Among the rules at Stalag 13, the one which was most often ignored by the prisoners was the regulation against cooking in the barracks. There was in fact a mess hall for the prisoners, where the very basic sustenance provided by the authorities was doled out - thin, lukewarm gruel for breakfast, and for all other meals, something barely identifiable as soup, accompanied by heavy dark bread . Most days, at least some of the men would make do with this unappetizing menu, but a larger number contrived their own meals on the stoves in their huts, sometimes using the meager mess hall provisions as the basis. They had the contents of their Red Cross packages, as well as their own illicit supplies from town, and most of them ate pretty well.

The new prisoners hadn't yet set themselves up for home cooking, and had been taking their meals in the mess hall, or as Newkirk described it, dicing with death.

A little before thirteen hundred hours, Kinch came into Hogan's quarters. "The surveillance team just sent word, Colonel. Jeffries and his men are on their way to the mess hall. All except Mills. Apart from roll call, he hasn't left the barracks all day. If you want to catch him on his own, now's probably a good time."

"Thanks, Kinch." Hogan was relaxing on his bunk, reading to pass the time. He closed the book, laid it aside and descended to floor level. "Is that LeBeau's vegetable stew I can smell?"

"Yeah, he's keeping it simple for lunch today. Not that anyone's complaining about it, except Newkirk."

"Who only grumbles out of principle," said Hogan.

He went out of the office, and headed for the door, but paused to peek into the big pot on the stove, and savor the rising aroma.

"It's not quite ready, mon colonel," said LeBeau.

"That's okay. I've got to pay a call on someone," replied Hogan gravely. "Keep it hot till I get back." He zipped his jacket closed, turned up his collar, and left the barracks.

He had no particular plan in mind as to how this conversation would go. Mills had made short work of Carter's overtures. It seemed unlikely he'd be as brusque towards a senior officer, but it wasn't impossible. Hogan sure as hell wasn't going to put up with outright insubordination, but he had a feeling he'd have to allow more leeway than he usually did.

This belief was strengthened as he came round the corner of the row of buildings which stood in front of the new huts. Mills was outside, leaning against the wall of Barracks 18, his arms loosely folded across his body. He was staring at the stretch of fence visible beyond the rows of buildings, and didn't notice he had a visitor until the crunch of footsteps on the gritty, compacted earth prompted him to turn his head. His eyes widened, and he made a slight move towards the door of the barracks. Then, apparently realizing Hogan would simply follow him in there, he came to attention, his face as unreadable as ever.

"At ease, sergeant," said Hogan. "You're not on parade." Mills relaxed only a little, and kept his eyes fixed on Hogan's left shoulder.

Hogan regarded him keenly for a few seconds. "You're Mills, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"How are you getting on? Any problems, anything you need?"

"No, sir. Thank you."

"Good. Actually, I wanted to have a word with you," Hogan went on, in a disinterested voice. "Carter tells me you were at Dulag Luft Oberursel."

Mills' eyes flickered slightly. "Sir."

"How long were you there?"

"Since...since I was shot down, sir."

"You told Carter about three weeks, is that right?"

"Something like that." Mills' gaze had now shifted away from Hogan altogether, and any reaction to the line of questioning was hidden behind his lowered eyelids.

"That's longer than I was there," remarked Hogan. "Ten days. Eight of them in the interrogation center, getting acquainted with the Gestapo, which wasn't much fun. I guess you know about that, too."

"No, sir, I don't," replied Mills impassively. But Hogan was watching too closely to be fooled. Mills had flushed at the very mention of the Gestapo, and his tension was obvious. Putting it together with the bruises Schultz had reported seeing, Hogan had no doubt. This man knew from experience what a Gestapo interrogation was like. Hogan, thinking it through, found himself wondering again whether Mills had broken under questioning. If he had, it might account for his attitude now, but it was unlikely he'd admit it without further pressure being applied.

Time to change tack. "What about the rest of your crew?" asked Hogan. There was a slight gruffness in his tone which hadn't been there before. The question had to be asked, but he knew it would be as painful for Mills to hear the question as it was for Hogan to ask it.

The tightening of Mills' brow, and the long pause before he answered, confirmed it. "Most of them didn't make it."

"I'm sorry," replied Hogan. Just for a few seconds, his mind went back to his own air crew. Mills' reaction chimed in tune with his own unspoken grief.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Whatever thoughts were in Mills' head, it seemed they weren't happy. Hogan was suddenly struck by something Kinch had said shortly before: Apart from roll call, he hasn't left the barracks all day.

"When did you last eat?" he asked abruptly.

"Sir?" replied Mills, his eyes widening at the unexpected question. Then he colored up again, and looked at the ground between his feet.

Hogan sighed, and folded his arms. "Look, Mills, I know the food at the mess hall isn't exactly five star. I also know getting captured and sent here was a pretty rough deal. But let me give you some advice. Just because you're a prisoner, doesn't mean you've lost. Once you give up on yourself, that's when the bastards win. And it's the guys who keep their strength up who are most likely to see it through."

He paused, hoping the words had gotten through. Then, receiving no response, he said, "Okay, sergeant. Come with me."

"Is that an order, sir?" murmured Mills, without looking up.

"If it has to be." Hogan turned and walked away. He was by no means confident Mills would follow, but he didn't look back. At the corner of Barracks 16 he stopped, allowing Mills to catch up, before continuing on towards Barracks 2.

"Blimey, Colonel, you weren't gone long," Newkirk began, as the door opened. "No luck, then? I could have told you..." He trailed off, as Mills appeared in the doorway behind Hogan.

"You've met Newkirk, right, Mills?" Hogan looked round the barracks with a smile on his lips, and a warning in his eyes. "And you know Kinch and Carter as well. But I don't think you've met our chef. LeBeau, how's lunch coming on? Mills here doesn't care for the slop they're dishing out at the mess hall. So I've invited him here for a decent meal. That's okay, isn't it?"

LeBeau, who had been staring at him in speechless astonishment, pulled himself together. "Absolutely okay, mon colonel. I made plenty."

"Good, good. Have a seat, Mills," said Hogan. "Move up a bit, fellers, make some room."

Mills glanced towards the door, another fleeting shadow passing across his face. "Colonel, please, I'd rather not..."

"Sit down, Mills," replied Hogan. His manner was still genial, but left no room for argument, and Mills, looking as if he'd unexpectedly found himself trapped, took his place next to Newkirk, with Carter at the other end of the bench and Kinch sitting opposite.

There was an uncomfortable silence, then Kinch took the lead. "So, Mills, you're from Indiana."

Mills took a moment to analyze the remark. Finding it apparently harmless, he gave a curt reply: "Fort Wayne."

"You know, Carter lived in Muncie before he joined up, so that's something else you have in common," Kinch went on, but on seeing the reproach in Carter's eyes, he redirected the conversation. "I grew up in Detroit, never lived anywhere else till I got drafted."

"Well, that's war for you, Kinch," said Newkirk. "It really broadens your horizons. Take a bloke like me, for instance. If anyone had told me, a few years ago, that I'd end up living on the continent, I'd have told 'em they were barmy. But here I am, large as life."

"And twice as loud," Kinch tossed back at him.

"Just trying to fit in with the rest of you," chuckled Newkirk. "Nobody likes a misery guts, do they?"

"You never give us a chance to find out," put in LeBeau, bustling over with a loaf of bread on a wooden board. "Carter, you were supposed to set the table."

"Sorry, Louis." Carter jumped up, bumping the table and setting it to rocking.

"Clumsy!" grumbled Newkirk. He steadied the table with both hands, and glowered at the culprit. "It's just as well we're not using the good dinner service today. You really are a clot sometimes, Carter."

The pecking order in Barracks 2 had little to do with actual rank, but this was obviously a new concept to Mills. He looked at Newkirk, taking in the stripes on his sleeve, then turned a puzzled gaze towards Carter, who was rummaging in one of the lockers. Carter caught the look, went scarlet, and hastened to lay out plates and cutlery, with so little regard for accuracy that Newkirk ended up with three forks.

Kinch read the confusion in Mills' eyes, interpreted it correctly, but chose to sidestep it in favor of a different topic of conversation. "We're a little more formal at meals here than some of the other huts. We've got a master chef on the premises, and he's a little finicky about table manners. But it's worth it."

"That's a matter of opinion," said Newkirk, narrowing his eyes in suspicion as LeBeau heaved the big pot off the stove and dumped it in the middle of the table. "What's this muck, then?"

"Ragoût de légumes aux lentilles," replied the Frenchman.

"Not again?"

"You can go to the mess hall if you prefer." LeBeau ladled some stew onto a plate and placed it in front of Mills, and smirked as Newkirk, with a long-suffering air, passed his own dish along.

A general scrimmage broke out, as the rest of the barracks made a rush for the remaining space around the table. "Settle down, fellers," said Hogan, as he took the end seat, with Kinch on one side and Mills on the other.

Carter had taken his portion and withdrawn to his bunk, but LeBeau managed to squeeze himself in between Hogan and Mills, excusing himself after the fact: "I'm not crowding you, am I?"

Mills shook his head, and directed a searching glance at Hogan, who grinned. "Eat it while it's hot," he advised, and set to work on his own share. Everyone else was doing the same, and after a few seconds of hesitation, Mills made a tentative start.

Around him, the conversation continued, bouncing from one topic to the next. Newkirk, unable to find fault with the ragoût, had turned his attention to the bread, which clearly didn't meet with his approval.

"Don't blame me for that," replied LeBeau, leaning forward to talk around Mills. "It's standard camp issue. Take it up with Klink."

"Well, that's just lovely," growled the Englishman. "You know what sawdust does to my digestion?"

"Spare us the details, Newkirk," said Hogan. "We all know what sawdust does to your digestion."

He thought he caught the slightest twitch of Mills' lips. Well, if they'd almost gotten a laugh out of him, that was something. He certainly looked more relaxed. But almost as soon as he'd finished eating - and he didn't eat much - the tension started to return.

"What's up, Mills?" asked Hogan, seeing him cast an anxious look towards the door.

Mills attempted to stand up, but was stuck between LeBeau, Newkirk and the table. "I should probably get back. The others will be back from the mess hall any minute."

"So what?" said Kinch. "They don't need you to check 'em in, do they?"

"I..uh..I'm not really supposed to be here," mumbled Mills, after a few seconds. "I guess the Krauts wouldn't like it." That was an excuse. He was obviously more worried about his barracks mates than the guards.

"They're not likely to know about it," Hogan pointed out. But he nodded to LeBeau, who slid off the bench to let Mills out.

"Thanks," muttered Mills, as he edged past. He looked back at the remains of the stew, hesitated, then added. "It was good. Thanks." There was a grave, troubled look in his eyes as he glanced at Hogan, then he gave a small, unconvincing smile, nodded his head in a kind of leave-taking, and left the barracks.

Hogan followed him out. "Mills, wait up," he called, as Mills reached the corner of the barracks.

A visible movement of Mills' shoulders indicated a sigh, whether of impatience or resignation wasn't clear. But he stopped, and with a resumption of his usual guarded expression, waited to hear what Hogan had to say.

Hogan didn't rush it. He took a moment to study the impassive face, reconsidering his earlier impressions. "Listen, Mills, it's pretty clear there's something on your mind," he said at last. "If it's a personal matter, then it's your own business. But I'm getting a strong impression that it's not personal. Something happened at Dulag Luft while you were there. Whatever it was, you need to come clean about it, preferably sooner rather than later."

Mills' eyebrows had drawn in as he listened. He wavered, met Hogan's steady gaze, seemed about to speak, but then abruptly pinched his lips together. "Nothing happened at Dulag Luft," he said. "Can I go now, sir?"

"Yes, you can go." There was no point in Hogan pressing the attack now. But as he watched Mills walk away, he began to wonder exactly what the man was holding back. It still seemed plausible that the Gestapo had broken him down, but now Hogan wasn't so sure. Guilt, shame, fear of discovery, he'd seen none of it. Mills had looked him in the eye, fair and square. Something else had prevented him from breaking his silence.

"Well, Colonel, did you get anything?" asked Kinch, as Hogan returned to the barracks.

"No, not yet," replied Hogan. "And it's going to be harder than I thought."

"What's his problem, then?" said Newkirk, with a roll of his eyes. "Anyone would think he didn't trust us."

"That's it exactly, Newkirk." Hogan folded his arms, his expression hardening. "Right now, I don't think he trusts anyone. If we're ever going to get through to him, somehow we have to convince him we're the good guys."