The morning brought a clear sky and a light breeze. For getting some long-overdue laundry done, it couldn't have been more perfect. And as Newkirk remarked, "There's nothing like a bit of sunshine to make a man feel like having a nice little chat over a washtub, is there?"

It was only natural, when the new inmates arrived at the open-air laundry area, that some of the old hands would turn out to give them a few pointers. The only guard who might have bothered to object was Schultz, and he was elsewhere. Behind the motor pool shed, to be exact.

"As a matter of fact, LeBeau," he remarked, as he took a fourth helping of strudel, "I didn't really want to break up your poker game yesterday. But orders are orders, and anyway, it was for the best. Those new prisoners, they have to learn how things work around here. I wouldn't want to see the rest of you learning any bad behavior from them."

"I thought you were worried about them catching bad habits from us," said LeBeau.

Schultz shook his head, and brushed a few flakes of pastry from his chest. "You men in Barracks 2 have your faults. But one thing you do not do is get into fights with each other."

"That's true." LeBeau cocked an eye at the big German. "Have they been fighting? I didn't hear anything."

"Not yet," admitted Schultz. "Not here, anyway. But better not to take any chances, that's what I think. Whatever they might have gotten up to elsewhere, we don't need any of that kind of trouble among the prisoners here at Stalag 13."

"Of course not. It's such a nice neighborhood. But I still don't understand," pursued the Frenchman. "If there haven't been any fights since they got here, what gives you the idea that they might cause any trouble?"

"Well, you know when new prisoners come in, we always make them go through the delousing station, because you never know what kind of vermin they might have picked up at the transit camps."

"I know. You Germans should really keep those places cleaner, Schultz."

"The Dulag is not my responsibility," said Schultz, with a wave of his hand. "The point is, they all have to go through the showers, and whether we like it or not, we guards have to supervise. And sometimes you notice things. Now, you tell me how a man gets such terrible bruises all over his body, if he hasn't been in a fight."

"Which one was it?" asked LeBeau, after a few seconds.

"I don't know them one from the other yet. But if they start any of that sort of monkey business here, the Kommandant will be furious. So what I think is, if there's going to be any trouble, let's keep it in the new barracks. That way I don't get the blame."

LeBeau murmured something by way of agreement, but behind the disinterested expression, the spark of an angry flame had kindled. There were more causes than one for a man arriving from transit camp showing signs of a beating. Interrogations at the Dulag were usually hands-off affairs, relying on psychology rather than physical violence, but it wasn't unknown for them to get a little too intense. Schultz could turn a blind eye all he liked, but there was a strong possibility that whoever he was talking about had received his injuries at the hands of the Gestapo.

While LeBeau was picking up some unexpected information, the rest of Hogan's team had started making their own enquiries. Newkirk, Kinch and Carter made it their business to be loitering around the laundry area, ready to make themselves helpful, when the Barracks 18 contingent turned up.

Hogan gave them time to get comfortable before he sauntered over to find Lieutenant Jeffries standing near, but not quite in, the busy laundry. It was one of the perks of the barracks chiefs, that they didn't have to do their own chores, although most of them didn't stand on ceremony to that extent. Even Hogan got his hands dirty every so often. Jeffries, so it seemed, had other ideas.

He straightened up as the senior POW approached. "Colonel."

"At ease, lieutenant." Hogan gave him a friendly grin. "We're not all that formal round here."

"Yes, sir." Jeffries relaxed a little, but he remained wary.

"So, how are you settling in?" Hogan went on, in his best just-one-of-the-guys manner. "No problems with any of the men in your barracks?"

Jeffries glanced at his men. Most of them had congregated in small groups around the available washtubs, getting in each other's way as they got to know each other. But Mills was working on his own, a few feet apart from the rest. The lieutenant's eyes fixed on him, just for a moment.

"No problems at all, sir," he said.

"Sure?" Hogan, watching the young man's face, saw the same signs of indecision he'd noticed before. "Because some guys find it hard to adjust, and that can lead to all kinds of trouble. So any problems have to be dealt with as soon as they come up. As the senior officer in the barracks, it's your responsibility, but if you need advice, you can always come and ask."

"Yes, sir. I'll do that, if I need to," replied Jeffries. Hogan already knew he wouldn't, just as he knew there was indeed a problem of some kind, which Jeffries wasn't willing to admit to.

Maybe it was just a case of a young officer, inexperienced and afraid of losing face, rather than anything more suspicious. But until Hogan was sure, he would have to keep a close eye on Lieutenant Jeffries.

Adams paused in his energetic scrubbing of a woollen sock against the washboard. "You know, I kind of wish I was in the same barracks as you guys," he remarked plaintively.

"How come?" asked Kinch. "I thought you said the men you're in with are okay."

"Well, they are, most of them. I guess it's just because they're all just as new here as I am. Now, you fellers have all been here long enough to know how the place works, and how to get on and all. And seeing as none of us knows any of the others - well, you know, I saw a couple of them round the transit camp, but that's about it. So when some of them start saying stuff, well, nobody knows whether they're on the level."

"What sort of stuff?"

"Just stuff," said Adams, blushing as he renewed his attack on the sock.

Kinch regarded him thoughtfully. With a bit of effort, he could probably get Adams to spill the beans, but that came with the risk of losing the kid's trust. He'd have to go carefully. "You get on all right with them, don't you?"

"Well, what else am I going to do? Seems to me if I gotta live with them for who knows how long, I just have to get on with them." The sock joined the pile of wet garments waiting for someone to take them to the clothes lines, and Adams fished around in the water for its partner.

"You learned that pretty fast," said Kinch. "Some guys never seem to get it. But we've been pretty lucky so far. I don't remember more than one or two cases of real trouble among the prisoners. Colonel Hogan runs a tight ship."

Adams glanced at Hogan, who was still chatting idly to Jeffries. "Yeah, I bet he does. Boy, are you ever lucky to have him in charge of your barracks." His naiveté was quite touching. He had no idea how much he'd just given away about the situation under Jeffries' command.

Once again, Kinch decided to shift the discussion. He nodded towards Mills, who was receiving Carter's overtures of friendship with every sign of deep hostility. "He's an odd kind of character, isn't he?"

He wasn't prepared for the reaction. Adams turned on him, with a startled, almost shocked expression. "You already heard about that?"

"Heard about what?"

"Uh...nothing." Blushing so hard that even his earlobes glowed red, Adams retrieved the sock he'd dropped on the ground, and dipped it back into the water to rinse off the dirt. "Mills is okay. He just doesn't talk much. That's all." He spoke with a slightly defiant edge, as if expecting an argument.

But Kinch wasn't about to argue. "Well, if you think he's okay, that's good enough for me," he said. He would have liked to know more, but clearly, as far as Adams was concerned, discussing Mills' character was off limits.

"Hey, buddy, how's it going?"

Sergeant Mills looked up briefly from the washtub, but didn't stop working. Nor did he reply to the artlessly friendly greeting. It wasn't a good start, but Carter didn't discourage easy.

"You know, you probably need more soap in there," he went on. "I got some spare, if you want."

"It's fine," muttered Mills, pushing his garments under the thin layer of greyish suds.

"Well, if you change your mind, all you gotta do is ask. I'm in Barracks 2, right over there. So if there's anything you need..." Carter paused, but there was no response. This wasn't going so good. "So, you're Mills, right?"

Mills gave him another glance. "You been checking up already?"

"No...uh...someone told me your name was Mills," stammered Carter.

"Okay. Suppose we get this over with." Mills straightened, his hands clenching on the edge of the tub. "Mills, Paul, Sergeant. Originally from Fort Wayne, Indiana. Rear gunner, flying with 182 Squadron out of Basingstoke. Bailed out over Saarbrücken three weeks ago, got picked up the next day, ended up in Dulag Oberursel, then they shipped me here. And yes, I can tell you who won the World Series in 1938. Anything else you need to know?"

"You were at the 182nd?" said Carter, startled. "I don't remember you from there."

"I don't remember you, either. Guess we weren't there at the same time." For a few seconds, Mills' eyes narrowed, and in spite of himself Carter flushed. His departure from the 182nd was a sore point.

"I've been gone a while," he mumbled awkwardly.

There was a brief silence, before Mills said, "You know my name. Do I get to hear yours?"

"Sorry." Carter held out his hand. "I'm Carter, I'm in Barracks 2. Oh, yeah, I already told you that."

Mills gave a soft, dismissive grunt, ignored the offered handshake, and went on with his wash.

For a few seconds, Carter wavered on the brink of retreat. Then he rallied. Even if it wasn't exactly comfortable, he had a job to do. "So, how's things back at the 182nd?" he asked, a little too affably. "The guys still all drink at the Crown and Haddock?"

"Crown and Anchor," said Mills curtly.

"Yeah, that's it. Say, is Colonel Jennings still there?"

"Don't know him. The only colonel round the place is the CO, Colonel Forbes. I never heard of Jennings." As there was actually no such person, it was no surprise. It was just part of the routine to throw out false information and see what the reaction was. So far, Mills was getting all his lines right. Carter fell silent, wondering where to go next. But the new guy had apparently had enough. He wrung out his clothes and hung them over the clothesline at the end of the laundry area. Then he turned to Carter.

"You got any other questions, pal?" he asked. "If not, I've got other stuff to do." And without another word, he walked away, leaving Carter staring after him.

Without realizing it, Newkirk put much the same question to Cooper as Kinch had to Adams a minute or so earlier. "That chap Mills is a funny sort of bloke," he remarked, watching as Mills went out of sight between the buildings on his way back to his own barracks.

"You don't know the half of it," replied Cooper, with a soft laugh. MacNeill, however, wasn't laughing.

"It ain't right, putting him in here with the rest of us," he growled softly. "I thought the Krauts had places for guys like that. Not saying they're wrong, either."

Newkirk glanced at him, but it was Cooper who answered. "Yeah, that's going a bit too far, Joe. It's not like he's been any trouble so far."

"Yeah, and it better stay that way. Because if he gets any ideas..." MacNeill didn't finish, but the strength with which he wrung the water out of his shirt told its own story.

Kinch might have hesitated to pursue the matter with Adams, but Newkirk had no such scruples. He already had a strong suspicion of what MacNeill was hinting at, but playing dumb was the best way to get more information. "So, he's the one you were talking about yesterday, is he? What's his game, then?"

"What d'you reckon?" replied MacNeill. "He's a goddamn queer, that's all."

"Ah," murmured Newkirk. "Sure of that, are you?"

"He hasn't admitted it," said Cooper. "But of course, he wouldn't. Anyway, nobody's asked him."

"So how do you know he's bent?"

"One of the other fellers found out at the transit camp. There was another flyer from Mills' unit there, he knew all about it," replied Cooper. "Could be he got it wrong, but still, the guy acts like he's got something to hide. All he has to do is come clean, so we know where we stand, right?"

Newkirk shrugged, and made a vaguely affirmative noise. It wasn't quite as simple as Cooper made out. The story might be true, or it might be trumped up out of some kind of malice, but either way the end result would probably the same. Sooner or later, MacNeill was liable to take action, and if any of the other men in Barracks 18 shared his feelings, then Mills could end up in a pretty bad way. And the repercussions would vibrate through the whole of Stalag 13.

Dulag (Durchgangslager): transit camp. Although there were several Luftwaffe transit camps, the main center was at Oberursel, near Frankfurt am Main