AN: Thanks again to dpenguin for reviewing, it's always appreciated. Clarifications and definitions are at the end. Enjoy!

He glanced around, the rows on rows of bunk beds, still and silent. He stood by the wall next to the shuttered windows, and began to smoke, considering his situation. He would have to spend tomorrow figuring out the layout of the camp and where Ginger must be. He had seen a large brick building which he concluded must hold the basement. He pleased himself that all was well and lifted the blankets of the closest bed and closed his eyes.

Von Stalhein smirked as he stood by the window of A3 and saw Biggles clamber over the fence and look around hurriedly before darting towards the hut in which he stood. Von Stalhein slipped into a cupboard as the door opened and he watched through the crack as Biggles surveyed his surroundings and lit a cigarette.

After grinding out the cigarette with the heel of his boot, Biggles stood for a moment in the silence. Von Stalhein hardly dared to breathe; he knew how careful Biggles was when faced with such situations. He seemed satisfied that there would be no interference and had slipped into the nearest bed. Von Stalhein waited for half an hour and heard steady breathing from the prone form as he slowly opened the door and crept out into the room. He sat down on the bed opposite Biggles and lit a cigarette, watching the blue smoke spiralling upwards from the glowing end. Biggles didn't stir. Von Stalhein got up and silently left the hut. He couldn't wait until the morning.

Biggles groaned slightly as the shutters of the hut banged open and he heard yells of 'roll call'. He looked out of the window, and saw disgruntled officers gathering on an open patch of ground. He left the hut promptly, leaving it as though he had never been there. He joined the trickle of Tommies streaming slowly towards the larger gathering. They formed into a rough squad. There were some rows of 4 and some of 2 so there was no chance of the formation being disrupted with the addition of him. Names were called out and the corresponding soldiers answered. Once everyone (except Biggles of course) had been accounted for, they were dismissed and shuffled off in various directions. Biggles began a circuit of the perimeter, as he had no desire to make himself known and thought it would be best to spend the time between now and tomorrow evening planning escape routes.

He was halfway along the rearmost line of huts, lost in thought, when he heard half a dozen rifle bolts clicking home. He looked up and saw a multitude of rifles trained on him. He did the only logical thing and raised his hands slowly. He felt rough hands pawing at his pockets, extricating his pistol. The hands seemed satisfied that he was no longer dangerous and withdrew as quickly as they had come. A German Corporal ambled into view and stood in front of him, fondling his newly acquired Colt 1911.

"This way, no funny business," he instructed in halting English. They turned and there was the click of rifle bolts and the metalwork complaining as rifles were brought to the port. Biggles saw no option other than to follow and was led into the brick building at the front of the camp. He was taken into a large study dominated by an intricately carved mahogany desk. The smell of tobacco smoke brought his attention to a lithe figure standing, gazing out of the window, an amber cigarette holder grasped loosely between his long fingers.

"Good morning, Captain Bigglesworth, do sit down," came the suave voice. "It's an absolute pleasure to see you again after you decided to leave the hospitality of my castle all that time ago."

"Hospitality," snorted Biggles. "Anyway what brings you here? A prison camp for officers, I thought it would be a bit below you."

"You know why I'm here," replied Von Stalhein. "I've got our mutual friend Hebblethwaite hidden away somewhere and, of course, wherever one of you is the others are bound to follow; you're practically joined at the hip, a wonderful disadvantage to your alleged immortality. And you know how the German High Command doesn't approve of your actions; they'd love to see you rotting away in a place like this, no use to anyone." He continued, smiling grimly.

"I will ensure that your friends up in High Command won't have the pleasure,"

"I have you where I want you and I'm going to make sure you stay; I'm afraid your brass hats won't be very happy." Von Stalhein sat opposite Biggles and pushed a cigarette box towards him. Biggles accepted one and lit up.

"So, you've got me here, what do you want?"

"Well, I've achieved my main goal, you're out of the skies and in a prison camp. You could probably give us some nice details of all the fun that goes on up at your GHQ and all your escapades under Raymond. We have noticed your tendencies to do his bidding."

"Yes, there's just one slight flaw, I, am a self-respecting, patriotic, British officer, and therefore, won't tell you anything, and likewise you, as a self-respecting, patriotic, German officer wouldn't let out any of Germany's secrets."

"We have methods, as many of your fellow countrymen have found out,"

"I've heard of the imaginative range of punishments you enjoy dishing out,"

"Imaginative is an understatement." He finished, gesturing to the privates that were stood by the door. Biggles was taken roughly down the stairs into a dark basement and heard the squeal of metal hinges protesting as the door that must be in front of him ground open. He was pushed inside, and the door grated shut. He lit a match which showed 2 figures hunched in the corner, regarding him suspiciously.

"Biggles?" came the familiar voice of Ginger.

"Hullo laddie," Biggles replied, with a smile that was lost to the darkness. The pair got up and joined him. His eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and he looked at the other man, whom he felt sure he had seen before.

"I'm Talbot, we met when you came up to my squadron a couple of weeks ago."

Biggles smiled at the recollection. "Well, aren't I lucky? I had a nice reception committee and now I'm surrounded by familiar faces,"

"Yes, it's good to see you too," said Ginger, "Have you met friend Von Stalhein yet?"

"I've just had the pleasure of reacquainting myself with him, he hasn't changed in the slightest,"

"You mean he's always willing to shoot people?" asked Tom.

"Yes, he tried to do just that the last time we met, even if it was only to get Biggles and Algy to stop playing hide and seek," answered Ginger.

"Just be glad he was bluffing," said Biggles. "Anyway, I've got until tomorrow evening to get you two out of here. I may as well take you too, Tom." he added at the inquisitive look on Tom's face. "I've got to do it by then because that's when the pilot is flying over in a Biff. If we don't make it by then, then X21, my contact, has figured out a route back to the other side of the lines."

"X21?" inquired Tom. "What did he look like?"

"Brown hair, a thin mustache, pale, wearing an open collared shirt, why?"

"Did he have a scar on his neck?" probed Tom, gesturing to the position.

"Not that I recall, no."

"Then that's not X21, it's his brother, I've met the real X21 and he has a twin brother, working for the Germans, they almost got him the last time I was shot down over the lines, while I was with my last squadron, there was a lot of confusion as Jimmy went off with one brother and I the other when we went to rescue him. X21 must have been caught." Tom said sadly.

"That explains a lot." said Biggles leaning against the wall, lighting a cigarette and allowing himself to be pulled into a realm of deep thought.

Clarification: A squad or flight is almost always formed of 3 rows and the number of columns depends on how many men are present.

Colt 1911: An American .455 semi automatic pistol.

Rifles brought to the port- Port arms- an arms drill position where the rifle is diagonally across the body.

Biff: A nickname for the Bristol Fighter