Mid-morning, Stalag 13, Germany

"Perhaps you think you can carry out this absurd mission," Lang wanted to crawl into a hole when he saw the wrinkled bomber's jacket he was supposed to wear. It was such a vulgar uniform compared with his own. Of course, he thought, such a thing was the least of his troubles. By now he was a full-fledged traitor to the Third Reich, having aided the enemy in their nefarious scheme. And he was still doing it. For the Field Marshal. Otherwise, there would be no way. "Personally, I think you vill have trouble like nothing else." He reached out and reluctantly plucked the uniform from the enemy's grasp.

They were standing in their Colonel Hogan's room, a small but neat office with a bunk bed, desk, and several Hollywood posters. He was surrounded by three very serious Allied prisoners, a black American, an Englishman, and the smallest Frenchman Lang had ever seen. The American still held out the shoes, low-topped and brown leather. He hadn't worn shoes since the start of the war, and the treacherous part of him rather liked the idea. Shoes were so much more comfortable than boots.

Kinch watched him struggle with the jacket zipper, then drawled softly, dangerously, "Well, we don't have much of a choice. And you don't either, remember that."

"How can I forget, thanks to you?" Lang scowled afresh, but inside he wasn't about to give up. Somehow, someway, he was getting himself and the Field Marshal out of this mess. The Field Marshal! He felt his heart wrench with anger and a little guilt. This was all his fault. If only he could have seen through their farce sooner, if only he'd been faster in recognizing Hogan. It was his place to defend his field marshal, and he had failed him. He had failed Germany. Even now, who knew what might be happening to Rommel?

"Eh, chump, you all right?" the Englishman poked him curiously.

Lang jerked his drooping head upright and glared at him. "What do you think, Brit?" He snatched the shoes and sat abruptly on Hogan's bed to put them on. "You're not getting away with this," he warned the black one, the seeming leader in Hogan's absence. What was his name again? Kinch, that was what Hogan had called him. Kinch stared back, unwavering.

"I 'ope you ain't thinkin' of tryin' something," the British corporal smiled lopsidedly. "Remember 'o holds the cards, mate."

"Holds what cards?" Lang was confused.

"English expression," Kinch explained patiently. Patience- the word seemed to describe this man, a patient, enduring, solid man rarely roused. Yet he got the distinct feeling that if roused, this Kinch could be a dangerous enemy. "Means we're in control, not you."

"This is ridiculous," Lang finished tying the knots and looked up at their blank faces. "What do you intend to force me to do?"

"It's simple enough. All you need to do is mainly look like our Colonel from a distance, until he comes back. We'll work on the finer details when it becomes time for some interaction with your friends. We'll teach you some of his habits, what to say, when to say it, how to swagger and not march. There's only one main rule. You won't be allowed to leave this room alone, for everyone's benefit."

"But I'm not-"

"Including Rommel's," Kinch ignored his protest, kept talking as if he hadn't heard. "We can't have you talking with your countrymen."

"What about Klink, Kinch?" the Frenchman asked. "He almost daily talks with Mon Colonel alone." Lang's hopes began to rise, but Kinch was ready with an answer.

"Rest assured, Major, we'll be listening to your every conversation with our beloved Kommandant. If you say anything, we'll know. And all it takes is one quick radio call…"

Lang felt helpless rage boiling up deep within, only barely managed to keep his face calm and emotionless. He closed his eyes briefly, nodded, resigned. "I-I understand. I am put into such a position that I confess I do not know what to do. Your wishes will be complied with." For now was left hanging in the air, unspoken but very present.

"You won't regret it, mate," the Englishman patted his shoulder in sympathy.

I already have. What am I doing? I am a loyal German officer. I am a traitor. No! He hadn't asked for this; he wanted a normal career, not agonizing weeks of collaboration with the enemy.

"We'll give you a while to completely decide," Kinch herded the others toward the door. "I hope you make the right decision, for all of us." He softly closed it behind them, leaving Lang to drop heavily into the nearest and only chair.

What had he done to deserve this? Before the war had started, He'd only been a simple military man, nothing fancy or political about him, but a military trainee with no foreseeable future. Germany's shrunken military had left room for none but the most elite. His current commander, Rommel, had been one of those lucky few. Lang's beginning military career was cut off until Hitler came to power. He had been quickly accepted to the military college where Rommel taught several classes. Lang owed his job to the Third Reich and his knowledge to the field marshal. He'd recently, only a few weeks before in Africa, been selected by Rommel for the position of aide. Evidently the Swabian thought he showed potential in such duties. Out of gratefulness, he kept himself far away from the political arguments and battles.

His position with the mostly respectable Wehrmacht had kept him blind to the atrocities of the S.S. and Gestapo, away from the rumors of the death camps. On campaigns, he had little time to think about it, so he didn't. He considered his oath of allegiance the only importance to a soldier-loyalty, obedience, duty. To him there was no other way.

And now this, betrayal, forced and yet unforced. On the other side was the only man he really respected, a man that represented his truly loved country, the old Germany, the one without the dark rumors of death and destruction, but the hard facts of dignity and honesty, chivalry even.

Still, that Germany was not the recipient of his loyalty. His sworn oath was to the Third Reich, and an oath could not be easily or lightly broken. His Germany was this Germany, like it or not. He hated it, the uncertainty. Was there no way out? What was stronger, his loyalty to his fuhrer and government, or his loyalty to his field marshal and his own sense of right? Who had given him more, taught him the most? Which way was right?

"Maybe there is no right way," he groaned aloud, buried his face in his hands. He didn't hear the door quietly swing open, or see Kinch come back in. But Kinch saw him, and for the shortest moment, he felt pity for this rattled Nazi.

"Maybe there isn't a right way for you in this, but we know what we're doing is right, and at the moment, you're along for the ride," Kinch stated. "You can make it easier on everyone if you come cheerfully."

Lang, startled, lifted his head and met the man's gaze. Strangely, it never occurred to him not to be frank. "I don't think you understand, American," but there was no animosity in his words, only a resigned sense of defeat. "In fact, I don't think there's anyway you can. Your world isn't falling apart like mine."

"I've made different choices," Kinch was expressing subtle disapproval.

"So you have, but your circumstances have been different as well. Where would you Americans be, I wonder, if our fuhrer had been born an American? If the Great War had been fought on your soil? If you had been forced to deal with the Treaty of Versailles?"

"Those things didn't help, sure, but circumstances don't completely shape us. We're responsible for our own choices. We choose to let circumstances affect our actions. Your people, Germany, chose to follow Hitler. The results are now showing themselves. You can't shirk your responsibility."

"Maybe not, but I can't cheerfully turn traitor. Treason is treason. Think about it from my point of view. I have seen how much you respect and admire your Colonel Hogan. Tell me how you would feel if you had to choose between actively helping with his capture by the Gestapo, knowing you can do nothing for him, or standing by and watching him be murdered." The thought made him shudder.

"We aren't Nazis, and we certainly aren't the Gestapo. He'll be treated as best as possible," Kinch assured him.

Lang persisted. "But he will still be a prisoner. He will still be under pressure to betray his country. And it is not impossible that they will kill him while trying to get him out."

"He's a good man working for a demon. How long do you think Hitler is going to let him live?"

Lang paused. It was a possibility he had considered before. The Third Reich didn't seem the type of place to long tolerate Rommel's kind. The Field Marshal didn't seem to worry about it, claimed it could never happen, but his staff was always nervous. Lang sighed. "You could be right. So, what do I do?" He stood and smoothed the flight jacket carefully. The wrinkle on his left sleeve refused to straighten out, so he gave up and focused on the other man.

"Nothing much," Kinch had strict orders from Hogan not to tell him anything about their underground work, more than he already knew, of course. He did know they had an operation, just not to what extent. "We mostly sit around or play sports all day. What every prison camp does."

"I believe this is no normal prison camp. Your Colonel Klink, is his stupidity and bumbling all an act?" Lang crossed over to the window and watched a small group of prisoners playing soccer.

"No, he's on your side, thankfully."

"Oh." No wonder we're losing the war. "And the guards, they are all loyal too?

"Mostly. Some are more loyal to their chocolate bars, but you still can't talk to any of them alone. Sergeant Schultz makes the inspections around here. Roll call is at 4:00 a.m., 12:00 p.m., and 10:00 p.m. every day. Then there are the surprise roll calls."

4:00 wasn't too bad. During the two weeks in Africa as Rommel's aide, he'd been up by 3:30. He could cope with this.

"We have three meals a day." Can't be worse than Africa, right? "The Frenchman is named Lebeau, the Englishman is Newkirk, and the other American you saw coming in is Olsen." Kinch joined him at the window and pointed out some others.

So many new names, and I've got to learn them, or we're all dead men.

There was a sudden knock on the door, and Lebeau poked his head in. "Kinch, we've got trouble! Big trouble! Major Hochstetter just pulled in, and he's hopping mad!"

"Oh, brother!" Kinch widened his eyes considerably. "That's just what we need." From the look on the American's face, Lang deduced that their plan had a loose thread. Maybe we are already dead men.