Newkirk spent another day in bed, and then was liberated, more or less. Under LeBeau's watchful eye, he spent the next week sipping tea and eating meals that were bland even by British POW standards. He rested on his bunk and took naps and submitted to mustard plasters. LeBeau had determined that Newkirk was going to abide by his rules until the stitches in his scalp came out, although no one really saw the connection. It was just that LeBeau said it with such conviction that not even Newkirk would dare to defy him. His cigarettes and cards would have to wait a few days.

Meanwhile, the work of building a team went on. Despite the chaos of the last few days, Hogan liked what he saw. He sat at the table one evening with Kinch as LeBeau climbed up to Newkirk's bunk to slather a vapor rub on his chest under extreme protest.

"You have a solid bond, the three of you," Hogan told Kinch quietly. "You've got each other's backs."

"Absolutely, Sir. Those two guys are tight and for some reason they've admitted me to their club."

They paused and observed the bickering duo, who were tussling on the top bunk. They weren't worried about LeBeau, but they both silently prayed that Newkirk would not somehow fall down. Despite Newkirk's size advantage, LeBeau seemed to have him in an arm lock. Newkirk was flat on his back as LeBeau kept rubbing the medicine in.

"You are so cruel," Newkirk was whining. "This rubbish smells like old socks and dead fish."

"Tais-toi or I'll break your arm! You are not getting sick again," LeBeau replied. His firm tone left no doubt that he could actually do it.

Kinch continued, "If I had any sense, I'd refuse to join. But they're OK, Sir. They're really good men. And they have the skills you said you identified, plus a few you probably didn't think you'd get."

Yes, Hogan thought. LeBeau was an expert mechanic, a stealthy tracker, and small enough to slip in and out of many places. Plus, he could cook, which was a huge bonus. He wasn't sure yet how he was going to use that skill, but he was pretty sure it would come in handy. And he didn't take any nonsense.

And Newkirk was a sneak and a crook, plain and simple. He could pick pockets and locks; the court record in his RAF file was clear on those points. In addition, he had mechanic's training like LeBeau, and was an excellent mimic who had picked up German quickly. And it turned out that he could sew really, really well, if his instructions to Wilson on how to stitch his scalp were any indication.

Hogan smiled warmly at Kinch. He'd known for weeks that this man would be valuable. Kinch had been assigned a radio frequency and identity code before he was captured, having undergone the same clandestine contingency planning that Hogan was part of. Nobody planned or expected them to be captured, but if they were, a small group of men were to be equipped with the resources and knowledge to attack the enemy from within.

It was easy to see why Kinch made the cut, despite one obvious strike against him. He was skilled in several languages, he had important technical skills, and he was calm and intelligent. He was a Negro, and Hogan knew that some men wouldn't want to work with him because of that simple fact. Well, he didn't want those men. He wanted only men who understood the importance of character, creativity, intelligence, and loyalty. He'd quickly seen that Kinch's race wasn't an issue with LeBeau and Newkirk, and because it didn't matter to them, no one else in Barracks 2 was going to make it an issue.

This was his core team, Hogan decided. Or it would be, once Newkirk was all better and they lined up an explosives man.

"According to Schultz, there's a truckload of men arriving from the Dulag tomorrow morning, Colonel," Kinch confided. "A couple of them are from the 182nd."

"Bomber squadron," Hogan said contemplatively.

"Yep. Now, it's not like they make their own bombs. But you know the profile…"

"A certain number of those guys like to make things go 'boom,'" Hogan said with a grin. "There's usually someone with explosives or demolitions training."

"Yes, Sir. London was particularly eager for you to evaluate one man."

The men who disembarked from the truck the next morning were a motley crew, but they were unbroken. They stepped down, straightened up, looked around, and made wisecracks.

Except for one guy. He stumbled, then stepped down. Then straightened up, then made a lame joke that nobody got. Then he followed the Sergeant of the Guard, a jolly fellow named Schultz, to the barracks he'd been assigned to. Colonel Hogan had already made arrangements. Sergeant Andrew Carter, he said, was to be brought to him. Two chocolate bars, and Hogan's plan was set in motion.

Carter tripped over the threshold as he entered Barracks 2. "Man down," Newkirk joked as Carter got back on his feet and brushed off his clothes. Then, as he turned around to introduce himself, he managed to slam into the stove and set LeBeau's pot of soup flying.

"Bloody hell!" Newkirk roared as hot soup splashed on his back. LeBeau glared at the new man and snapped into action. Even through a woolen jumper and an undershirt, that soup was going to burn. Thank goodness for boric acid powder, the wonder drug.

While Newkirk was peeling off his shirt and LeBeau was preparing his salve, Hogan waved Carter to a seat at the table. He slid onto the bench and promptly toppled it over backward. Kinch helped him up and dusted him off. And, Hogan and the rest of the team instantly noted, Carter simply smiled and thanked Kinch and shook his hand. Then he apologized to Newkirk and LeBeau and Hogan and and and…

He didn't even know it yet, but he was on the team the second he shook Kinch's hand. One of the other POWs, Goldman, had a name for him. He called him The Klutz. No one else knew what it meant, but Goldman said it with such obvious good humor and affection that it didn't matter.

By the end of the third day, Newkirk and Carter were pals. They bunked together, they played gin and poker, and they compared bruises. Somehow, Newkirk's laconic sarcasm and Carter's breathless optimism were a perfect match. As they trooped out to roll call that night, they somehow managed to trip over one another's feet.

"Bloody hell, Carter, if you broke my nose…"

"It's not broken, it's just bleeding. Don't be such a complainer," Carter said. He handed Newkirk his handkerchief. "Sorry, buddy. How did you land that way, anyway? You know, I remember this one time when my Cousin Jimmy..."

Kinch sidled up to Hogan in formation. "He's going to fit right in, Sir," he said, obviously meaning Carter. "The only thing is…"

"I already know," Hogan said, leaning toward Kinch. "Whatever I do, I cannot let those two out of camp together. No way."

"No how," Kinch agreed, grinning. "Can you imagine the trouble they'd get into?"

"I don't even want to think about it," Hogan said. "Those two could keep story writers busy for years."