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A restless night on a hard bunk in a cold cell was followed by a day full of tension and anxiety. Kinch was brought back before Boehringer, but the Major asked only the questions he had asked the night before, and Kinch repeated the answers he had already given. Boehringer then brought in another man, whom the American knew only as "Karl," since no one introduced him, and after a conference between the two in hushed tones—unnecessary, Kinch realized, since he did not understand German—Boehringer announced that Kinch was going to be handed over to analysts for further study.

Kinch went cold at the thought, but he swallowed hard and tried not to show his fear. He was escorted down some stairs to a large laboratory-type room underground, and then left rather unceremoniously with two other men in lab coats and yet another guard.

One of the men in white motioned for Kinch to sit down on a table that reminded Kinch of a doctor's examination table, and without speaking to him started to remove his shirt. At first Kinch protested, but a severe look from the other man and a less-than-polite shove when he resisted soon convinced him to go along with it. There was nothing he could do to stop it, he reasoned—several armed men outside the door might have something to say about it if he made trouble.

Kinch watched with trepidation as a small trolley was wheeled over to where he was sitting, and on it were several stainless steel instruments and a couple of syringes. "Hey, I really hate needles," Kinch stammered, as one of the Germans picked up one of them. No one responded to him, and when push came to shove, he could only tense up as the needle was inserted into a vein in his arm and he watched the deep red substance fill the syringe. At least they're not putting anything in, he thought. Then they took another vial of blood, removed the needle, and wiped the area on his arm with a cotton ball.

Kinch kept watch, concerned but fairly unscathed, as he underwent what he would have considered a routine physical examination, if this had been being done anywhere but where he was. Blood pressure, temperature, pulse rate—"Turn my head and cough?" he had had the courage to ask, when he was prodded from behind as a cold stethoscope was pressed up against his bare back. He was distressed when the Germans scraped a fairly large chunk of his skin off his side, and from what he saw them doing with it, he could only surmise that they wanted to study it. He was measured, poked, prodded, and shuffled from one table to another, and a more thorough exam that he found most humiliating was performed without a word from either man in the room with him, even when he shouted his surprise and discomfort, and an armed soldier showed up seemingly from nowhere to monitor the rest of his assessment.

The long day tired Kinch out, even though he had not been asked to perform any physical tasks, and when he was released for the day he slept heavily. The next day, after a meager breakfast, he underwent more rigorous study, and this time he had to be involved. He was given tasks that seemed aimed at studying his physical endurance, stretching his muscles and pushing his organs to their limits. He was made to run for a full two hours, with no stops regardless of how it exhausted him. He was forced to lift weights, with more and more poundage being added to the load until he was sweating with the effort just to get it off the floor, much less above his head. He was forced to lay flat on his back while a light was shined into his eyes, and he was not allowed to turn his head or close his eyes, until he felt like the searing brightness had been burned into his line of sight. He was left in a freezing cold room, followed by an almost unendurable hot one. All the time there were people, people checking his vital signs, taking notes, nodding silently at their companions. But no one talking to him, helping him to understand what they were trying to find out, making him feel less helpless, and more like a human being.

For one test, someone handed him a glass of water and said, "Drink." Though desperately thirsty after the workout he had had earlier that day, he initially resisted the idea. But eventually he obeyed, spying equipment in a corner of the room that would have made his agreement to the request unnecessary. To his relief, the glass did indeed contain only water. But then they told him to drink more, and more, until he was sure he would burst, and when it became clear that he could hold no more liquid, he was handed yet one more glass. Kinch tried to push it away, but it was thrust in his face more insistently, so he tried to drink. His stomach hurt terribly, and he stopped. "Please," he said, trying to meet the eyes of one of the men. He thought hard for a few seconds. "Bitte." And he shook his head and put a hand to his stomach. The eyes that looked back at him had no answer. They're trying to make me…or do they just want to know how much I can hold? I'm just a guinea pig to them.

Finally, though he tried his hardest to resist it, Nature won out, and Kinch closed his eyes tightly, trying not to cry as he felt his humiliation skyrocketing. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw only men taking notes, their expressions clearly not interested in what was happening to him emotionally. Someone handed Kinch a towel and pointed to the floor, and after using the cloth to wipe himself off a bit, he got down on his knees and tried to mop up. He felt himself burning inside, anger and disgrace mixing together in a dangerous dance. But he knew to stay alive and physically unharmed it would be wise to accept the treatment and somehow rise above it.

When he was finished, he was moved to another room where his clothes were stripped off and he was left standing alone. There were no chairs and no furniture. He considered sitting down but thought better of it, and when the same two men who had been his almost constant companions came back in, he knew he was not done yet. "Walk," one of them said.

Kinch's eyes showed a flicker of confusion, then he obeyed. No one seemed to be asking anything else of him at the moment, and although he felt exposed and vulnerable, at least he could use this time to sort things out in his mind. I must be at the Dulag Luft, he surmised. I haven't seen any barbed wire, and I haven't seen other prisoners. They're not very talkative here, but at least they aren't beating me. Kinch snorted out loud. The men watching from the corner suddenly became alert, but when Kinch merely kept walking, they relaxed and resumed their surveillance. Just the same as everyone else—check out the black man. See how different he is. Well I'll tell you something you might not know. We've already been humiliated so much that whatever you do to us isn't going to make a lick of difference. Not to this black man, anyway. So keep it up all you like. You're not going to break me.

Thinking clearly made the time pass quickly, and it wasn't until hunger started to penetrate his thoughts that Kinch realized he had been walking for a very long time without rest and without food. He couldn't guess how long he had been tracing a path around the room, varying his direction, sometimes crossing diagonally, sometimes walking the perimeter, sometimes going back and forth. The mind-numbing dullness of the task was tiring, and Kinch longed for a break. More time passed, and he continued walking, and when he finally felt like he couldn't take another step, he simply stopped and sat down on the floor, barely registering the cold, and fell asleep.

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Kinch walked slowly down the hall to the office he had been to when he first arrived, after what he could only guess was a long sleep. Not knowing the time of day disoriented him, and he was starting to wear an almost permanent expression of confusion and concern. He could vaguely remember being prodded off the floor of that cold, empty room and back toward his cell, but after registering the feel of the scratchy blanket around his body, he could recall nothing until his door was opened and clothes were thrust at him, the order to put them on clear in the way they were presented.

Now, he waited without expectation as the guard with him opened the door to Boehringer's office and prodded him in. Boehringer was already there, seated at his desk, again smoking a pipe, and looking over some paperwork. "Ah, Sergeant," he said, looking up. Smoke snaked its way up into the air around him. "Good morning." Kinch took note of the time reference. Okay, at least I know it's daytime. "Would you care for a drink of water?"

Kinch felt a tremor of shame pass through him. He shook his head.

"I would offer you coffee, but I'm sure you can understand it is in short supply, and there have been no Red Cross packages supplied recently for the prisoners."

None that you're planning on giving to them, Kinch thought. He shrugged.

"You intrigue me, Sergeant Kinchloe. I admit that," Boehringer said, standing and coming around the desk. "You have a story behind you that has not been told. I know that. I can tell. But you are unwilling to share it."

Kinch shrugged his shoulders again. "There's nothing to tell."

Boehringer waved a finger near Kinch's face, thinking. "Ah, but there is, there is. I am no stranger to the enemy, Kinchloe. They claim one of the reasons they are fighting the Germans is her racism, and yet they wear their own racism like a badge of honor."

"It should be a badge of shame," Kinch dared reply.

Boehringer stopped in his thoughts and smiled benignly at the American. He nodded acknowledgement. "Perhaps," he said. "But at the moment it is not. And you, my young friend, should not have been in the air. Am I right?" Kinch said nothing. Boehringer laughed lightly. "You are a most fascinating specimen, according to the gentlemen who worked with you for the last three days. You could do your country proud, regardless of the color of your skin. But you are not the first black man I have met, Kinchloe, though I admit you are the first black American flyer. And that means that we have had an opportunity to study the black man before, and so we are through with you for now. You are to be taken to the transition camp at Wetzlar, where you will remain until you are assigned a permanent home in one of our Luft Stalags. There are officially no black flyers. But since you seem to have dropped out of the sky, it is only fitting that you are in a camp with other men who have also."

Boehringer turned and went back to his desk. "You will leave in ten minutes. The guards will return the things that you came with—except for your weapons, of course—and that includes the dog tag of the man you found, your Captain Pritchard. When you write home, you can forward that on to whoever wants it."

During Boehringer's talk, Kinch felt himself melting with relief. They were finished with him. He was free. And though he scoffed at the idea that he could be free by being sent to a prison camp, he knew that he could survive somehow if he was allowed to simply exist, wherever he was. If all went to plan, his stay at Wetzlar would last only a week or two at most, and then he would have a permanent placement in a camp where he could wait out his time till the end of the war. Maybe he could even learn to dream again.

For a moment he considered his relief to be cowardice. But the mention of Pritchard changed his mind. Kinch was no coward. He had put himself forward for training and had agreed to fly with Pritchard even when the odds were stacked against them and the Powers That Be were resisting the idea of a black man ever being able to serve his country from the air. He had lived his dream, and he had withstood everything the Germans had thrown at him in the last few days. He had revealed nothing, and despite everything, he still held his dignity intact.

And that had to count for something.

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Holding a small envelope with all he owned in the world right now, Kinch stood before the Captain of the Wetzlar camp after a week of treatment by the Germans that ranged anywhere from being spat on to being ignored. "Black American flying Sergeant Kinchloe," the Captain greeted him mockingly. "Your assignment has come through. Though it pains me to subject even the enemy to a black man—" Kinch felt the blood rush past his temples. He clenched his fist around the envelope, nearly crushing the items inside. "—I am ordered to send you to a Stalag Luft where you will wait out the remainder of the war. I have been informed of your unique background, black man. Perhaps being imprisoned with other misfits like yourself will make you realize just how high above your station you have tried to go. And just how much you don't belong there."

Kinch held his breath and waited for the Captain to continue. "Corporal!" the German barked. The door opened and a guard came in. The Captain turned back to Kinch. "You will leave immediately. Your new home is Stalag 13."