"Well, if you want my opinion, Carter, you let Mills off lightly," said Newkirk. "If he'd said anything like that to me, he'd have got back more than just an earful, sergeant or no sergeant."

Carter hunched his shoulders, and didn't answer, but Kinch took it up. "Well, what was he supposed to do, punch the guy on the nose? Right in front of the guards?"

"Nobody's going to punch him on the nose," interjected Hogan. "In the first place, it'll foul up tomorrow's mission if one of you gets thrown in the cooler. And apart from that..." He paused, frowning, then drew a deep breath and let it out. "I hate to admit it, but from where Mills stands, the idea that we're hand in glove with the Krauts probably looks like a fair assumption."

He held up his hands in response to the protests from his men. "Okay, I know. But just for a moment, pretend you don't know about the tunnels, and the travelers' aid operation, and the sabotage and intelligence missions. Just think about Stalag 13 as a prison camp, because as far as Mills knows, that's all it is. A prison camp where even though the security's a joke, the Kommandant's an embarrassment and the only reason the guards aren't crooked is because they're too damned lazy, there's never been a successful escape. Not one."

"I guess it does look a little suspicious," said Kinch, after a thoughtful pause. "So how do we set him straight?"

"That's the question," replied Hogan. "I don't want him to know anything about our operation until we find out what happened to him at the transit camp. It's possible he broke down under interrogation, and if he did then he's too much of a security risk. But at the same time, I don't see him spilling the beans about anything while he thinks we're too cosy with the Krauts. Meanwhile, any minute now he's likely to run foul of his pals in Barracks 18. We don't need the kind of heat an incident like that would bring on. In any case, it's not acceptable, not under my command."

A spark of agreement gleamed in Newkirk's eyes, but Carter looked worried, and Kinch pursed his lips. "What are we going to do about it, Colonel?" he asked.

Hogan sighed softly. "No idea."

"Maybe we could get him moved to another barracks," suggested LeBeau. "If you spoke to Klink..."

Hogan briefly considered the idea, then turned it down. "No, that won't work. Any request for a transfer would need the support of the barracks chief. Right now Jeffries isn't about to admit he can't handle his responsibilities. Anyway, I did a pretty good job of convincing Klink to keep the new prisoners together in one barracks, so getting him to change his mind would need some pretty clever footwork."

Newkirk uttered a short laugh. "Who'd have guessed doing a good job would turn out to be a bad show?"

"It's been known to happen," said Hogan, with a slight grin. "Okay, we'll just have to work with what we've got. The friendly approach isn't working with Mills, so let's see what authority might do. I'll give him a try myself tomorrow. Kinch, you see what you can do with Adams. He seems well-disposed towards Mills, and he trusts you. See if you can talk him into letting us know if there's trouble brewing over there."

"Will do. Anything else?" asked Kinch.

"Yeah, we still need to keep Barracks 18 under surveillance. If we know something's about to happen, we can at least try to head it off. Kinch, you set that up. The rest of you can focus on tomorrow night's assignment for now. That goes ahead, no matter what else is going on." Hogan paused, and looked at his watch. "Okay, that's all. Go find something to do until lights out."

Newkirk and LeBeau went on the word, Carter a little more slowly. Kinch lingered at the door, regarding his chief with a troubled look in his eye.

"What's up, Kinch?" asked Hogan.

Kinch hesitated, then closed the door. "Colonel, what happens if all this talk about Mills reaches the guards? What if Klink hears about it?"

"You know the answer to that, Kinch," replied Hogan. "He'll have Mills transferred to another Stalag before the guy has time to breathe." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess if he does turn out to be a security risk, that'd be one way of getting rid of him."

"You don't think maybe it'd be better to move him on anyway?" suggested Kinch. "Don't get me wrong. Like I said before, I don't want to pass judgement. But the word's already around camp, and any way you look at it, he's gonna have a hard time of it here. At least in another prison camp he'll get a fresh start, right?"

"Yeah," said Hogan grimly. "A fresh start, with a notation on his file that could get him sent to a concentration camp. Because it doesn't matter whether the story's true or not. If Klink hears about it, it goes on Mills' record."

"And the Gestapo have access to all prisoner records," said Kinch. "But Mills is a prisoner of war."

"That's right. And prisoners of war are protected by the articles of the Geneva Convention," replied Hogan. "Except when they're not. You know that as well as anyone, Kinch. I'm not prepared to gamble a man's life on the chance that they'll play by the rules. Once we figure this out, then we'll decide what to do about Mills. He may have to go, but it's not going to be like that."

Kinch nodded slowly. "I guess we'll come up with something. Good night, Colonel."

He went out of the office, into the smoky hubbub of the main barracks. "Where's Carter?" he asked.

"Gone down below," replied LeBeau, who was cleaning his shoes, while Newkirk had joined in the poker game at the table in the middle of the barracks. "He said he wanted to put everything ready for tomorrow night."

"I thought he had everything organized."

"Well, that's what he said. I guess he's a little embarrassed because his attempts to make friends with Mills went so badly."

"If you ask me," observed Newkirk, "all this chat about Mills is getting on his wick. He's a little straight-laced, is our Andrew. You know how he gets all embarrassed whenever the conversation gets a bit spicy. And that's just when we're talking about women. The idea of blokes having it away with other blokes is probably doing his head in."

"Oh, come off it, Newkirk," said Kinch. "There's no way Carter doesn't know that stuff goes on. Nobody's that innocent, especially in a prison camp."

Newkirk just shrugged. "He may know it goes on, but that doesn't mean he's going to want to hear about it. You know what I think? I've got nothing against Mills, but he's starting to look like a bloody nuisance. The sooner we get this sorted and get back to business as usual, the better."

At nine o'clock, the lights went out in the prisoners' barracks, and an hour later the men in Barracks 18 were all sleeping, except one.

Mills lay perfectly still, listening for any sound which might indicate that anyone else was awake. Periodically, the spotlight from the guard tower passed across the front of the barracks, shining through the gaps between the timbers. By counting his own breaths, Mills had worked out roughly how long the interval was between each pass. He estimated he'd have about three minutes of darkness in which to find cover before the open space between the huts was lit up again.

If he could only get inside the motor workshop Carter had told him about, there was a chance. There had to be tools in there, and perhaps there would be something he could use to cut the wire. The woods were only just outside the fence.

It was a slim chance, but it was all he had, and even if the guards spotted him before he made it to the trees, or if he fell foul of a patrol, maybe they'd do him a favor, and shoot him.

He tried to dismiss that thought as soon as it came up. But it lingered at the back of his mind as a last resort, a way out if all else failed.

He raised his head, then sat up cautiously. Hearing nothing but the sounds of sleeping men all around him, he groped under his bed for his boots, then, grasping them in one hand, he rose, and padded barefoot across towards the door. As soon as the spotlight passed again, he'd make his break.

No prisoner ever escapes from Stalag 13. Mills' stomach tightened, at the memory of where he'd first heard those words, and from whom. He closed his eyes, and leaned against the door for a few seconds, his hand resting on the latch.

Even if it's true, he thought, what have I got to lose?

He'd lost track of the time. The light must be almost due.

"Going somewhere?"

Mills' eyes snapped open. MacNeill was standing just behind him, his face illuminated by the cigarette lighter in his hand. As Mills involuntarily stepped away from the door, one of the other prisoners reached for the light switch.

"Must have a date," he sniggered. "One of the guards, maybe."

"Yeah, sewer rats like him don't take long to find their own kind," said MacNeill. "Which one is it, Mills? The short one with the squint, or the fat one? I guess you don't get to be too choosy, right?"

"Screw you," replied Mills in a low voice, tightening his grip on the boots in his hand. Most of the prisoners were still in their bunks, watching the confrontation, but two others had already joined MacNeill. The boots weren't much of a weapon, but at least they were something.

MacNeill's brow lowered, and he doubled his fists, but before he could make a move, Cooper spoke up from the other end of the room. "Take it easy, Joe. You don't want the guards coming in to break up a fight. He's not worth the trouble."

For a few moments, it looked as if MacNeill was willing to take the chance, but then the door of the barracks chief's private cubicle flew open. "What's going on out here?" demanded Jeffries, his voice louder and shriller than he probably intended.

"Nothing, sir." Cooper came forward, with a warning look at MacNeill. "Mills just got a little confused about the curfew rules."

Jeffries' eyes flickered from MacNeill to Mills, and he bit his lower lip. "You'd better get back to your bunks, all of you," he said at last. "Turn the light out, before the guards see it. Mills, give me those boots. You can get them back tomorrow, before roll call. And I don't want any more trouble from you, understand?"

Mills surrendered the boots, and retreated slowly to his bunk. Jeffries returned to his cubicle, and a sleepless, angry silence claimed the darkened barracks.

For some time, Mills continued to count the seconds between each sweep of the spotlight. It kept him from thinking, and right now the last thing he wanted to do was to think. The door of opportunity which had offered such a narrow opening was now firmly closed against him.

They had him boxed in all right, just like that Gestapo son of a bitch had promised.