They got Kinch underground quickly and the next thing he heard of them, some twenty minutes later, was the tunnel opening and a disgruntled English voice saying "Lay off! I can get down a ladder!"

A few more muffled words and he heard a slightly uneven step approaching his cot and the radio. They stumbled to a stop, and there was no word of greeting.

"Okay?" Kinch asked.

"Yeah, yeah. Just a little light headed. Stood up too fast." The steps continued and he heard the quiet scrape of the stool against the dirt floor. There was a tired sigh. "Say, you're a radioman, aren't you? Have you checked out what we've got?"

"Yeah, actually. I was working on it last night. Someone said it was static-y."

"Well then. What do you think of it?"

"It's pretty great for having under a POW camp. It's got long and short distance, too. What all do you use it for?"

"Well, gotta contact London, get orders." He seemed to shift with a grunt. "And then there's the Underground."

"For sabotage?"

Newkirk's response got more slow and disinterested as it went. "Mostly just setting up escape routes. Change all the time, you know, depending on what the enemy has cooked up in any given area on any given day. Colonel 'ogan's awful excited to do more sabotage, though. Ambitious, that fellow, even if we don' 'ave the resources or the men."

They both fell silent, finding nothing more to say. It sounded like Newkirk was pretty tired too. Kinch's mind turned back to what he felt of the radio last night and he remembered something he had intended to bring up. "While you're here, I think there might be something wrong with the resistance coil. I could tell for sure if I could see."

"Something wrong? Want me to tell you what it looks like?"

"Yeah. It's the coil around the shaft to the far right."

"What? Now 'old on, let me get a candle. Gettin' dim in 'ere. Looks like we're running low on oil."

Kinch heard shuffling as if through boxes, and after a bit of fumbling, a fizz. Something accompanied it. "Wait. Do that again."

"Do what?"

"Light a match."

Kinch was paying close attention this time. When he heard the match strike, he saw a brief, warm glow. He smiled. "I think my sight's coming back," he announced.

"Really? That's wonderful, mate. Is it blurry?"

"You kidding? I can't even see the candle burning yet. But I saw the match flare."

"We'll just wait for it to come back, then. Meanwhile, what part were you interested in?"

As Kinchloe described it to Newkirk, he continued to smile of relief. His sight wasn't lost. It just took is sweet time about it. Now he could escape Germany and get back in the sky... and leave this miraculous camp and the people he had come to appreciate so much.

"Is there any sign of scratching on the wires?" he asked, once Newkirk had located the piece.

"Nope. Smooth."

"Alright, then. There's no problem."

"Good." He shifted on the stool again. "Woulda interrupted our direct line to the Iron Eagle."

"What?"

"We have a phone hooked up to the kommandant's office's line to arrange guards or Klink's schedule to suit us."

"How do you do that?"

"He's a coward. Got good reason to be, though. Only thing nastier than superiors is kraut superiors."

Newkirk said no more. It sounded like he had talked all he could for the moment. For some reason, that seemed strange to Kinch, as if he knew the Englishman would talk for hours if he could. He looked around again. "I can see the candle now. And the other lights."

"That's pretty good. Not too bright down 'ere."

He sounded even more weary trying to sound cheerful. "You want the cot?" Kinch offered. "I'll take radio."

There was no response. Kinch tried again.

"Doesn't sound like you got much chance to sleep in the cooler."

"Mmm... Fine," he mumbled reluctantly.

Kinch didn't get up yet, waiting for Newkirk to guide him to the radio. He didn't want to knock over anything fragile. He could faintly see the form of a person highlighted by the lamps, especially when he moved. He saw the Englishman get up and take a few steps. Then he stopped. And stayed there, breathing unsteadily.

"What's going on?"

There was a vague noise from the shadow, but he could see a swaying movement. More forcefully, he said, "Tell me what's going on."

"I... may 'ave lied to LeBeau."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't... feel..."

He heard a thump and the shadow fell. Oh no.

"Newkirk?"

He very carefully paid attention to what he could see as he kneeled down next to the fallen man, trying to move slowly in his panic. He grunted as he jarred his shoulder. When he got on his knees, he felt around for a wrist to take a pulse. "Newkirk?" What could he have been hiding? He assumed when he said 'lying to LeBeau' it was about being fine.

His chest was rising and falling. Kinch found his wrist. He wasn't sure what was normal for the Englishman—maybe little food for such a long time would make him weak—but his pulse felt definitely thin. His guilt came back to hit him again. The cooler had not been good for him. He seemed fine when he had escorted Kinch to camp.

He couldn't do anything more here. Newkirk needed help. Kinch pushed himself up from the ground and made his way as quickly as he could to where he thought the ladder would be. He looked up when he reached a corner and saw a row of planks on the ceiling. He paused in indecision. What if there were Germans in the barracks?

If they could let him up, they would. He knocked on the support extending down into the tunnel. It made a satisfying noise, not too quiet or too loud. He waited as long as he dared, trying to hear anything above. He knocked once more and again received no response. He wasn't getting help now.

He made his way back toward the radio and tried to think what he could do. He was able to get the blanket from his cot and wad it up to prop Newkirk's legs up with it, hoping he would regain consciousness soon, worry tightening his throat.

There was an insistent sound. It took him a few moments to register it. There was a call coming in. Faintly, he could hear: "Goldilocks. Goldilocks do you read?"

Kinch wanted to help Newkirk further, but he didn't know how. And his work as a radioman had put in him an instinctive need to answer a radio call. He looked again at the man on the floor, anguishing over a decision.

He wasn't a medic. Newkirk was alive. And that call might really need answered.

He sat down at the stool and found the headset, then squinted to find the call button. "Goldilocks? Do you read?" There.

"I read you," he replied. He desperately wanted a clipboard but wouldn't be able to find one. He'd just have to remember whatever message this was.

"Oh good. Just calling to say you don't have to set the bomb anymore. One of our operators was able to go back and pretend she dropped an earring so she could set it and hurry out. All went smoothly."

Kinch's stomach dropped. "All went—you set it?"

"Yes. Half a dozen guns and their ammo blown sky high before the next bombers come through."

This was a problem. A problem he was not equipped for, and certainly not trained for. And it just had to come when Newkirk was out. "When?"

"When?"

"When did she set the bomb? The others already left to go set it."

"Oh." The voice was now grave. "Let me see." There were a few moments of tense silence, just enough time for Kinch to wonder what he could possibly do with this information. "About 745 hours. It was set for half an hour."

He looked at his watch. He couldn't read the numbers. "What time is it?"

"800 hours. You have fifteen minutes. Is there anything we can do?"

"I don't know. I'll radio you if you can."

"Roger that. Over."

Kinchloe let go of the button, stunned. Hogan, LeBeau, Minsk, and Burrows were on their way to an explosion, and no one in this camp but him knew it. What could he do? He scanned the radio equipment, matching what he had felt and heard with the little he could see. He looked hopefully at Newkirk but could see no movement. He sighed anxiously, trying to urge his brain to think faster. He spotted the resistance coil. Newkirk said there was a direct line to the kommandant's office. His name was... Kinch sifted through his memory... Fink? No. Klink. Klink had sent them. With enough persuasion, maybe he could order them back in time.

How much time did they have? Now, eleven minutes. And would they be there by now? Kinch did some quick mental math using his discussion with Hogan about the distance these guns were at and the brief planning he had heard in the barracks before they left. They should be arriving now. It was only up to him to make a convincing case as fast as he could.

He worked it out as he figured out how to connect to the kommandant's office. The only thing worse than superiors were kraut superiors, right? Luckily, he didn't have time to worry. The phone rang but once and the receiver was picked up, a cheery, though apprehensive, voice saying: "Heil Hitler. Colonel Klink speaking."

He strummed up a big breath and a bit of courage and switched to German.