The word around the factory floor was that HYDRA, their jailors, had captured another sorry lot of prisoners from the field. American outfits, they all were saying. James Montgomery Falsworth wasn't surprised. The majority of the men here were American. While some might be happy to see the newcomers and receive the updated news and meagre supplies they might have, Falsworth wasn't interested. They were of no importance to him beyond the fact that the limited rations were sure to be even more limited now that there were additional mouths to feed.

Not that Falsworth thought that there was any lack of food at this base. He'd heard it on good information that the officers were quite well fed. The longer-tenured prisoners got the good jobs, like cleaning up the officers' quarters. They were typically more than willing to share their information. Some starry-eyed American prisoners still had it in their minds that they could revolt and escape this prison. So the information from the men on cleaning detail was invaluable to them.

A few of the medics had been tapped to assist in the infirmary, or so Falsworth had been told when he was first brought to this place. A replacement medic from his own unit had been pulled from the group upon their arrival. He and all the other medics were taken away by armed escort in the morning and returned to the cages with the rest of them at night. Strange things happened to them. They'd fall ill sometime during the night. Not all at the same time, but eventually it would happen to them all. A lot of them were sick on themselves and sweated profusely; they burned with incredible fevers. Most did not survive and were retrieved by other medics or the guards. Eventually HYDRA, whatever they were, started to keep the medics housed separately from the rest of the prisoners performing manual labour. Falsworth would have thought the medics had all been killed if one hadn't appeared in his cell one night.

"I've been sent to collect him," the medic, an American, said with a flat voice.

Falsworth couldn't keep the suspicion out of his expression. The feeling was only magnified by his comrades in the cell with him. They all looked from the medic to their companion who had been hacking with a wet cough for several days now.

"And take him where?" said Falsworth.

"Isolation," said the medic. There was something about his expression that didn't look right.

"I don't need that," the ill man said breathlessly.

The eyes of all the men in surrounding cages were upon them.

Falsworth knew that prisoners of war were entitled to medical aid from their captors, and he also knew that it was within the law for captured medics to be put to work caring for their compatriots. But there was something untrustworthy about this arrangement. There was no doubt that their cellmate needed treatment. He was suffering, and he was a risk to the rest of their health. Their captors couldn't afford to have their entire work force incapacitated by epidemic. And Falsworth didn't particularly want to die yet.

The medic deliberately swallowed. "They already know. I've got to take him." Something in his voice was begging them to understand.

"I'm alright," said the ill man. "I don't need to go."

The medic held Falsworth's gaze, as if waiting for his consent to approach the ill man. Heaven knew why. Falsworth rearranged his face into something impassive. The atmosphere in the cell changed as the others mirrored, to a certain extent, Falsworth's attitude. His shoulders raised and lowered a few centimetres.

The medic advanced toward the ill man, who was struggling to his feet.

"I've got to," the medic said in a strained voice to the ill man.

There was a small struggle before the ill man accepted the aid. The arm of the ill man around his shoulders, the medic pretended to stumble close to Falsworth. Their eyes locked, and the medic muttered, "Hide the sick."

The guards shut the cell door on the rest of them as soon as the medic and ill man had cleared the threshold. The key rattled in the lock. Falsworth watched the medic's progress until he couldn't see anything anymore. He tried not to wonder what doom that man would face. He didn't come back. None of them ever did.

The deluded Americans asked Falsworth to help them plan an escape when he'd first arrived and word had gotten around about his rank. But he'd been careful not to make any commitments. Falsworth participated in their sharing and distribution of information, but he was very careful not to take any actions out on the factory floor where he assembled aircraft missiles. After the turmoil of active combat, he could almost exhaust himself into accepting this fate.

Passively hearing information couldn't incriminate him. But to smuggle scraps and supplies off the production line? To contribute to the map they were drafting from pieced-together intelligence from the prisoners that were on cleaning detail? To pocket raw material like he'd seen a French resistance soldier doing?

No, Falsworth would not be participating in that. He hadn't said any of that to the other prisoners, of course. That he was growing complacent and thought their plans of escape were pathetic and futile. There was something dependable about this captivity that quieted something inside him that had been wounded and struggling for a long time. The better parts of Falsworth knew that this captivity would kill him and rot him. He knew that he should not be spending his time and labour building supplies and munitions for a power that threatened his home, his freedom, his way of life.

Half of Falsworth was relieved to no longer be commanding men to their deaths on the battlefield. The other half longed for action. To keep fighting. Because the reason why he had been fighting and commanding in the first place was a worthy cause. One that ought to be defended and that he wanted to defend. His battle fatigue warred with his conscience; he achieved nothing.

The American who kept the prisoners' draft of the factory map took up his place beside Falsworth at the missile production line. "Alright, Tommy?"

"Hmm."

"Ya hear about the new batch they're bringing in?"

Falsworth made a noise in his throat.

The American waited for a guard to pass by behind them before continuing. "They should be brought to the cells by evening meal. If they put any in the cage next to you, d'you think you could try to get some intelligence from them? Anything from them on how the fight is actually progressing out there?"

Because every morning they were regaled by HYDRA about how horribly the Allies were faring in the battlefields. Strange that they never outright commended their Führer though. It was always HYDRA's progress. Not the Reich's progress. Falsworth wondered how many others had picked up on that detail and realised that they were being held by a branch of the German armed forces that were even more deluded than the group which was already publicly known.

"There's a group of French guys with an empty cell next to 'em," the American was saying. "I was gonna try to ask them to do the same thing I'm askin' you. Always hard communicating with those guys…"

"You don't say," Falsworth said.

"So let me know whatcha get from 'em tomorrow. OK?"

"Hmm."

The cage next to Falsworth's was filled with Americans that evening. They spoke a lot. Had a lot of questions that the rest were happy to answer in whispers while the guards' rounds left them in a few moments of relative privacy. He stared into the nearby cages for a long time, questions for them on the very tip of his tongue. But he couldn't bring himself to ask anything. Not even when he realised that he wanted to talk to the new prisoners.

Crying woke Falsworth up later that night. There were usually a few men that broke and sobbed the very first day a new batch of prisoners arrived. That's what Falsworth had been told by those that still dreamed of escaping. (His group had been the newest one before this latest batch, and, indeed, some of the men had been in tears that night.)

He could have dropped back off into sleep if he hadn't heard someone nearby speak.

"Hey," the voice said, a little hoarse. "Hey, what's your name?"

The crying stuttered and said something Falsworth couldn't make out at this distance.

"Hey, Holt, I'm Sergeant Barnes."

A third voice, "Leave 'em be, Jimmy."

"Holt, you ever been on a rollercoaster?" Sergeant Barnes whispered around a cough.

Falsworth rolled over, annoyed, and tried to sleep. He didn't hear whatever reply the crying Holt had given.

But Sergeant Barnes's voice sounded again: "There's this rollercoaster in New York City called The Coney Island Cyclone. It's in Luna Park. OK? A lot of people go there and get confused about there being three parks. Anyway, the Cyclone is the best rollercoaster that they have. Gets up to sixty miles per hour. Ever gone sixty miles per hour before, Holt?"

The reply couldn't be heard.

"Let me tell you, it's something else. Makes your whole face flap in the wind, going that fast. Your stomach nearly drops out your ass when you go down the first drop. Went there for the first time as a kid with my best friend Steve."

The grouchy voice from before: "Great, another fuckin' story about Steve From Back Home."

"Shut up, Dum Dum. I'm tellin' a story." The sound of him clearing his throat. "Holt, listen. Steve didn't want to ride it, but I did. Thing was, I was scared to go by myself. Didn't want to sit next to a stranger 'cause they wouldn't catch me if I fell outta the seat on one of those drops, right?"

Another unintelligible response from Holt.

"But I'd've trusted my best pal to catch me. Steve would stop me from flying out of the train. I just had to get his stubborn ass into it. So I had to use every trick that I knew to get him wound up and agree to do it. Had to insult his pride and bravery about a dozen times before he let me fork up two quarters for our tickets. Steve knew what I was doing the whole time, Holt. He's smarter than you and me put together. He knew I was pressin' his buttons on purpose, but he still let me do it. Still got on the ride with me."

"You almost done?" said the voice called Dum Dum.

"Holt, Steve rode it with me. And afterward it wasn't scary at all. It was fun. I had a lot of fun. Maybe, yeah, it was kinda scary at first. The thought of it, standin' on the pavement lookin' up at how huge it seemed. And, yeah, when you're being pulled up to that big lift hill for the first time, the ground looks so far away. But then, halfway down the fall, you realise it's fun. I had my hands in the air, fuckin' laughing my head off. Steve didn't like that so much. He made me keep one hand on the rail inside the train for the rest of the ride. Puked his guts out afterward. But I've ridden the Cyclone hundreds of times since."

Someone coughed.

Falsworth rolled over on to his other side and really wished he was asleep.

"Steve being there got me through the worst of it. Until I realised it wasn't so bad after all. It's alright, Holt. You're not in this by yourself."

After a long pause, the voice called Dum Dum could be heard saying, "That really necessary?"

And Sergeant Barnes's voice replied, "Comforting someone that needs it doesn't cost you anything. Ought to try it some time, Dum Dum."

The next morning, back on the production line, Falsworth was stationed near two of the new prisoners. They spoke among themselves, largely ignoring him. But Falsworth recognised one of them by their voice. The man in the bowler hat had the same voice as the man called Dum Dum last night. Falsworth kept making uncomfortable eye contact with the man during their whole shift. That feeling of wanting to say something and ask questions was on his tongue, heavier today than it was last night.

Falsworth's two sides fought all day. He didn't realise that he'd come to a resolution to speak until he found himself doing it as they were herded back toward their cages. He made his final bit of awkward eye contact with the man called Dum Dum for the day, and Falsworth said just loud enough for him to hear: "Hide your ill."

That could have been the end of it. He'd been hoping that would be the end of it. But within the week, the guards stripped and searched the men on the production floor. The guards had realised that some equipment was missing from the welding room. The American who held the prisoners' draft of the factory floor plan was unfortunate enough to be one of those shaken down. The map was discovered. The American disappeared from the floor. Interrogations were had. The guards threw caution to the wind and no longer observed the convention that prisoners be separated by race and nationality.

Falsworth understood the plan. They shuffled high-ranking leaders away from their units, mixed them up with cages full of prisoners from other countries. Shifts on the floor and assignments were re-assigned. Wedges driven between people who were previously cooperative. And James Montgomery Falsworth found himself locked in a cell with the man called Dum Dum.

Of the two sides warring inside of him, a winner was just declared.