a look that clearly indicated his disgust. As he stepped up to the front door, he noticed several sets of eyes on him, even more than on the other men being brought in with him, and at least one person spoke behind his hand at a companion, as he pointed at Kinch and shook his head.

Kinch lost track of the others who had been brought to this place with him and found himself in a room on his own. Not handcuffed and with no one in the room to watch him, he still felt compelled to stay seated where he had been pushed. It didn't take long before someone came in to join him, an officer in a black uniform that seemed unnaturally tidy and smart for someone in such a terrible job, Kinch thought randomly.

The officer was smoking a pipe that reminded Kinch of his grandfather, an image that disturbed him considering where he was and who he was facing. He shifted uncomfortably when the officer stared at him in silence for what seemed like an eternity, waiting.

"You are an American," the officer said.

Kinch didn't answer. He didn't think it was necessary.

"You are an American… and you are black."

Kinch raised an eyebrow but said nothing. What was this man aiming at?

"Your dog tags say you are Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe. I was not of the understanding that black men were flying for the United States. So how did you get into Europe on your own?"

Kinch concentrated on staying calm. So far this German officer was speaking quite rationally and civilly, but Kinch was preparing for the worst. His failure to answer could make the man angry, and Kinch knew that while he was indeed a unique find for the Germans, he was still, in the end, just an enemy who could be abused at any time.

The officer shook his head, smiling. "You are a good soldier, Sergeant Kinchloe. You know you are allowed to speak. Even name, rank, and serial number would let me hear your voice."

Kinch took a chance, softly. "Kinchloe, James I. Sergeant." He paused. "US Army Air Corps. Serial number 4973609."

The officer smiled. "I am Major Otto Boehringer, Sergeant Kinchloe. I find your presence here quite fascinating, I must admit. I would like very much for you to explain how you got shot down over Europe. And how you came to have another man's dog tag in your pocket." Kinch swallowed and thought of the man he had left behind. "Who is Captain Pritchard?"

Kinch felt a wave of sadness wash over him at the mention of Pritchard's name. Still, he couldn't tell Boehringer the details, so he simply answered, "I wanted to make sure his family got his tag."

"Where is the other one?"

"Still on his body. So his remains could get home identified." Kinch fell silent, already unsure if he had said too much.

"Was this Captain Pritchard your superior officer?" Boehringer waited patiently for an answer. "Were you flying with him?" Kinch said nothing. "Did you find him after you were shot down? Or were you with him to begin with?"

Kinch did not answer, unsure at this point whether he was simply unwilling, or whether he was unable. In either case, Boehringer did not seem concerned about the rebuff, and said, "If he is in the wilderness somewhere and he is found, I am sure he will be treated with respect."

I doubt that, Kinch thought.

Boehringer stood up. "I think you have many reasons to fear being here, Sergeant Kinchloe. You have obviously seen death. You are in the presence of the enemy. You are a Negro." Boehringer nodded. "You are apparently in good health, and that makes you a supreme specimen for study." Kinch stiffened. "But for now you will be taken to your cell. I will talk with you again, tomorrow."

Kinch felt his heart plunge into his stomach as a guard entered the room and ushered him out to an uncertain future.