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March 1945

By the time March arrived chill and cheerless over Colditz, Colonel Dodd's influenza had more or less succumbed to treatment except for complications in the form of an inflammation of the middle ear, which left him feeling dizzy and sick. He was depressed by his failure to recover quickly, confined to his bed in sickbay feeling thoroughly miserable and generally had displayed little of his former spit-and-vinegar ebullience. Carrington had gradually grown into the role of Senior American Officer -- not that it was a particularly onerous one at the moment, but being included in the confidences of the other Senior Officers and in occasional formal meetings with the Kommandant had by now become a familiar part of his routine.

He had been an enthusiastic contributor to Porteous's literary circle, making infrequent forays into the glider workshop to comment on some aspect of the design, but on the whole his undemanding friendship with Shaw had continued as something that was not especially concerned with escape unless of a metaphorical nature. Shaw's cultured conversation stretched Carrington's mind in ways that the years of war and captivity had not, and he was able to rediscover the intellectual side of his personality which of necessity had recently been suppressed. The greatest value of Shaw's friendship to Carrington lay in the flights of fancy woven by his mind rather than in the particular fanciful flight he planned, providing as he did a welcome antidote to the tedium of everyday existence at Colditz.

This morning's Appell, however, was something a little out of the ordinary. It appeared it was to be one of those rare occasions when the Kommandant decided to take the parade personally. Whilst he was a reasonably frequent visitor to the prisoners' side of the Castle, he did not often choose to involve himself in the mundane checking of prisoners' numbers and as a consequence any Appell he attended became something of a showpiece.

Carrington could not help noticing that the Kommandant was looking much older these days. The amount of grey in his hair had increased markedly, and he leaned a little more heavily on the walking-stick that in earlier days had seemed almost to be an affectation. Most of the German officers seemed to be especially preoccupied recently; Carrington had his theories about that. The numbers of Prominente prisoners who had begun to congregate at Colditz were not there by coincidence; if Hitler wanted hostages to use as bargaining counters when the time came, these were the right people to choose and this was the right place to put them. He didn't envy the Kommandant the responsibility of holding these valuable prisoners against the Führer's personal order.

The formalities of the Appell were concluded rapidly. Nobody wanted to spend any longer than necessary standing about in the cold, especially as it looked as if it could snow again at any moment. The Kommandant exchanged a few brief words with Colonel Preston and then turned to Carrington.

"Good morning, Major," he said urbanely. His face was particularly expressionless, giving away even less of his thoughts than usual.

"Good morning, Kommandant," Carrington replied, somewhat surprised to be addressed.

"How is Colonel Dodd this morning?" asked the Kommandant. "In better health, I hope?"

A raised eyebrow was the American's first response, followed immediately by a cautious answer. "I haven't spoken to him today, Kommandant, but he wasn't very well yesterday. I think the Doctor is still worried about the possible effect on his heart."

The Kommandant nodded. "The Stabsarzt has mentioned his concerns to me. I understand it is largely a matter of rest and good nursing -- unfortunately we are not equipped for anything more advanced. I have requested a visit from a physician from the Leipzig Hospital, and I hope he may be able to reassure us about the outcome. I should not like you or your fellow countrymen to think we were not doing all we could."

The information seemed somehow at variance with the grim expression on the Kommandant's face. Judging by that look he had half expected to be told that his Commanding Officer was much worse, that there was no hope for the older man who in a very short time had become his firm friend. Now the strange dichotomy between the Kommandant's demeanour and his words struck him quite forcefully, and his brows creased in puzzlement.

"Thank you, sir," he replied simply. "I know you're doing everything possible for the Colonel. I appreciate it. We all do."

He's protecting his back, he thought savagely. If Dodd dies, he wants me to speak up for them and say they did their best.

"Very well. Major Carrington, I have something of importance I wish to discuss with you and Colonel Preston. I shall be obliged if you will both come to my office in one hour's time."

"I'll be there, Kommandant," he confirmed with a nod.

The older man looked at him sharply, then acknowledged his words and turned away without further comment and ordered Hauptmann Ulmann to conclude the parade. By the time Carrington had gathered his thoughts the Kommandant had marched stiffly back to the shelter of the buildings and Hauptmann Ulmann was requiring the Senior Officers to dismiss their men. Within seconds the courtyard was filled with a rabble of different nationalities all with the same thought in mind -- to get inside and as close to a stove as possible. In the circumstances, curiosity about the Kommandant's mood and motives did not remain long in Carrington's mind. Whatever the problem was, he would learn about it soon enough.

Thus, in dismissing these concerns, Phil Carrington was able to enjoy the last untroubled and relatively peaceful hour he was to know for some considerable time -- for when the hour was over and he and Colonel Preston were escorted to the Kommandant's office he was to find himself plunged into the kind of horror he had often imagined but except in his worst nightmares had never really expected to meet.

***

The Kommandant was on his feet as they entered. Two chairs had been placed ready, and he gestured for the two Allied officers be seated.

"You wished to see us, Kommandant?" Preston began, mildly.

"Yes, Colonel." The Kommandant also sat, and glanced up to ensure that Ulmann had closed the double doors to the outer office. "In fact it is to Major Carrington that I wish to speak but I have asked you here both as his personal friend and... er... in the place of Colonel Dodd whose illness makes him unable to attend."

A silent figure crossed the room to the small sideboard behind the Kommandant's desk. Hauptmann Ulmann, who had for some reason removed his cap -- an astonishing informality in the presence of senior officers -- had possessed himself of the schnapps bottle and four small glasses, and was pouring out measures of the spirit.

Carrington was watching the diminutive figure of the German officer behind the desk; his curiosity about the man was unabated, even though he knew he had been summoned here for no very pleasant reason.

What is it you're hiding, Kommandant? he wondered, directing the thought at the older man as though he stood some chance of receiving an answer by mental telepathy. What makes you tick?

The Kommandant found the scrutiny disconcerting and avoided it by glancing sideways towards Ulmann, who had now completed his task.

"Thank you, Franz," he said, softly.

Ulmann turned and brought the small salver bearing the filled glasses over to the desk, setting it down lightly on one comer.

"Major Carrington," the Kommandant said, clearing his throat uncomfortably, "one has many unpleasant duties in wartime, but perhaps this is the worst. I regret that I am compelled to inform you... Lieutenant-Commander Player's submarine has been reported lost in the Mediterranean with all hands."

There was a long, appalled silence, during which Carrington somehow managed to realise that Ulmann had lifted the salver and was brandishing it under the noses of the two Allied officers.

"Gentlemen, a glass of schnapps," he said, insistently.

Preston's expression suggested he thought Ulmann had gone mad, but Carrington seized a glass as though his own life depended on it. He had known the moment he set eyes on those schnapps glasses that there was bad news to be broken, and subconsciously he had anticipated it so that it was perhaps not the shock it might have been. He was standing back from himself; viewing his own actions as though through the wrong end of a telescope. He had been bereaved, and the Germans knew it as well as he did himself; yet he felt nothing except a sickening sense of inevitability. It had been too good to last. When they had parted in Colditz village in October 1942 he had felt at the back of his mind that he might never see Richard again -- a conviction that had only increased with the knowledge of Peter Muir's death. Now his worst prediction had come true, and he was suddenly unable to feel anything -- even anger.

The Kommandant rose to his feet and lifted his glass. "To the memory of a brave man," he said. "Lieutenant-Commander Player."

Carrington was on his feet in a moment, his movements mechanical and automatic. "Richard," he said, numbly.

Reluctantly Preston unwound himself from his chair. His fundamental objections to drinking with the enemy could hardly prevent him accepting the Kommandant's civilised gesture. "Dick Player. May he rest in peace."

Ulmann raised the fourth glass. "Herr Player," he added solemnly.

As one the four threw back their heads and drank, each finishing the toast in one long swallow. Afterwards they could not look at each other until Carrington, with finality, set his glass back on the salver.

"Damn the war," he said, with feeling.

"As you say, Major," the Kommandant conceded. "I have told no-one else this information, which I assure you is from a most reliable source. I assumed that you would wish to... break the news... yourself. We considered that our duty was to inform you as quickly as possible after verifying the facts. Regrettably there is... no possibility of error."

"I don't doubt your word, Kommandant." Bleakly but correctly Carrington acknowledged the unusual display of concern.

Ulmann is behind this. Ulmann has talked him into this. Why? Why? And why couldn't we have been content with what we had? Why did we have to insist on freedom as well?

Yet even as he thought it, he supplied his own answer. Love without freedom was an empty pleasure; it would wither and die eventually. Highly as they had both valued the relationship they shared, it would never be enough for either of them as long as they were prisoners. If they had become lovers in a free world there would have been nothing that could have kept them apart, but in Colditz they had been prisoners first and lovers second. Their first duty was to escape, and thus it was their duty to be apart when they would sooner have been together.

We did what was expected of us, he thought dully. But we had something. We really had something.

"Our condolences, Herr Major," Ulmann said. His tone was as usual soft and reassuring, and his regrets carried the ring of authenticity. "When you are ready, I will escort you back to the prisoners' courtyard."

"Thank you, Hauptmann, I'm quite ready. Colonel?"

"Yes. Yes, thank you, Phil."

Carrington glanced across the desk to where the Kommandant stood. The senior German officer's expression was shuttered and difficult to read.

You're telling me something that I still don't understand, Carrington thought bitterly. I'm missing a piece of the puzzle here. I'll find it, though; you obviously want me to see the whole picture eventually.

"Thank you for your courtesy, Kommandant."

"Not at all, Herr Carrington." The Kommandant nodded in acknowledgement, and Ulmann resumed his uniform cap and ushered the two Allied officers towards the double doors. The Kommandant sank back down into the chair behind his desk and let out a heartfelt sigh which none of his three visitors failed to interpret correctly, and Carrington found a reserve of detachment with which to feel sympathy for the German.

I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, Kommandant, he thought. The end of the war's getting closer all the time, and there have to be a lot of people who'd like to see you shot first and stop to think about it afterwards. Well, they're going to have to go through me. There are enough good men dead already -- and somebody loved them, every damn' one of them.

***

Returning to the prisoners' courtyard under escort, Carrington was only peripherally aware of the small groups of inmates wandering around or huddled in doorways chatting. He knew that once the word spread about Dick Player's demise he would be faced with the sympathy of most of those who knew about their relationship, and instinctively he distrusted it. These same people who in a short time would be queuing up to utter their condolences had in the past done everything they could to ensure that Player and Carrington would have no chance to express their affection for one another. Even Colonel Preston, now so reassuring and compassionate that his presence in the Kommandant's office had been a positive comfort, had tried to separate the two lovers, and that knowledge preyed on Carrington's mind. He did not sincerely doubt Colonel Preston's motives, but somewhere in a dark recess of thoughts he did not care to admit to lay the suspicion that possibly the SBO was relieved to have the whole affair finally over and done with.

Hauptmann Ulmann had halted them just inside the gate, at the bottom of the cobbled incline that led up into the courtyard.

"Gentlemen," he said, civilly, indicating that he was about to take his departure.

"Thank you, Hauptmann Ulmann." It was Preston who spoke for both of them, aware that Carrington was preoccupied with his own thoughts. The two of them watched as the German strode away about his business. "Well, Phil, it's your decision. What do you want to do about telling people?"

One dark eyebrow rose as Carrington turned towards him. "He was one of your officers, Colonel. I guess maybe the British should hear it from you. I'm going on over to see Colonel Dodd and tell him myself."

"What about Phipps and Nugent?"

The four American officers were all good friends, and for a moment Carrington felt a stab of guilt at what seemed like disloyalty, but he could not face the explanations involved. "No, you tell them. They didn't know Richard, and they don't know he was anything special to me."

"As you wish." A brief silence, and then the SBO said, "You know, Phil, I think I have some idea how you must be feeling at this moment. I really am very sorry for your loss. I want you to understand that."

Carrington nodded. "Thank you, Colonel. I was glad of your support back there, I can tell you."

"It must have been very difficult for you, although I thought Ulmann and the Kommandant behaved pretty well about the whole business."

"Yes. I agree with you. But I'm asking myself why. It's obvious they've known about Dick and me for some time but they haven't taken any action. Why d'you suppose that was?"

They were strolling around the edge of the courtyard lost in their very quiet conversation. Those who saw them were well aware from their expressions that something serious was under discussion, and with Carrington acting in the capacity of Senior American Officer most assumed that some important matter of camp policy had arisen which had to be decided at a high level. Good manners and Colditz rules of conduct dictated that Senior Officers in such deep debate were not interrupted.

"I can only assume," Preston said slowly, "that Peter Muir may have let something slip. They had him for rather a long time, I'm afraid, and there seems little doubt he was questioned under torture. I certainly wasn't aware of any reprisals taken against Dick, or of any additional scrutiny of him alter he was returned here, but I have no explanation for that -- unless perhaps they thought that with you on the outside it was no longer important."

"No," Carrington said, softly. "With all due respect, Colonel, I don't buy that. I get the feeling I'm being told something, but I don't know what it is." A long, reflective pause while Carrington looked down at the cobbles at his feet, but found no answers there. "Do you mind telling me where you got the information you passed on to Colonel Dodd about Player's promotion?"

Preston looked at him askance, puzzled by the request.

"As a matter of fact it was from Hauptmann Ulmann. Is there some significance in that fact?"

"I doubt it. And I don't think Ulmann's too impressed by Mohn's underhand tactics, so I imagine we can believe it."

"Are you suggesting that some of this might be misinformation?"

"Hell, no. At least, if it is it's from higher up than the Herr Oberst. He and Ulmann obviously believed every word of it."

"Hmmm." Preston was thoughtful, glancing around the courtyard whilst turning over in his mind the scene in the Kommandant's office. "When my wife died the Kommandant offered me schnapps," he said, the pain of the memory still apparent in his voice. "I couldn't drink it, but I felt it was fairly civilised of him. It's a filthy job he's got."

Carrington's brow furrowed at the news. "Was Ulmann there?"

"Not on that occasion, no."

"Then why was he there this time?"

"I don't know. By the same token, why was I?"

"The Kommandant explained that. Only... I don't know if I buy his explanation." A pause, and then a sudden change of the conversational direction. "If you'll excuse me, Colonel, I guess I'll go talk to Colonel Dodd immediately," the American said, as though it was some kind of decision he had reached.

"Certainly, Phil. Please give him my regards and tell him I hope he'll be back in circulation soon."

"It'll be my pleasure, Colonel."

Automatically Carrington observed the courtesies of the situation; however as he strode away with his back rigidly erect and a fierce determination not to succumb to his grief evident in every line of his body it was readily apparent that pleasure was positively the very last thing on his mind at that particular moment.

***

"Max?"

The soft voice woke Maximilian Dodd from an untroubled sleep. His breathing was much easier than it had been although there was still a tightness in his chest that the doctor was concerned about. Merriman had his hands full with so many cases of influenza and related illnesses complicated by malnutrition, and the second doctor -- who had arrived during Carrington's two-year absence -- was a very necessary addition to the strength now that Doktor Hoffner was taking responsibility for the town of Colditz as well as the Castle.

"Oh, Phil." Wriggling around in bed Dodd attempted to sit up, but Carrington's hand on his shoulder stopped him where he was. "What are you doing here?"

"Urgent Senior Officer business."

Dodd's pale face clouded over. "Oh? Something I should know about?"

Carrington dropped heavily onto the ancient wooden chair beside the bed.

"I've just been to see the Kommandant," he said bluntly. "He tells me Player's dead."

"Player? Jesus Christ, Phil, that's tough. You believed him?"

"He has no reason to lie to me. In fact, I don't think Hauptmann Ulmann would let him -- not after the business with Mohn and the microphones. Besides, Colonel Preston was there as well; neither of us doubted their word."

"Uh-huh. Well, you're the expert." Dodd looked his compatriot over thoroughly. Outwardly calm and composed, Carrington gave the impression of seething inside. His dark eyes were almost feverish in a face so impassive as to appear quite resigned. "Want to talk about it?"

The younger man shrugged. "Not now. Maybe another time. I have to get used to the idea first." However a pensive look crept across his lace and when he spoke again it was almost wistfully. "You know, when I joined the RAF back at the start of the war I had a lot of very old-fashioned patriotic notions about what I was fighting for -- freedom and Mom and apple pie and stuff like that. After I met Richard I had a whole new set of things to fight for; that was why I volunteered for that mission with you. Now... Colonel, what the hell am I gonna find to fight for now?"

"You're asking the wrong guy," Dodd told him drily. "Ask John Preston how he kept going after his wife was killed."

"He has children. I don't."

"You think his kids are the only answer? I doubt it. If you asked him, I bet you he'd say it's his self-respect he's fighting for. His own pride. You cave in now, Phil, and Player's death goes for nothing. Don't think of it as a defeat; he'd expect you to turn it into a victory."

"Yeah, I..."

"Why, Major Carrington!" Intruding across their quiet conversation came the venom-dripping tones of the camp's second-in-command who, unnoticed by either of them, had entered the sickbay and was advancing towards them. "But you should not be in here at this time of day."

With a show of extreme reluctance Carrington got to his feet and turned slowly to face the Luftwaffe officer.

"I have permission from Hauptmann Ulmann, Major. I had an urgent matter to discuss with Colonel Dodd."

Mohn strode over and stood at the foot of Dodd's bed, staring down at the rumpled and draggled man with obvious distaste. "I will of course check this with the Hauptmann," he said, suspiciously.

"Be my guest."

The phrase was somewhat out of the general run of Mohn's conversational English and he paused a moment to consider whether he had been insulted before dismissing it.

"And how is Colonel Dodd?"

The manner affected was that of the over-jovial bachelor uncle completely out of touch with the mood of the nephew. Dodd winced at its falsity.

"Colonel Dodd is doing just fine, Major," he said, sourly. "Thank you for asking."

"Indeed. The welfare of the prisoners is of course very much on my mind," Mohn informed him, smiling tightly. "Your business is concluded, gentlemen? Then Major Carrington should be leaving, I think."

"Yeah, Phil, you run along and play," Dodd suggested, his expression saying much more than his words. He didn't know what Mohn had thought he was interrupting or what good he expected it might do, but the further Carrington was from this man's clutches just at the moment the better.

"I'll be back to see you tomorrow, Colonel."

"I'll look forward to that, Phil. Go on, now, clear out."

Even as he took his departure Carrington could hear Mohn starting up again on Colonel Dodd with more of his patently phoney concern, and he was grateful for his own sake that he was not a captive audience for the German. He, at least, could get up and walk away from that sort of thing.

Minor tribulations could be shaken off so easily, he thought, stepping into the corridor, but there were agonies from which he could not walk away and griefs from which he would never escape.

Colditz is always gonna be with me wherever I go.

It had been with him during his two years of freedom as the memory of Richard and an incredible happiness snatched from the teeth of War, but from now on it would remain in his memory as the sarcophagus of hope.

The Tomb of the Unknown Lover, he told himself bitterly. Hell, shit and goddamn!

***

Returning to the courtyard, the first person he encountered was Brent, and it was obvious from the man's expression that he had already seen Colonel Preston and been told the news.

"Phil?"

"Brent. I see you've heard."

"Just this moment. Can... can we talk? Or would you rather not?"

Carrington looked at him. Brent was a thin man who had become gaunt in Colditz; somewhat reticent and cautious he had also gained a reputation for timidity by refusing to take unnecessary risks in escaping or concealing contraband, but had worked hard to overcome his own failings and been a valuable supporting member in many escape teams.

The American sighed. "Yeah, we'll talk," he conceded. All sorts of people were going to want to talk to him about Player, he realised. He'd better get used to it in a hurry.

They fell into step side-by-side, slowly patrolling the circuit of the cobbled yard the way both had thousands of times in the past. It was a comforting sort of routine by now, even though they knew by heart exactly how many steps each would take and exactly how many seconds of walking time each circuit would occupy.

"When Dick got out on the palliasse escape with Ted Bentinct-Boyle," Brent told him shakily, "do you know what Ted told us? Abiit ad plures. Petronius, you know. Seems ironic now, don't you think?"

"You'll have to help me out, there, Brent. My Petronius is a little rusty."

"'He's gone to join the majority'. Of course, Ted only meant that he was out of here -- but the sense of the original..."

"I get the picture."

Brent swallowed awkwardly, not certain whether or not he had said the wrong thing. "Well," he went on, "it's just that I feel I owe you and Dick an apology. With Dick -- well, there was always going to be another chance, if you know what I mean. I thought he'd live forever."

Carrington groaned. "Yeah. Me too."

Brent stared at him, taking in the slumped shoulders and the haunted look. Phil Carrington had already been through so much in this damned war that this latest blow seemed just too cruel to contemplate. Never easy when dealing with deep emotions, Brent floundered helplessly for a moment and then decided just to plough ahead with what he had intended to say.

"Look, Phil, I might as well just say this and have done with it. I simply wasn't brought up to be comfortable with the sort of... arrangement... you and Dick had. My people wouldn't have understood it at all, and it wasn't something I ever thought about." He paused there, aware that he was unintentionally sounding condemnatory.

"Don't worry about it, Brent," Carrington suggested in a deceptively lazy tone. "No-one blames you for anything. We knew we made you a little uneasy, but a lot of people get that way. It embarrasses them. It's nobody's fault."

"There's a little more to it than that, though," Brent put in sharply. "A couple of years ago, when you were safely on the outside, Simon came up with the idea of the ghosts. He persuaded Colonel Preston to let him stage a fake escape and ferret away a couple of chaps who could be held in reserve for the next genuine escape. Then they'd be brought out to cover at Appell for the people who'd got away, and give them a better chance in the first few hours."

"Yeah, I know," Carrington said absently. He had heard the theory of the ghosting system from Carter already and thought it a sound one, although he could scarcely understand the mentality of the people who volunteered to be concealed in hides around the castle on the off-chance that they might at some stage be needed as camouflage.

"Well, Dick and I were the first pair chosen," the Englishman went on, relaxing into his narrative. "We were down a hole in the chapel, and Simon had trouble getting food to us. You see the Germans closed the chapel, and the Colonel had the devil of a job to get it open again. It was January. We were starving and freezing and the place was full of unearthly noises... we discovered later that the bloody French tunnel was only about six feet away from where we were. Doesn't sound quite so bad now, but at the time..."

"I can imagine."

"Can you?" A sudden spark of optimism touched Brent's tone. If Carrington could, for just one moment, visualise how it must have been to be entombed under the chapel floor for five days in the middle of winter with very little food -- without even a blanket -- it would be far easier to explain to him what had happened.

"Sure." The distracted note in Carrington's voice was not exactly encouraging, but Brent chose to ignore it.

"I was afraid," he admitted, without demur. "I don't care who knows it. No sane man wouldn't be, in the circumstances. Dick talked to me a lot to take my mind off it. Told me things about himself; growing up, and so forth. How he found out he was..."

Carrington turned towards him, fascinated now. "Yes?"

"Well, what's important is that he talked about you a lot. He said..." Brent lowered his voice still further, from conspiratorial whisper to almost indecipherable sibilance, "that he loved you, but you'd both decided you'd never mention it. I've got to admit, Phil, there were times when I thought the pair of you were selfish bastards -- just taking your fun and not caring about how much you were upsetting the rest of us -- but then I began to realise I'd got it wrong. You see I didn't understand that you'd really cared about each other the way... the way men care about their wives. I thought it was just... well, sex, I suppose. I just always imagined that queers were unpleasant men who made use of each other in unpleasant ways, and I didn't particularly want to associate with anyone like that. Stupid of me, but I'd never thought of queers being in love."

"It happens," the American shrugged. "Same as with anybody else. It was like that with Richard and me from the first moment we set eyes on each other, only it took us a while to do anything about it."

"I know. I mean, he said all that. What I'm really trying to say, Phil, and making a complete hash of... is that Dick helped me through a bad patch when I thought I was going to die. After that it wouldn't have mattered to me if he was buggering Adolf on a regular basis; he was a damned good bloke and I was proud to call him my friend. I just wish I'd had the guts to tell him so before it was too late."

Carrington smiled warmly. "Don't let it prey on your mind, Brent," he advised, gently. "Richard wouldn't have needed telling. He was always pretty clued-up about what people were feeling; intuitive, I guess. Sounds to me as if you made up your differences before he left here, and he was never a man to bear a grudge. If it's my forgiveness you need... There's nothing to forgive. Why don't you just stop worrying about it?"

"I can, now. But Dick never got to tell you what he said to me when we were under the chapel floor. I just thought it might be... some comfort to you now."

"That he loved me? I knew that anyway, but thank you. And I'm glad you two were friends."

"Yes," Brent said, enthusiastically, aware that a vast gulf in understanding between himself and the American had been closed. "By God, Phil, so am I."

March 1945

Life in Colditz Castle became more and more difficult as the spring progressed; Red Cross parcels disappeared completely, supply lines were interrupted and communications began to disintegrate. The only item that seemed plentiful was red tape and with each passing day there were copious files, contradictory instructions and multiplying varieties of forms to complete. Above all there was a terrifying growth of new powers in the land, corporate bodies which had no shape and hovered like shadows over the landscape. Only a fanatic could possibly hold fast now to any idea of victory. This was the slow death of the Third Reich and the prisoners and garrison at Colditz recognised it as such.

Now there were other concerns, which faced both contingents in the camp and which slowly began to draw them together against common threats. Deep in the heart of Germany the war approached from two fronts, and it was clear that either the Americans or the Russians could be the first to reach the castle. The strategic importance of the camp was another consideration and both the Kommandant and the Allied Senior Officers worried about the possibility of the SS using it as a stronghold, or the Allies assuming it was being used as such and attempting to destroy it.

For the Kommandant there was the added worry of the new authority, a group that seemed answerable to no-one. In furious disbelief he received orders informing him that he must have the Prominente ready for transport at twelve hours' notice. He protested, but the only reply was the information that Obergruppenführer Berger was now in control of all Prisoners of War in Germany.

Abandoning his natural caution the Oberst told Major Mohn of his intention to inform the Senior officers about the Prominente. He conducted the interview with Preston and Carrington with such unusual candour that Preston went so far as to remark on the Oberst's openness and to request a visit from the Swiss Protecting Power. The Kommandant had agreed to that request, hoping it would be enough to hold the Obergruppenführer's hand, although he was not sanguine as to its chances. Once he had finished the interview he requested Ulmann's presence, needing to discuss the situation in which they found themselves.

Ulmann, with his natural caution, broached the subject of Mohn. "The Major tells me that you believe the Prominente are to be used to bargain with the Allies?"

"That is what I believe, yes."

The Hauptmann hesitated to criticise his superior officer but Karl saw the concern in his face and knew what prompted it.

"Go ahead, Franz," he urged, "and tell me what is on your mind."

"Was it wise -- to say so much before Mohn?"

"I suspect not," the older man agreed calmly before exasperation surfaced. "How long can this farce continue?" he demanded. "The war will soon be over and it is time that everyone accepted that. I intend to keep Mohn fully informed -"

Ulmann interrupted. "And if he contacts Berger?"

Karl did not answer him, asking instead, "What do you think our chances are?"

"Our chances?" the Hauptmann's glance was puzzled.

"The likelihood that we will get out of the war alive?"

Shock passed swiftly across the craggy features, schooled away rapidly to impassivity. "I think, Herr Oberst, our chances are as good as any other German officer's -- assuming we do nothing foolish."

Karl leaned back in his chair, ignoring the rebuke and the warning so implicit in the other man's tone. He smiled. "Assuming we survive -- what then?"

It was the first time any mention had been made between them of a life after the war and Ulmann was not sure for a moment whether he expected an answer. The silence lengthened until finally he was forced into speech. His voice was quiet but his words sincere.

"Then we begin our life."

Karl swallowed an initial urge to laugh. Neither of them was young and the thought of the pair of them starting again struck him as humorous -- but only for a moment, and then the significance of the words struck him. He stared at Ulmann and allowed himself a moment to believe that it could actually happen -- that they might live through this at all, and be able to remove all the obstacles in their path.

"Karl?"

Ulmann's uncertain query roused him and he realised he had been silent for too long. Standing, he moved to walk past the younger man, resting a hand on his shoulder in a contact that had become a recognised gesture between them.

"Thank you, Franz."

Ulmann remained in the office after Karl had left, for once allowing his thoughts free rein.

***

The Kommandant had no doubt that his protests to OKW regarding the Prominente would have been reported to the Obergruppenführer. Mohn had said that Berger was Himmler's deputy and not an easy man, neither of which was likely to render him susceptible to reason. With a certain amount of trepidation the Kommandant waited for Berger's response.

Despite having anticipated the visit, Berger's unannounced arrival took the senior officers of the camp unawares. Ulmann hurried to the office in advance of the party, wishing to give the Kommandant some time to prepare himself for this encounter. He was relieved when the Oberst ordered him to stay, neither of them appreciating until later that in doing so the Kommandant had signalled to Berger how much trust he placed in his Security officer. By that time Ulmann had no doubt that his name was grouped with the Kommandant's under the heading of those who must be watched for any sign of incipient rebellion.

Berger was a large, balding man, oozing self-confidence and the same fanaticism they had come to recognise in Mohn. In him, though, it was something altogether more dangerous; this was the edge honed to razor-sharpness, a steel blade admitting no compromise. His aide, Schankel, followed him into the room and Ulmann recognised the stamp of the same character on the younger man's face. With a sinking heart he admitted to himself how dangerous both were and knew that this would be the first of many trials.

After an exchange of pleasantries made remarkable only by their patent insincerity, Berger opened his attack. "And what about my Prominente, Oberst? I want them ready for transportation at 06.00 tomorrow morning."

Ulmann was standing by the doors where he could see the beleaguered form of his Kommandant across the desk. Already he could anticipate the sequence of events and directed his gaze at Karl, willing him to accept the inevitable and accede.

Karl was not looking at him, however, his eyes fixed on Berger's face. "I have had no orders to that effect from OKW," he ventured. "Without such an order, no prisoner can be moved."

"I just gave you the order."

Berger moved to the armchair and ensconced himself in it. Karl glanced at Ulmann who interpreted the gesture and moved to the drinks tray while the Kommandant tried another tack.

"We have always abided by the Geneva Convention here."

"You may have. I bloody well haven't. Any sabotage by prisoners or staff -- my SS will move in here and tear the place down."

That was it -- the incontrovertible truth. Ulmann saw the Kommandant's head go down as he absorbed the threat and those that followed, his attempt at defence brushed aside. If there were delays then hostages would be taken and shot. If the delay reached two hours then the Kommandant would be executed. The Oberst nodded at Ulmann before turning away and the Hauptmann moved back to the drinks tray, refilling Berger's glass. As he passed Karl he tried to catch his eye, to impress upon him that there was nothing he could possibly do but obey the orders he was given.

Berger's tone became patronising. "You're a good man, Oberst, done an excellent job in unrewarding circumstances and all that -- but you're behind the times, you know."

Karl spun round, stung to reply. "Herr Obergruppenführer, such remarks issued in the presence of junior officers leave me no choice but to hand in my resignation."

For a brief moment of fury Ulmann wanted to shake him, damning his sense of honour and the old Wehrmacht values that pushed him to these lengths. Why could he not see that there was no way out of this trap? If he accepted that then at least there might be hope for the rest of the garrison and inmates of the Castle. Without a doubt Ulmann knew that if the Oberst was removed from this command today then the garrison would be posted elsewhere and the prisoners would find themselves under the none-too-gentle rule of the SS. Surely Karl could see that?

Berger laughed, apparently delighted at this show of intransigence, but he moved swiftly and with surprising ease for a large man until he was face to face with Karl. He may have laughed off the attempted resignation but it was accompanied by more threats, a warning to the recalcitrant, and it was clear the Oberst understood.

The Obergruppenführer sat himself down at Karl's desk, stamping his authority metaphorically as well as physically, and called for more schnapps. Ulmann handed the glass to Berger and then stood beside him, looking intently at Karl. This time there was a brief acknowledgement of his stare before both men concentrated on Berger's closing statements.

"The easy days are over, Oberst. I must impress that upon you and your staff. Don't let there be bloodshed."

The interview drew to a close, Karl capitulating at last, as all in the room had known he must. At least, thought the Oberst savagely, they knew exactly how he felt about it. Numbly he saluted the two officers, and then he and Ulmann were alone.

There was a long, ominous silence.

"I will need to see the Senior officers -"

"Did you really think you could change his mind -"

They both spoke at once, Karl subsiding into the chair behind the desk and a brief chord of sympathy resounded through Ulmann, but anger still had too much of a hold of him to give way or to accept how much the incident had told on the older man.

"You know he will carry out his threat, Karl." In frustration Ulmann raised his voice, as the man before him seemed sink in what appeared almost a stupor. At the insistence in his voice, he roused up.

"No. No, I did not think I could change his mind. But the honour of the Wehrnacht..."

"Honour? Do you think Berger cares about honour?"

"And because he does not, you suggest we abandon our principles?"

For a moment they stared angrily at one another, concerned about one another and worried by the situation in which they found themselves.

Karl sighed. "Pour some schnapps, Franz."

Ulmann stared at him, torn between anger and concern, recognising that both stemmed from the same source, and complied with the request. They sipped their drinks in silence for a brief moment before the Kommandant spoke again.

"We must try to ascertain their final destination." He sighed.

"You had no choice, Karl." Ulmann spoke persuasively, his anger finally swamped by concern.

"I know," the Oberst admitted. "But I doubt I will be able to convince Colonel Preston and Major Carrington of that." He was quiet for a few moments more, then voiced the revolutionary concept that had occurred to them both independently over the past weeks. "But that is what I must do, Franz. The garrison and the prisoners will have to work together if we are going to survive this madness."

***

Karl glanced up and then stood as Mohn ushered Colonel Preston and Major Carrington into the room. His eyes rested on the bearded figure of the American. Carrington looked decades older than the Kommandant's first memory of him and there was no disguising the exhaustion in this eyes or the pain that lurked in their depths. His attention was side-tracked as he tried to imagine his life without Franz and wondered how he had ever managed without his presence. It was an impossible task and his expression softened as he met the American's world-weary gaze, schooling his features into impassivity when he realised that Carrington had recognised his compassion.

The news the Oberst delivered about the departure of the Prominente was received badly, as Karl had expected, and the debate grew ever more acrimonious, particularly between Carrington and Mohn. Karl was trying not to repeat the threats Berger had used, unwilling to admit even now that Germans could shoot unarmed prisoners. Eventually, he interceded. "We have done all we can. If the SS are brought in then all chance for all of us collapses -- for the Prominente, for you and for us."

Preston surveyed the man's exhausted face for a brief instant and had to quell a sudden sympathy. As far as he could see there were, as the Kommandant had said, few options open to them and he suspected he could guess what tactics the SS would use if they became involved in the running of the camp.

The interview deteriorated further when Mohn informed Carrington that Lieutenant Phipps would henceforward be counted among the Prominente and so would be removed from the camp with them the following morning.

Carrington was furious. Through conversations with Phipps he knew that the young man had mentioned in Mohn's hearing that his father was an American Ambassador. Only since then had the SS shown an interest in him, and Carrington placed the blame for Phipps' present predicament firmly at Mohn's door.

"Major Mohn, I must inform you that if anything should happen to Lieutenant Phipps you'd better not be anywhere I can get my hands on you. I'm holding you personally responsible for his life."

Mohn reacted in typical fashion, accusing Carrington of threatening him, and it took the Oberst's intervention to stop the argument although tempers had by no means cooled. Preston stood to one side, his calm and composed surface hiding his deep anger and concern at the unfolding events. The Kommandant recognised this and risked appealing directly to him to use his influence on the men under his command. On this unsatisfactory note the meeting ended.

***

From his viewpoint by the window of the British quarters, Carrington saw the man for whom he was looking. The form of Hauptmann Ulmann was easily distinguishable, standing in a pool of light, talking to a man the American did not recognise. He bit his lip, wondering if the idea which had occurred to him would have any success, and he turned to Phipps.

"I'll take your bag over to the Prominente block."

Phipps, sunk in gloom, did not question the favour, merely muttering a 'thank you' before turning his attention back to the battered letter, the last he had received from his girlfriend. He had been informed earlier in the day that he was to leave with the Prominente. The Colonel, reluctantly accepting the validity of the Kommandant's argument, had informed the British Officers that there would be no action taken against the Germans. It was not a popular decision and some of those who had spent less time in the Colditz environment and lacked imagination were less than impressed.

Phil sent a compassionate look in Phipps' direction but knew there was nothing he could say to improve the situation and instead he picked up the half-full white bag and made his way down the steps. As he had anticipated, he did not get far before the Abwehr officer was moving purposefully towards him.

"Major Carrington, where are you going?"

"Hauptmann Ulmann. Good evening."

"Good evening. Where are you going?"

Carrington almost smiled as the Hauptmann refused to be swayed from his inquiry and the American explained about delivering Phipps' baggage.

A keen look pierced him. "But one of the guards could have taken that."

Meeting the steady gaze, Carrington suddenly abandoned artifice. He knew this man by now -- and he trusted him. "Hauptmann Ulmann, something terrible is going to happen if I don't get to talk to someone in the Prominente block."

Ulmann relaxed visibly, moving closer and lowering his voice. "I have some news that might interest you."

"What?" Carrington gazed at him curiously.

"I know where they are going."

"Where?"

"Stalag IVz -- at least it is under Wehrmacht control." With a sudden shock Ulmann realised just how much he had given away with that statement, his surprise increased by the realisation that, to Major Carrington, it came as no surprise whatsoever.

The American took the information calmly, answering, "That is good news. There's only one problem."

"What's that?"

"How can we be sure?" He paused for a brief moment before voicing the thought that had occurred to him earlier. "I have an idea. Why don't you go with them? You could get a receipt -- signed by the Kommandant and countersigned by one of the Prominente."

"I can't go with them." The words were out of Ulmann's mouth before he could stop them, an instant denial, and only he knew that the words 'I can't go' really meant 'I can't leave Karl.'

The argument continued until Carrington finally hit home with, "I'm sure the Kommandant would at least be interested in hearing the idea."

Ulmann stared at him "I suppose I could ask him," he managed at last. It was a good idea and would help to ease the tension in the castle and possibly avoid a physical conflict, but it was a journey fraught with difficulty and danger. Suddenly it was something he wanted to do -- not just for the prisoners' peace of mind but also for the sake of Karl's conscience. He knew the man far too well to believe that he could ever rest easy if he thought he had sent the Prominente to their deaths.

He looked at Carrington again, aware that the American had something more to say.

"You know -- we've come to trust you. You know that, don't you?"

In some way he had, he realised, but to hear it was stunning all the same and he could find no answer to the declaration.

"I will talk to the Kommandant," he managed at last, bringing to an end a conversation which had suddenly become uncomfortable.

***

With some trepidation Ulmann entered Karl's office. His worried expression turned to alarm as he saw Karl slumped forward over the desk, his head resting on his folded arms. Relief surged through him as he realised he was sleeping, and he hardly dared accept his original fear.

"Karl." He spoke the name softly.

Wearily the older man looked up at him. "Hauptmann. What time is it?"

Ulmann ignored the question. "You need to rest, sir."

"Still trying to look after me." Karl's voice was gruff but he had no defence against the slow smile that spread across Ulmann's features.

"Yes, sir."

Karl snorted. "Did you want to see me, Franz?"

"I have been talking with Major Carrington."

"Indeed." The Kommandant's tone was not encouraging.

"He suggested that I travel with the Prominente -- to ensure their safe arrival at Stalag IVz."

The older man stared at him, aware from the determination on the Hauptmann's features that he had already made up his mind. Cold fear clutched at him and he fought it down, knowing that any colour he still retained had drained from his face. Trying to buy time to gather his self-possession, he asked, "Do you think it is a good idea?"

"Yes, sir." Ulmann presented no justification, simply a statement of what he believed.

Karl stood up and moved to the drinks tray, spending some time pouring schnapps, thankful that the other man did not interrupt and did not try to hurry him. Eventually he placed the drinks on the desk and sat down, his fingers twisting the glass around while he stared fixedly at it.

"Why?" He questioned eventually.

"It will relieve the tension in the camp if it is generally known that the Prominente have arrived safely and are still under Wehrmacht jurisdiction."

Karl could find no fault with the argument except, "And if the intention is not to move them at all...?" His worst fears rose to haunt him.

Ulmann's imperturbable calm did not waver; having decided on this course of action, his reasoning was clear. "I do not believe they will shoot them." He made the statement deliberately bald, catching the wounded gaze as the Kommandant's eyes were suddenly fixed on his face. "Think, Karl," he continued, his voice soft but persuasive. "They are far too important. Ordinary prisoners or commandos might have been at risk, but these men still have a value even in the eyes of the SS."

There was a long silence while Karl struggled with a dilemma. He felt it was his duty to ensure the safety of all those in the camp and Ulmann had offered him the chance to do that and -- as he knew was a major consideration for Franz -- it would relieve the Kommandant's conscience. Against that there was the desperate looming shadow of a nightmare; the possibility that Ulmann might never come back.

His thoughts flew to Carrington and Player. They could have waited out the war in relative safety, and yet they had both chosen to fight against the odds and break free. When he considered that decision, he realised that they had done what they knew to be right, regardless of their personal feelings. With their example before him, he could do no less.

"Very well." He knew his voice was harsh but saw in Ulmann's relieved expression the understanding he needed.

Ulmann stood, replacing his cap and lifting his empty glass. As he passed the seated man he paused, copying the gesture Karl used so often with him, and rested his hand on the Oberst's shoulder. For a moment he let the contact linger, then placed his glass on the tray.

"Thank you, sir," he murmured, before leaving the office and the lonely man sitting behind the massive desk.

***

The following morning saw the Kommandant's worst fears realised. Although the Prominente were ready and seemed resigned to their departure, there was no sign of Lieutenant Phipps. The tension in the yard was heightened by the arrival of the SS and Berger's aide, Schankel, became a threatening presence. Reluctantly Karl had signalled Mohn and it was he who had informed the senior officers of the ultimatum. If Phipps was not found then three hostages would be shot for every hour's delay, but the Kommandant had said nothing about the threat to his own life. He placed his faith in Preston and Carrington, sure that they were fully aware of the consequences and trusting them to retrieve the situation. Having heard Mohn's words the Oberst turned away, leaving the two Allies to discuss their options.

When the officers reassembled in the courtyard Lieutenant Phipps was among them -- as was the pale, dishevelled figure of Colonel Dodd. The Kommandant knew he was still officially confined to sickbay and realised that he must have dragged himself from his bed to be here now. Goodbyes were exchanged and the men clambered into the lorries which were to transport them to their new camp. Karl watched as Ulmann climbed up behind them and they exchanged a long look before the vehicles trundled out of the yard. There was a moment's silence and then Karl, knowing what was coming next, turned and stalked towards the Kommandantur. He felt sick with a combination of deadly worry and shame; shame at his own conduct and that of his countrymen.

For the men in the courtyard there was one further shock to come. Mohn approached Carrington.

"Major Carrington, you are under arrest -- charged with insubordination and threatening the life of a German officer. The mandatory sentence is death. Take him away."

With Carrington's departure the Major suddenly became aware of the prisoners surrounding him, finally recognising the hatred in their silent, contemptuous looks. With a twist of his mouth, he walked away from them.

***

"Major Carrington."

At the sound of the Kommandant's voice the Major scrambled up from his bed in the solitary cell and stood to attention -- then relaxed, eyeing the man warily.

"Arrangements are being made for your court martial, Major," the Oberst told him. "I think given the situation it may take some time." It was as close to a reassurance as he could come and he changed the subject before the American had time to make any further enquiries. "Hauptmann Ulmann told me it was your idea that he accompany the Prominente to their destination."

"Yes, sir." Carrington stared at him, wondering what the man might say next.

"Mm, then I shall ask him to inform you when he has returned -- safely."

Carrington noticed the slight stumble, recognising suddenly that the man was desperately concerned about his junior officer. "When do you think he'll be back?" he questioned, realising suddenly that he was just as concerned about Ulmann's safe return as he was about Phipps and the Prominente.

The Kommandant bit his lip, clearly worried. "I do not know. The roads are difficult at present." His eyes were fixed firmly on the stone floor of the cell. Both men were denying the possibility that the SS, having decided to shoot the Prominente, would simply shoot the inconvenient Wehrmacht officer who accompanied them.

Something in the worried expression touched Carrington's heart as nothing had managed to do since the moment he had been informed of his lover's death. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

At his sympathetic tone the Kommandant's head snapped up, his expression settling once more into its habitual austere lines. "Yes, yes, of course. Good day, Major."

The Oberst departed, leaving behind a man puzzled by the visit. Once again Carrington had the impression that the Kommandant had been trying to tell him something, but that a vital ingredient was still missing.

***

Four days later Carrington had given up seething at his arrest and imprisonment and was spending time reviewing the years he had languished in Colditz. Inevitably many of his memories of the place revolved around Richard Player; quite apart from the fact that all their time together had been spent in the camp, he was presently ensconced in the very cell in which he and Player had first discussed the possibility of becoming involved. At least this time he had not been beaten up, he thought wryly, although he would happily have undergone any amount of torture if it meant that he would wake to find Richard by him. A burning sensation at the back of his eyes and a tightening of the muscles in his throat warned him that he was straying too close to recent pain and to divert his attention he turned his thoughts to Hauptmann Ulmann.

The friendship that had evolved so slowly between them was a constant source of wonder to the American and he spent some time tracing its inception and growth. He remembered how Ulmann had persuaded the Kommandant to allow him out of solitary to nurse Richard and the conversations they had shared during those long nights. He had been more grateful than he could ever express openly, not simply for the man's original gesture but for the strength he had so unobtrusively lent him. He laughed quietly and then sobered. There were many in the camp who believed that the only good German was a dead German. Carrington, with his long experience of different peoples and different wars, saw good and bad in equal measure everywhere he looked. For a moment he wondered about his many German friends, hoping that some of them would make it through. He had lost enough friends, he decided, and if he could do anything to ensure he didn't lose another then he would do it.

Pushing the pain to one side he recalled the extraordinary way he had been told of Richard's death. The Kommandant's sincerity and sympathy had been a revelation, the man showing an understanding which the American had never expected; an understanding which neither his compatriot Colonel Dodd nor his British allies had managed to grasp. Only Ulmann and the Kommandant seemed to recognise what he had lost. They both seemed to appreciate the reasons that had driven the two prisoners to escape, despite the possible consequences, and accepted the reality of the intimacy Player and Carrington had shared with a calm that had stunned the American once the first shock of the news had passed. It was as if they could imagine the hell in which he had found himself...

Carrington's forehead creased. The missing piece of the puzzle. Except it hadn't been missing at all. It had been so obvious he simply hadn't seen it.

"My God." With a certain amount of awe he spoke the words aloud. "That's what it was. That's what he was trying to tell me."

***

Carrington did not look up as the door to the cell opened but remained on his bunk, hands tucked behind his neck, deep in his own thoughts. Ulmann stared at him for a moment, remembering a visit he had paid to Player's cell many months before. He hesitated by the door and then entered, shutting it behind him.

"Major Carrington," he said softly.

At his voice the American looked up, swinging round until he was sitting on the bed, with his back braced against the damp stone wall.

"I am sorry to find you here, Major."

"Well, I ain't so pleased myself, Hauptmann." Carrington's off-hand reply did not hide his anger, but before Ulmann had time to comment he added, "You got them there safely?"

The German nodded, handing a piece of paper to the captive, and in the dim light Carrington recognised Phipps' handwriting. He did not try to decipher the message, returning the receipt to Ulmann's care. As he did so he noticed that the Hauptmann's hand was trembling. It was so surprising an occurrence that he was stunned into immobility, staring at the shaking fingers.

Carrington looked up into Ulmann's face and wondered what he would see. His breath caught in his throat as he searched the man's features. Ulmann had slumped against the wall, exhausted, dirty, his usual immaculate appearance gone and with it some sense of assurance that Carrington had always associated with him. He was very close to breaking and that thought alone horrified Carrington, aware of how much both Ulmann and the Kommandant would be needed in the days to come.

"Sit down," he ordered.

Ulmann looked at him blankly, not moving from the wall, and Carrington wondered whether he had even heard him.

Standing he walked to the other man and gripped him under the elbow, urging him onto the only chair. Once there the German seemed to collapse, pulling off his cap and running a weary hand through his hair. Carrington perched on the edge of the table.

"What happened?" His voice was low and he kept the enquiry gentle.

There was a long silence which Carrington did not try to shorten, believing that Ulmann needed the time to gather his self-possession. As he waited he realised that the German could only just have returned to the Castle and had therefore seen neither the Kommandant nor Colonel Preston. Instead he had come straight here, and Carrington wondered at how far their friendship had travelled -- for he had no doubt that Ulmann had come to him as a friend.

After a long time Ulmann spoke, his voice rasping as if his throat was bone dry.

"I had not realised... there are people everywhere -- the old, women, children, all with their belongings. They are trying to get away from the Russians. There were terrible stories..." His voice faded for a moment and Carrington nodded in acknowledgement. It was the age-old story of an advancing army wreaking vengeance on an undefended population.

Ulmann stared at him for a moment as if measuring his words, wondering if he should speak, and then the American saw a hopelessness in his eyes.

"That was not all," he whispered. "There were... people... from camps. Jews, I suppose, walking through the mud. They were like skeletons. I have never... I saw one woman collapse and they shot her. They just shot her in cold blood." His voice had risen and he stopped for a moment, attempting to gather his fast disappearing self-control, his mouth working. "I talked to the camp Kommandant. He said there had been hundreds, thousands walking like that. He said other things, too. Things I just can't... They were Germans, Carrington. It was our own people. He said millions... millions were dead." Ulmann looked up, meeting Carrington's eyes for the first time and the aching sympathy he saw there finally broke him. With a strangled gasp he buried his face in his hands. Carrington reached out, reacting not with words which he knew could do no good but with touch, gripping the man's shoulder and holding hard, offering the only comfort he could. After a few moments Ulmann looked up once more, and seemed to accept the reassurance he saw in Carrington's expression. His eyes were dry, the pain of witness going far too deep for the ordinary release of tears. When he spoke again his voice was stronger but still husky and sounding unusual to the American.

"I cannot believe I have been so blind -- that I have never realised what was happening to Germany."

"You didn't know about the camps?"

Ulmann's snort was full of self-derision. "Of course I knew -- everyone knew -- but I did not understand. I swear to you, if I had..." He shook his head, faced had he known it by the same dilemma which had faced many of his compatriots. What could he have done to stop this carnage? "I do not know how those people could have survived."

Carrington was aware that Ulmann had witnessed scenes which would never leave him; which he would carry and feel guilt over for the rest of his days. There was little he could say or do to mitigate that, acknowledging that the most culpable would not suffer in that respect -- only people like Ulmann and, he suspected, the Kommandant would react with horror at what had been done. The decent people. The ordinary people. Those who would have to build new lives and a new Germany.

"It's happened before," he commented. "The British in South Africa, the Spanish in South America, the Americans and the Indians. All you can do is make sure it can never happen here again."

Ulmann's voice was dry but had at least recovered some of its strength. "You would think, at least, that we might have learned from those other examples."

Carrington thought about that one before replying. "I guess you have to want to learn the lesson."

Ulmann seemed to be calmer, standing up and preparing to take his leave. Quietly he spoke. "I must go to the Kommandant."

"Yeah," remarked Carrington, reassuringly. "He'll want to know you're back safe and sound."

The German stared at him for a moment, colour searing his skin for a brief instant. Ignoring the comment he replaced his cap and stood up.

"Thank you for your time, Herr Carrington," He spoke formally, apparently fully in control once more, but the American could see the fine tremor in his hands and hear the undercurrent of stress in his voice.

"You can learn to live with anything in time." His own voice was sober, his thoughts returning to their earlier subject, the blond, laughing ghost with him once more.

Ulmann, shaken out of his own pain reached out and copied the other man's comforting gesture, resting a hand on the broad shoulder.

"As you say," he agreed, gently. "And there are always other people who need us. Goodnight, Major."

March 1945

"Yes. What is it, Hauptmann?"

Ulmann hesitated by the door; already aware from the Kommandant's tone that he was not enjoying his best humour. "Your transport has arrived, sir."

Karl grunted. "Another meeting," he grumbled. "Tell me how I am supposed to carry out my duties here when I am constantly summoned to Leipzig. And why are you laughing?"

Ulmann was not smiling but his expression had softened slightly and there was a light in his eye which the Kommandant had correctly interpreted as amusement.

"Last week," the Hauptmann ventured, "you were complaining because you were not included in these meetings."

Karl stared at him for a moment before his features relaxed and he smiled at Ulmann. "Be careful what you wish for," he advised, dryly, "you may get it."

There was a moment's uneasy silence as their eyes met. Ulmann was the first to break the eye contact.

"Your meeting, sir," he prompted.

Nodding, Karl moved haltingly to the hatstand, shrugging into his greatcoat. Once he had put on his cap and collected his cane, he addressed his Security officer tersely. "Keep an eye on the Major."

"Yes, sir."

Ulmann walked to the car with Karl, watching the vehicle until it was out of sight before turning towards the prisoners' yard with thoughts of the Kommandant's last instruction in his mind. He stood by the gate and glanced round, mentally reviewing guard positions before wondering why on earth he was bothering. Duty is duty, he reminded himself grimly, and carried on. That scrupulous inventory completed to his satisfaction he turned his attention to the prisoners, his eyes scanning across the huddled knots of men playing cards or chatting, realising from the activity that a football game was in preparation.

His attention was caught suddenly by another small group, something in their bearing and actions striking him as being out of the ordinary. With alarm he realised that they had Pilot Officer Page trapped in a corner. The two men facing him were apparently relaxed, their hands tucked into coat pockets, but their very bearing looked threatening. Ulmann recognised Mawson and Walters, two of the newer members of the British contingent, and guessed that the silent and solitary habits of the RAF officer were probably being mocked.

As he made his way across the yard he was joined by Carter and Brent. Since their rescue of him the previous year he had come to accept that his relationship with them was easier than with many of the others. For a moment he wondered whether he should leave the intended rescue to the British, but then decided that his presence could be helpful.

Captain Brent walked ahead, breaking into a tableau and cutting across Mawson's jeering tones. "Page," he remarked, cheerfully. "You were going to explain that French novel to me. I can't make head nor tail of the damn thing."

Ulmann had to admire the man's finesse, recognising that Page was responding to Brent. Instead of his usual blank stare he had focused his eyes on the Captain.

"It's not that difficult," he averred and, as if he had suddenly come to life, he walked unconcernedly past the two men who had been tormenting him. Brent turned to walk with him and they began to stroll round the courtyard already deep in conversation.

Flight Lieutenant Carter eyed the remaining two officers with an expression which left no doubt as to his opinion of them. Mawson had the courage to meet Carter's gaze but his own soon dropped at the jaundiced air. The Flight Lieutenant's voice was calm as he delivered his warning, and Ulmann wondered at the change in the man over the past two years. The hot-headed firebrand had been replaced by someone who could see beneath the surface and react with understanding and compassion.

"Leave him alone. Life is hard enough in here without chaps making it worse for one another. If I see you at it again -- it goes straight to the SBO."

Mawson rose. "Sneaking to the teacher, huh."

Two years ago, thought Ulmann, Carter would probably have hit him. As it was, he merely glanced at him but the disgust in his gaze brought searing colour to Mawson's face.

His voice still quiet, Carter remarked; "This is not school. You haven't been here as long as the rest of us and you can't understand how close to cracking some of the chaps are. Page is dangerous. Leave him alone."

Ulmann drew their gaze to him as he interjected. "Flight Lieutenant Carter is quite correct, gentlemen. Such behaviour is not fitting for officers and is bad for discipline within the camp. Should I see any further incidents of this nature then I shall have to inform Colonel Preston that two of his officers will be spending twenty-eight days in solitary confinement." All three men stared at him, Carter obviously impressed, Mawson and Walters in abject horror. "You may go."

The two Army officers almost scuttled out of sight and Carter was left standing by the Hauptmann, his hands tucked into his pockets. "Well, you put the fear of God into them," he remarked, with so much satisfaction in his tone that the German almost smiled. Carter turned to face him, his tone serious. "Any chance of getting a doctor to examine Page?"

"Do you mean a psychiatrist?" Ulmann questioned, cautiously.

"Yeah, I suppose so. He's pretty close to the edge, Hauptmann."

The German nodded in agreement. "I will talk to the Kommandant when he returns. In the meantime I will consult the Stabsarzt."

"Thanks."

Captain Downing's voice cut across their conversation. "Come on, Simon, you're in goal for my team. Get a move on."

Carter grunted and muttered, "I hate playing in goal," but began walking towards the end Downing had indicated.

Ulmann crushed the urge to inform him that had he not attempted a foolhardy and dangerous escape he would not have injured his ankle so badly that he was still unable to run. He was startled to find himself addressed once more.

"What position did you play, Hauptmann?"

"How did you know I played football?"

Carter grinned at him. "I've seen you watch. One of these days we just might invite you to play." His tone was teasing.

"Indeed," was Ulmann's only reply to that, although he was aware that a half-smile had touched his mouth before it could be repressed. "I was a centre forward."

"Simon!" Downing's exasperated tones cut through the air once more.

Carter grimaced and then grinned suddenly. "Bet you hated getting stack in goal, too." With that remark he scuffled away, dragging on a pair of disreputable woollen gloves and ignoring Downing's long-suffering tone.

"About time," the Captain grumbled, while the Flight Lieutenant waved the game on.

***

Ulmann walked across the courtyard towards his office, his mind on Pilot Officer Page, and for once missed the silent presence of Major Mohn. The man was watching him with narrowed eyes. The Hauptmann brought himself to attention and saluted. Mohn smiled at him, and the junior officer had a struggle to maintain his impassive expression.

"At ease, Ulmann." The tone was all congeniality.

Ulmann was immediately suspicious, trying and failing to recall an occasion on which the Major had been polite to him, let alone pleasant.

"You and Flight Lieutenant Carter appeared to be having an interesting discussion." Ulmann opened his mouth to defend himself but was forestalled by Mohn's next words. "I have always believed that it is in all our interests to try and -- mm -- mix with the prisoners. They are, alter all, fighting men like ourselves, eh, Ulmann?"

"Yes, sir." His reply was wooden, sheer surprise at the Major's change in tactics robbing him of breath even while his quick mind identified the possible reasons.

"So, tell me, what were you discussing?"

"We were talking about football, sir."

"Ah, an excellent game -- one I have always enjoyed. I must have a chat to Flight Lieutenant Carter myself. He and I have a great deal in common, you know -- chess, football, flying." He paused for a moment, clearly considering a plan of action. "Carry on, Hauptmann."

Ulmann saluted gravely. "Thank you, sir." He left the man's presence as quickly as he could, worried in case the sudden and inexplicable hilarity bubbling within him should escape. For a brief moment he wished he could be a fly on the wall when Mohn attempted his conversation with Carter.

***

For Ulmann the day proceeded according to routine but with an increasingly surreal edge. His own suspicions had crystallised alter a meeting in Mohn's office during which, with a continuation of his earlier jovial attitude, the Major tried to enlist his support against the Kommandant. Not for the first time Ulmann wondered that a man as intelligent as Mohn clearly was could have so little insight either of human nature or of the way he was viewed by those around him. With difficulty the Hauptmann had retained his control, finally drawing the interview to an abrupt close simply by asserting his belief that Germany would win in the end. It was an argument to which Mohn had no counter unless he wanted to give himself away completely.

They next met during an air raid. Ulmann had ensconced himself behind some sandbags and was spending the time worrying about the Kommandant's safety in Leipzig when Mohn arrived, bringing with him a list of British officers he wished called to a special Appell. The thought of the Major trying to win round any of the prisoners was laughable, but at this further development Ulmann felt bound to protest.

"Surely, sir, it would be better to wait until the return of the Kommandant?"

"Sonderappell, Ulmann, 18.00 hours."

In the face of a direct order the Hauptmann had delivered the message, ensuring it was passed to Carter. The Flight Lieutenant had raised his eyebrows but had said nothing.

Ulmann had no wish to be associated with what he was sure would be Mohn's attempt to ingratiate himself with the British and when 18.00 hours arrived he removed himself from the prisoners' yard. He climbed the stairs to the Kommandant's office and spent the time pacing to and fro worriedly until the doors opened and the Oberst stalked through.

"Is everything in order?" the older man demanded.

One of the guards had entered with him and Ulmann contented himself with murmuring, "Yes, Herr Kommandant," while assisting the man out of his coat. "Any news, sir?"

"News?"

This was Karl at his most taciturn, a sure sign that the man was tired and exasperated.

"The requested reinforcements."

"There will be no reinforcements -- and no requests for leave until further notice."

"Yes, sir."

"Where is Major Mohn?"

Ulmann eyed him warily, realising that his answer was not going to be received well. "Addressing the British prisoners, sir."

"Addressing...? On what subject?"

"I don't know, sir."

"On whose authority?"

"Yours, sir."

"Mine?"

"So I was given to understand by the Major."

Karl stood and moved over to the drinks tray, asking, "Is there a memorandum to that effect?" He poured schnapps into a single glass, throwing the liquid down his throat.

His apparent calm acceptance of the information suggested to Ulmann that he might have been over-reacting. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

He was aware he was trying to buy time, to think of some way that he could shield Karl. It was soon clear, however, that the Security officer had been correct in his initial assumption that the Oberst would be furious. The Kommandant was in no mood to be pacified or to have hard facts kept from him. Eventually, obviously irritated by Ulmann's uncharacteristic evasions, he demanded, "Ulmann, are you sick?"

The Hauptmann stared at him, clenching his fists tightly, trying to think of anything to say to the angry man before him.

"You will report to me everything that has occurred in my absence."

Ulmann cursed himself for staying in the office at all. He should have retired for the night and ensured that Mohn had received his answer from the British prisoners and taken what the Security officer was sure would be his eventual action. That way he could have spared the Kommandant what was sure to be a bruising encounter with the Luftwaffe officer.

"Kommandant, I assure you I have nothing to report." He tried one last time to avert possible disaster.

Karl looked steadily at him for a moment before pouring a second glass of schnapps. Without ceremony he placed the glass before his junior officer and in a voice that brooked no argument he insisted, "I believe you have a great deal to report. And you will do so. At once."

There was no gainsaying the Oberst in this frame of mind, as Ulmann knew from long experience. With a sigh he fetched a chair and, after disposing of the schnapps in one swift swallow, related the events of the day.

When he had finished the Oberst's face was grave and he despatched one of the guards to fetch the Major. Ulmann he kept with him, wishing Mohn to see that despite his best efforts he was still unable to sway the loyalty of the other senior officers.

When the Major arrived he dismissed the Hauptmann, knowing that he would remain close. He did not need to tell him to do so, it was simply understood between them.

"I have a very disquieting report here, Major Mohn."

As the interview continued Mohn's sullenness made it apparent to the Kommandant that he had finally accepted defeat, and he also discovered that the Major had spent most of the day talking to prisoners and trying to curry favour with them. Far from acknowledging his position and concentrating on salvaging his personal honour, Mohn had been more concerned with saving his own skin at the expense of his senior officer.

Karl's lips compressed into a hard, thin line as he listened to the man's weaselly justifications. "Are you by any chance making out a case to excuse the fact that not so long ago shots were fired in this camp?" he asked, disdain evident in his tone.

"Self defence, sir."

"I see. You are making out a case."

Mohn's reply was a model of misplaced arrogance. "Sir," he said coolly, "if it comes to a choice between your word and mine, I believe at the moment the British are far more likely to accept mine. I made the charge against Carrington, certainly, but it was you who authorised it and forward it to Leipzig. Do you see, sir?"

Karl had regretted putting through the charge against Carrington but he could hardly inform the Major that he had only done so in the belief that it would either get lost in the mounting confusion and red tape or that Colditz would be overrun long before anything could be done about it. He had underestimated Mohn's contacts and the trial had taken place with a speed that had left Karl gasping and horrified when the sentence of death was pronounced.

Hatred fizzed through him as he replied, "Oh, I do see, Major. Very clearly."

"I knew you would, sir."

"As you must see that in view of what has just passed between us, I should hand you over to the SS."

Mohn's face changed, his own hatred and contempt etched starkly on his features. The Kommandant would not report him to the SS, they both knew that, but the mere threat caused Mohn to abandon any pretence and finally he presented himself in his true colours. The man who was so brave when faced with physical danger was possessed of a glass jaw when meeting the harsh realities of life. His prop and mainstay, National Socialism, had crumbled beneath him and the child who had been forced to rely on the State and nothing else to sustain his strength now had no inner resources of his own. Unwilling pity banished Karl's hatred. This could so easily have been his own son.

His attention was claimed by the Major's continuing verbal onslaught, hearing with disbelief the man's words.

"I could, at this moment, call in the Gestapo and offer proofs of acts of betrayal on your part. I could even shoot you and swear it was in self-defence."

It was time to end this farce, but in attempting to do so Karl was faced with some hard truths which rang in his ears. He was hearing what the Major truly believed and some of it echoed his own thoughts and the disquietude of years, raising the spectre of his own accountability for the mess in which his country found itself. "So you chose to blind yourself to everything around you -- to the truth -- and to see only the rules. Well, now there are no rules -- and there is nothing left for you to hang on to."

He was wrong, thought the Oberst, with a sudden sense of relief. Perhaps it was true for Mohn -- perhaps he truly had been cut adrift from all that he had trusted and worked for -- but not the Kommandant. He had his anchor.

"Ulmann."

His call brought an instant response as he had known it would and Ulmann strode into the room. At his entry Mohn seemed to accept that at last everything was over and he made no further protest as Karl relieved him of his duties and ordered him to his quarters. If he was angry at Ulmann's immediate promotion to the post of second-in-command he did not show it.

When he had gone Karl slumped down, steadying his breathing. It had been a nerve-racking and dramatic encounter. He waited, aware that Ulmann would return as quickly as he could. Within ten minutes he entered, not troubling to knock, and without a word he walked across the room, poured a glass of schnapps and placed it in front of the Oberst.

"Drink."

The order was quiet and spoken with great gentleness but there was steel behind it and the Kommandant, emotionally bruised and battered, picked up the glass and did as he was told. When he finished he looked up into the understanding gaze which was fixed upon him. The sympathy was almost too much for him to bear and he closed his eyes, feeling strong fingers close around his shoulder.

Ulmann did not leave the Kommandant until he was sure he had regained his composure. Knowing Karl as well as he did, he recognised both the recovery and the Oberst's need to be alone. Accordingly he had expressed his intention to carry out a tour of the castle and promised that he would return later. As he descended the steps from his own office he heard someone walking up and waited at the corner.

"Flight Lieutenant Carter." He may have surprised the Englishman but the reverse was also true. "What are you doing out of your quarters?" His shrewd eyes took in the full and spotless, if threadbare, uniform and the brushed cap.

The British officer stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "You know the Major came to see us earlier. He wanted us to sign a paper to say he'd always treated us well."

"So I believe." Despite himself Ulmann could not hide the distaste that coloured his voice.

"Yeah, well, the men have asked me to deliver our answer."

"I see."

A devil had entered Carter's expression. "Would you like to join me, Hauptmann?"

As repressively as he could manage, Ulmann replied. "I have other duties, Flight Lieutenant. You may carry on."

"Thank you."

Much to the German's surprise the Flight Lieutenant drew himself up and saluted. Numbly Ulmann returned the salute and they parted.

Ulmann was not sure about the contents of Carter's paper but the following morning Major Mohn had vanished. His personal belongings and uniform remained in his quarters but to all intents and purposes the man himself had disappeared without trace. The official reason presented to the camp was that Mohn had been transferred and that, Ulmann was tartly informed by Colonel Preston who clearly disbelieved it, was good riddance to bad rubbish.

***

Over the following days a stalemate seemed to have been reached in the outside world as the American guns still sounded but drew no closer. Prisoners and guards were restless, everyone wanting the inevitable end to come soon so that, in whatever form, they could restart their lives. The atmosphere was edgy and several arguments came close to fisticuffs. Ulmann became resigned to sudden calls to the courtyard and so was not unduly perturbed when a Gefreiter scrambled into his office, breathless, dishevelled and gasping out a tale about a fight in the yard. Sighing he collected his cap and followed the man, heading towards the knot of British officers.

"What is going on here, gentlemen?"

Ulmann's voice acted like a douche of cold water to the milling British prisoners. As they drew back Ulmann found himself confronted by the sight of Mawson, unconscious and bleeding badly from his nose. A scatter of movement behind the Abwehr officer heralded the arrival of the doctor and the other prisoners moved back at his sharp command. Ulmann picked out Carter, whose colour was several shades paler than usual.

"Flight Lieutenant Carter? An explanation please."

"It was Page." There was little more that needed to be said. Ulmann glanced around the courtyard and realised that the Pilot Officer was not present.

"Where is he?"

"He took off towards the attics. Hauptmann..." Carter paused, clearly unwilling to voice the thoughts echoing through his mind though they were written on his ashen expression. It seemed as though Page had finally slipped over the narrow edge he had been treading between depression and insanity.

"Find Colonel Preston," Ulmann ordered, then turned to one of the guards. "Find the Kommandant." Having delivered the orders he made his way purposefully to the stairs, heading to the attics above sickbay. As he toiled up the spiral steps he wondered why Page had come here and an uneasy dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he reached an obvious conclusion. Following the sound of voices he entered one of the top rooms, where the prisoners had no right to be, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the sloping ceiling. Downing was half out of the window with Captain Walters dithering close by.

"Captain Downing!" Disquiet sharpened his voice and the order was harsher than he had intended but he had no wish to see anyone else clamber out onto the roof, guessing that Page had taken refuge there.

Downing scrambled back, turning his own colourless face to the German, relief etched deeply. "Hauptmann... Thank God. Look, Page went out there before we could stop him. Brent's talking to him but he can't get close. The man's finally gone stark raving mad!"

Ulmann moved to the window, his heart failing as he saw Page, his body upright and vivid against the blue sky of a perfect spring day. Brent was sitting part-way along the roof by a chimney that hid Page from the courtyard.

The German turned to Walters, "Go down and tell them to keep quiet and do nothing. I will try to persuade him to come back to the window."

He waited until the man had disappeared and he could hear his footsteps receding down the stone steps. Without thinking further he handed a stunned Downing his cap, quickly shrugging out of his jacket and pushing that, too, into the unprotesting man's arms.

Downing finally found his voice, "I say, Hauptmann..." only to discover that words had failed him, "... be careful," he finished, lamely.

***

Preston and the Kommandant entered the courtyard at the same time, both gravitating to the centre of the cobbles where they could see the open window and the chimney where Brent was perched. Of the other man on the roof they could see nothing. At that moment Walters emerged into the yard from the stairs, panting out the Hauptmann's orders. The Kommandant's pale face leached to a haunted grey and he spoke as if he did not believe what he was saying.

"Ulmann? Ulmann is going onto the roof...?" Even as he spoke the unmistakable figure of the camp second-in-command eased itself out of the window, drawing all eyes to him. Unable to do anything but watch the Oberst gripped his walking stick, his pale face losing what little colour it had. Carter, standing close by, glanced at him curiously and moved forward, aware that the German was close to collapse.

***

Ulmann had no time to think, edging along the rooftop sit by Brent for a few moments. The gaunt Englishman turned a despairing face to him and on this occasion there was no distinction between friend and foe, prisoner and captive, German and British, only a desperate attempt to save the life of one man.

"I tried to talk to him. He says if I go any nearer he'll jump."

"Did he say why?" Ulmann's voice was pitched low and Brent answered in the same tone.

"You saw Mawson?" At Ulmann's nod he continued, "I really thought Page was going to kill him. It was as if there was no-one inside him." He paused, not sure if he had conveyed to Ulmann exactly what he had seen. At the Hauptmann's encouraging expression he took up the story. "When we got Page off him -- he looked down at him, then looked at his hands. I don't know. Those two have baited him a bit. Serves Chris right if Page hit back, but he nearly killed him. Next thing we knew he screamed and bolted. Last time I heard a sound like that it was Squadron Leader Marsh..." His voice tailed off and he shuddered. "What can we do?"

"I must try to make him see reason." Ulmann's mouth was set in a determined line.

"Look, Hauptmann," Brent interposed. "He has lost his reason and if he won't listen to me..." At the man's enquiring look he elaborated. "I've been trying to help him recently. I felt sorry for him, I suppose. I thought I was getting somewhere."

"We cannot leave him there and it is unlikely he will come back of his own accord, nicht wahr?" Firmly, Ulmann added, "The welfare of the prisoners is my responsibility, Captain Brent. Please stay here."

"Ulmann." Brent placed a hand on his shirt sleeve. "For God's sake, his mind's gone. Is he worth dying over?"

A humourless smile touched the German's mouth. "And what were you planning to do, Herr Brent?"

The Englishman shrugged sheepishly. "Don't take any risks," he advised, amazing himself at his own concern for a bete noir five years old.

Ulmann was also surprised, realising that for the second time the Castle inmates had expressed unwillingness to see him in danger. "I have no intention of taking risks, as you put it, but I must try." He hesitated for a moment and then continued, "If I should fail please inform the Kommandant that I was most emphatically not avoiding the issue." He saw the puzzlement on Brent's face even as the man nodded his agreement and just hoped that the message was enigmatic enough to be understandable only to the person for whom it was intended. With luck it would never have to be delivered.

"Hauptmann?" he was brought back to his task by Brent's voice, realising with surprise that the man had extended his hand. Stunned, he accepted the handshake, then turned to edge past the chimney and so out of sight of those watching below.

He stopped where Page could see him and called softly, "Pilot Officer Page. May I talk with you?"

"Why?" The reply was bald and barely interested. Page was standing poised on the ridge tiles of the roof, his balance that of a man used to walking a physical tightrope rather than a mental one. He stared into the middle distance with no expression on his face save mild introspection.

"Your situation is not safe, Pilot Officer."

Page took enough notice of this to allow his expression to settle into an ironic mask. "And if I come down, Hauptmann, no-one else's situation is safe."

Ulmann did not try to deny what Page was saying, knowing that only by dealing in truths could he hope to talk the man out of what he was sure was his intended course of action. The time for comforting lies had long since passed this man by -- if there had ever been such a luxury in his life. "We could put you into solitary confinement. The war is almost over, Page," he added in his most persuasive tones. "You will soon be able to go home."

"Home?" The word was not an echo but an accusation, full of bitterness and self-hate -- the voice of a man who had forgotten what the word meant. "I have no home. I have nothing."

Despairing, Ulmann searched for any way to reach him. "You have worked for this victory, Pilot Officer. You are close to winning. Does that not give you hope?"

"Hope of what?" The whispered sentence hung in the air between them and Page finally turned his head to face the man perched astride the roof. "I have nothing left, Hauptmann, nothing left to give -- nothing left to be. Can't you understand that?" The voice ached with pain and Ulmann gave him truth for truth.

"No, I cannot understand -- but having no hope now does not mean there will be no hope in the future."

"You're wrong. I have no control left, you must understand that. I cannot govern myself -- and if I can't do that then how can I guarantee that the next person I attack won't die? Hauptmann, let me go?" It was almost a cry, anguish and despair an almost palpable wave of emotion stunning the German.

"Page, do not give up!" He put all the force he could into a whispered exhortation.

The man stood, seemingly as firm as an outcrop of rock on the top of a steep slope. Clearly, he stated, "My name is not Page."

Ulmann, searching desperately for any way to delay the inevitable asked, "Then what is your name?"

Haunted eyes searched his face before meeting his gaze and Ulmann bit back an exclamation as he saw how deep the pain went before the man whispered, "I can't remember."

Ulmann could never have believed that whispered words could echo and yet these did, vibrating with the agony of a soul whose life had lost all meaning and could see its own slide into madness. The German stared at his Hamlet and silently willed him to live, to make a different choice. A half-smile touched the stranger's mouth, the peace engendered by a decision made stealing across his face.

Ulmann lurched forward, almost losing his hold, desperate to cross a distance that was too far, to rescue someone who did not want to be saved. He knew it was impossible and yet he tried anyway, his shout echoed by Brent...

... as the man who was not Pilot Officer Page stepped off the roof...

In the courtyard they heard Brent's cry, floating down on the silent, tension-ridden air. "Oh, my God -- he's fallen!"

***

Carter, standing by the Oberst, caught him under the elbow as he swayed, hearing the words of dismay echoed around him although perhaps only the SBO's "My God," was truly heartfelt. A gentle pressure on his arm brought his attention back to the Kommandant and he released the arm he held, nodding briefly as the older man murmured his thanks. From above he could hear the Hauptmann's voice shouting orders to the guards on the other side of the castle.

Ulmann was still perched on the roof-top, beginning to wonder just how he was going to make it back to safety. He felt sick and dizzy, accepting it as shock and trying not to see it as weakness but as a natural reaction. He leaned forward, breathing deeply, almost startled into following Page by Brent's voice close behind him.

"Hauptmann, are you okay?"

He nodded. "A moment."

Brent's voice, decisive and in control. "Don't try to turn. Edge yourself backwards to the chimney. I'll guide you. You're perfectly safe."

With the Captain's reassuring comments and orders in his ears, Ulmann moved along the rooftop until he felt the solid bulk of the chimney at his back. With Brent's help he passed the obstacle and within moments Brent and Downing were helping him through the window. Once inside he slumped onto the floor. For a few moments he could do nothing but concentrate on banishing the swimming dots before his eyes and could not even find it within himself to be ashamed at showing weakness in front of his captives. Brent turned to Downing.

"You'd better go down and let them know what's happened, Tim."

Downing nodded and slipped silently out of the door.

Brent propped himself against an adjacent wall and watched the German in silence for a few moments before speaking.

"He really had made up his mind to jump, hadn't he?"

Ulmann nodded, still not fit for speech.

"You did what you could, Hauptmann. Thank you for that."

"It was not enough." Ulmann was shocked at the flat bitterness in his own voice.

"There was nothing that anyone could have done. We've all seen the way he's been going. God, you've had to put him in the cells twice in the past month!" Brent laughed shortly. "He was locked in some kind of nightmare -- haunted by a ghost."

Ulmann looked up in surprise, meeting Brent's eyes for the first time.

"You did what you could," the British officer repeated softly, then brought his voice to a more normal tone. "Do you feel better?"

Surprisingly Ulmann did, Brent's allusion to Page being haunted helping to provide a sense of perspective. He was not the only person who had recognised a tortured and ultimately doomed man. Perhaps it was better this way, he conceded, and only hoped now that if there was a hereafter Page would find the peace his soul had craved.

***

They made their way down the stone steps, the German leading the way, his customary walk hesitant and his emotions clearly expressed on his face. At the bottom of the stairs he entered the sunlit courtyard to find himself facing Karl. The older man's face was grey and fear still lurked in his eyes. Brent, following behind, was in time to see Ulmann reach out. For a moment they stood, oblivious of the mayhem around them, no-one taking much notice of the Germans as Downing was questioned about the events on the roof Ulmann's hand rested on the older man's shoulder, gripping hard in silent reassurance, while the Oberst's fingers were curled tightly around the Hauptmann's elbow. They stood like that only for a moment, before breaking apart and moving as one towards Colonel Preston. George Brent was left standing on the stairs, unable to tear his gaze away from the two German officers, his mouth a round 'o' of astonishment as sudden understanding burst upon him.

March 1945

"I see. Well, if you hear anything... Yes. Thank you." The Kommandant of Oflag IVc replaced the handset carefully and looked across the desk to his second-in-command. "It seems that the Prominente were removed from Stalag IVz yesterday. The Kommandant has been attempting to gain some news of them. The last thing he knows is that when they left his camp they were marching towards Berlin."

"Berlin? Marching?" Ulmann was aghast at the thought.

"Yes, exactly. They will not be travelling very quickly. Apparently there is no fuel available and the roads are packed with people fleeing the Russian advance. The Kommandant believes he will soon be ordered to evacuate his camp."

"Does he know where...?"

"He has heard nothing."

There was an uneasy silence for a few moments while they digested the unpleasant prospect that they might soon find themselves in the same situation.

"I must inform Colonel Preston and Colonel Dodd of this development."

"They will not be pleased," Ulmann vouchsafed.

"Neither am I, Franz."

The junior officer hesitated before asking, "Will you tell them about Major Carrington?"

"Yes."

The uncompromising tone warned Ulmann that the subject was closed but he could not leave the question unresolved. Mohn's disappearance had had no bearing on the case; it seemed to Ulmann that the authorities involved were seizing their opportunity for a little petty revenge on their enemy while they still could, and everything in him rebelled against the thought that Karl might actually order the sentence of Carrington's court martial carried out. That the American's life could be thrown away in such a cause angered him, and he could not bring himself to believe that this man whom he had grown to care for so deeply would be blind to the stupidity of the order.

"Do you intend to carry out the sentence?"

"I am a soldier. It is my duty to follow the orders of my superior officers." Karl's voice was hard and he cut brutally across the Hauptmann's argument, standing up to face his junior. "I do not intend to discuss this. You have duties to attend to. Please inform Colonel Dodd and Colonel Preston that I will see them tomorrow morning after Appell." Their eyes met in a clash of wills, Ulmann eventually conceding defeat and saluting and leaving the room without speaking.

The Kommandant waited until the door had closed before slumping into his seat and burying his head in his hands for a moment, giving his thoughts over to his dilemma. He had recognised the birth of a respect and regard between Ulmann and the American almost before the Security officer had been aware of it and the older man had quickly accepted that it would, at any other time, have led to a deep and life-long friendship. What he had not expected was that the friendship had been born despite their circumstances and, without realising it, Franz and Philip Carrington had developed a bond which had strengthened even in the face of a two year separation. For a moment he considered their friendship in the light of his own involvement with Franz. He was not troubled by the presence of the other man in their life but it certainly could not be ignored -- especially given the current situation. He did not know if Franz realised yet just how much the American's life meant to him, but he had no doubt of its importance. Unhappily, he wondered if Carrington's death would also mean the end of their own involvement. Ulmann would try hard not to blame him, he knew that, and yet how could he ignore the fact that the man he loved had ordered the execution of one of his closest friends? If it had been done in the name of justice then the question would not arise, but there was no justice in this -- and no logic. With an increasing sense of frustration and a feeling of being trapped by events over which he had no control the Kommandant slapped his open palm on the surface of the desk.

I am a soldier, he reiterated, and I must follow my orders.

***

Receiving word of the Kommandant's return from Leipzig, Ulmann strode through the courtyard and out to the gate. He ignored the guards who snapped to attention as he passed, intent only on reaching the camp's senior officer.

The Kommandant had recently instituted daily staff meetings as the situation across Germany disintegrated. Yesterday, once he had concluded his reading of the Order of the Day from Berlin, he had announced his decision to allow wives and families to join their menfolk in the dubious safety of the Castle and stated that his own wife would be arriving shortly. In their first communication since Ulmann had stalked out of the office the Kommandant had asked politely if the Hauptmann's wife would join him in the camp. Like an echo his answer returned to him now.

"It's too far away, sir. There is no transport. She would never be able to get here." He did not add, because he knew he had no need, that his wife was better in the care of her parents. Ulmann had witnessed the sympathy which had filled Karl's expression, knowing that he fully understood. During the past months he had confided more and more in his friend, admitting the woman's mental condition was deteriorating rapidly and that finally everyone had agreed there was no hope for her. At sight of that sympathy and the sharp memories of the closeness they should still share Ulmann had hesitated, trying to find something to break through the barriers between them. Before he could speak the Oberst had covered his own obvious confusion by proposing a toast to Germany.

As he made his way to the Kommandant's side now he recalled the last occasion on which they had found themselves in the ignominious position of being held apart by the very circumstances which bound them together, and his own arrogant assumption that he would be able to prevent it occurring again. They were both still circling around one another, he recognised, still wary of involvement, emotional or physical. That was the key, he appreciated. It was not that they did not trust one another; the problem lay in the inability of each man to trust himself. That had to change, and the first step was to impress upon the Kommandant that he did not consider the older man's wife to be a rival.

The Kommandant had witnessed his approach and was waiting for him. With consideration Ulmann scanned the tired and dispirited figure and, without ceremony, commandeered his weighty attaché case, remarking simply, "You wife has arrived, Herr Kommandant. I have ensured that she is comfortable. She is with other officers' wives in the Mess. Should I bring her to you?"

Karl looked up in surprise as the speech reached its conclusion and then smiled at the serious face confronting him as he appreciated both the gesture and the emotions behind it.

"Thank you, Hauptmann," he remarked, his voice warm, "but I will go to the Mess. Perhaps you would be good enough to deposit that," and he gestured with undisguised loathing at the bag Ulmann held, "in the office and then join us. I would like you to meet Lisa."

In his words Ulmann read what was unsaid.

I would like Lisa to meet you.

***

News of Page's suicide did not reach Carrington in the solitary confinement cell. He had been aware of an increase in the level of activity in the courtyard and of a greater tension in his guards, but although they all seemed to have been affected by some cataclysmic event he was quick to recognise that they had been ordered not to talk about it. In that respect nothing much had changed at Colditz; it was still possible to keep a prisoner in solitary so isolated from the world that the war could be over -- or his best friend dead and buried -- long before word reached him. That would have been the case, too, back in February of '42 when Richard had been so ill, had Ulmann's instinctive humanity not come into play.

Thinking back on the travel-stained and weary version of the normally immaculate Wehrmacht officer which had slumped into his cell several days earlier, eyes frozen with horror not so much at the sights he had seen as at the imaginings that they had conjured up, Carrington felt a twist of grief tauten his gut. It was difficult for him to see how a man like himself and a man like Franz Ulmann had ended up as enemies.

Except, of course, that they had been nothing of the sort. Early on he'd recognised Ulmann's quality; gradually, too, by association he had understood that the Kommandant was also a good man struggling with an impossible situation. He'd never been tempted to see the war in terms of a cartoon spat between the wholly evil and the wholly good, more as the inevitable consequence of a clash of ideologies. For every British, Canadian, American, Dutch or Polish citizen who knew that Hitler's beliefs were the result of a sick self-obsession there was somewhere a Nazi sympathiser just as firmly convinced that the Allies were jealous of Germany's greatness and that the talk of atrocities was merely spiteful propaganda.

Or at least that had been the case once; more and more ordinary Germans were beginning to understand what they had allowed to happen, and for each one the awakening had been as agonising as it had been for Franz. In his more cynical moments he suspected the Allied Command of letting Hitler have enough rope to hang himself -- of allowing him his excesses so that the German people would realise exactly what kind of man they had chosen as their champion; all along there had been the expectation that he would be found out and stopped by his own countrymen.

It would have been like that, too, except that good men like Franz and the Kommandant had been unable to see or comprehend the full obscenity of their situation. And, indeed, could they have prevented anything at all? In the end, surely, the whole point was whether individuals acquitted themselves with honour towards one another?

He had been allowed books and writing materials in his cell, on the basis that he needed them to prepare his defence of the charge Mohn had brought against him. He'd used some of the materials quite differently, however, in writing a long letter to his family. He had always been aware of the likelihood of being sentenced to death, and with that prospect in mind he felt he owed it to himself -- and to Richard and Peter and to all those who had passed through Colditz -- to set the record straight. The letter was his very own 'De Profundis', an eloquent plea for clemency for Ulmann and the Kommandant, an exhortation to his family and friends to do all they could for the safety of the two Germans after the War. He knew there'd be a chance to slip the letter to Colonel Dodd -- or, in the last extremity, perhaps to Father Denny -- and he had no doubt of it reaching its destination safely. Only with this letter on its way could he face the inevitable with equanimity; he could not look Richard in the eye unless he had done everything he could think of to protect the two men.

But I should have realised, he thought, ironically. They weren't afraid of us. They knew that loving each other didn't make us aliens or animals, just two guys who happened to find a little comfort in a tough situation. How come it took me so long to figure out they'd done the same thing?

Or maybe it took them a while to work out what was happening to them? Maybe they didn't know it could happen to guys like them, too, and not just us soft, decadent Brits and Yanks. Maybe they were too busy trying to do their duty to notice they were falling in love.

Yes, that was how it would have been; lonely men from rigid, repressed backgrounds, thrown together by chance and finding in each other something essential for existence; love grown out of respect, slowly and uncertainly, passing through the paralysing fear of the unknown to become a deep emotional commitment.

Maybe we helped a little there. Maybe when they saw Richard and me they realised it didn't change us, it didn't make us say less than we were before. Hell, it made us stronger; it gave us something to fight for.

Lacking that, now, he had reconciled himself to the prospect of death. He did not go quite so fair as to welcome it, but he saw in it a symmetry which was the direct result of loving Richard Player. if go he must, he would do so without regrets. He'd told his family that, too, and hoped they would try to understand and forgive him for it.

Whatever may be happening outside the four walls of his cell, inside a separate peace had been declared -- with the Germans, with his lover's memory, and most of all with himself

It would see him through. It was enough.

***

Ulmann hesitated outside the cell door. He had spent the previous evening in the company of the Kommandant's wife, as he had taken it upon himself to ensure her comfort while her husband was busy with the burgeoning red tape. While he had known he would not resent her presence, he had not expected to like her and was disturbed by the fact that he had. Why he was here now he hardly knew, except that he felt Carrington's company -- even in this place -- would help him solve his own dilemmas. Angrily he traced his hesitation to fear and shame, afraid of the reaction he might justly receive from Carrington when faced with one of his jailers -- one of those who could send him to his death. Pushing the fear aside, he waved away the accompanying guard and inserted the key in the lock.

Carrington glanced up from the book he was reading in time to see Hauptmann Ulmann close the cell door behind him. In silence he closed the volume and waited for the German to speak. It had been no surprise to him that Ulmann had failed to visit him since his return from the court martial, although he had been rather stunned by his own sense of disappointment. When he reviewed the years they had known one another he recognised that the respect and liking between them was mutual and somehow had known that the Security officer would seek him out eventually. In the meantime he could easily accept that Ulmann was experiencing feelings of helplessness and anger in the face of a situation over which he had little control.

Ulmann's tone was formal. "I hope you are being treated well, Herr Major."

"As well as can be expected," the American countered, "though I'm kinda wondering what you'll do when I ask for steak and champagne as a last meal -- that's beef steak," he amended quickly.

The German leaned back against the door. "How can you be so calm?" he asked, and though his voice was quiet, the unhappiness it contained was startling when contrasted with his habitual reserve.

Carrington stood and moved to the opposite side of the cell, staring up at the small barred window. "It's not so bad. 'Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage...' To be honest I don't feel as if I have much to live for." The sound of an indrawn breath caused him to turn and face the now open distress in Ulmann's expression. "Hey, take no notice. I don't really mean it. I do want to live."

"I'm sorry -"

"Don't," the Major cut short his attempted apology. "It's not your fault. I don't blame anyone for this -- and neither should you."

Ulmann stared at him, wondering what interpretation he was expected to put on the words.

The American changed the subject. "Why don't you tell me what's been happening around here since I've been away?"

Carrington moved to sit on the bed, indicating that Ulmann should take the seat and gladly he did, thankful for an alternative topic of conversation. Gravely he brought Carrington up-to-date, finishing with the tale of Page's suicide but mentioning only briefly his own part in the attempts to save the man's life. Ulmann, his gaze on his hands, missed Carrington's appraising glance and concluded his narrative.

"Lieutenant Jordan and Father Denny conducted a memorial service for the Pilot Officer. It was very well attended although he was a difficult man."

"A damaged man."

"As you say," Ulmann hesitated and then continued, "Before he jumped he said his name was not Page. I do not understand what he meant," he lied unconvincingly, "but I thought perhaps someone should be told."

Carrington was about to accept responsibility for dealing with the matter when he realised suddenly there may be no chance for him to do so. He met Ulmann's eyes for a moment, seeing them slide away from his gaze as if the man could not bear to face him.

"I should talk to Simon Carter. I know he spoke to Page when he arrived. I expect he'll know what to do."

"Thank you."

"Is there something else bothering you?"

Ulmann stared at him and Carrington could see that there was indeed something else troubling his friend. Words seemed to hesitate on the other man's lips and then were gone, suppressed with an obvious ruthlessness which told the American just how badly the German wanted to confide in him.

There was another uneasy silence and then Ulmann rose, ignoring the question. "I am still on duty. I hope..."

Carrington stood up with him, and on impulse held out his hand. Ulmann hesitated and then grasped the fingers much as a drowning man would grab at a lifeline. When he would have released Carrington, the American brought his other hand up to reinforce the handshake.

"I meant what I said," he insisted. "There must be no blame."

Ulmann's granite features softened. "Thank you for saying that, Major, but -"

Words failed him and he tugged free of the strong hold and left, the cell door closing behind him to leave the solitary prisoner alone with a new set of troubles to occupy his thoughts.

***

By the evening Ulmann had regained some calmness of mind, horrified at how close he had come to spilling out everything to Carrington. That calm was short-lived, however, thrown once more into turmoil when a late delivery of telegrams included the confirmation of Carrington's death sentence. Ulmann tried to speak when Karl handed the paper to him but his pleas died in his throat as the telephone bell interrupted the suddenly tense atmosphere. Despite his best intentions the spectre of the American's death still remained a wedge between them and with a sinking heart Ulmann knew the situation was about to be resolved, for better or worse. He stood, waiting until the call was completed and he could put his case for Carrington's life.

The Kommandant's voice interrupted his sombre reverie. The normally incisive tones were hesitant and the older man sounded terribly tired. Surprised, the Security officer looked Karl fully in the face and felt concern rise, swamping over him until it banished every bitter thought and feeling, leaving only a presentiment as to what had happened.

The Oberst replaced the handset and sat, still and silent, staring with blind eyes at the surface of the desk.

"Karl?" Ulmann questioned uncertainly, never realising that this was the first time in a week he had addressed the man by his first name. "What is wrong?"'

Struggling through the layers of shock, Karl surfaced to the blinding realisation of what he had lost. The breath caught harshly in his throat but long training took over and he stifled the threatening breakdown.

"Erich. My son is dead. My son, Erich." He leant his elbows on the desk and covered his face with his hands.

Ulmann knew there were no tears; the action was that of a man shutting out a cruel and hideous world, ignoring all but a despair which was so overwhelming it could not be denied.

Moments later the older man looked up, having regained his composure. "I must tell Lisa."

"Do you know how it happened?"

"Yes, yes, I do. He had been placed with a fighting unit -- his squadron had been grounded due to lack of fuel. Erich was injured but before his friends could get to him, he was crushed -" his voice stumbled and he cleared his throat, "- crushed under the tracks of a Russian tank."

"I am very sorry, Karl."

"I know. He is -- was -- such a good son to us both and he adored his mother. I do not know what she will do..."

As if thoughts of Lisa galvanised him, he stood up. "I must tell her at once."

"Surely not -" Ulmann broke off his denial, recognising that what the Oberst told his wife was a matter for him alone to decide.

"Don't worry, Franz -- I shall, of course, lie to her. I see no point in causing unnecessary grief." He tried to walk and stumbled, feeling strong arms reach out to catch him. When he would have pushed Franz away the hold tightened and suddenly he relaxed against the comfort he was being offered.

"Franz, Franz..." He turned his face to hide it against the grey uniform jacket, trying to come to terms with a grief that would never leave him. A large hand gently cupped the back of his head and a shudder travelled through his body as gratefully he slumped against the rock that supported him. Through his misery he accepted that this strength had always been offered when he most needed it and that he had depended on it countless times. What had he ever given in return? he wondered. He had convinced himself that he did not wish to jeopardise their friendship by forcing an intimacy for which Franz may not be ready. Now he knew that it was not Franz's fear which had stopped him. It was his own. Like the basest coward he had been afraid -- afraid of Mohn, of Himmler, of the SS, and most of all afraid of himself. Fear had shackled him, had almost destroyed something very precious, as this senseless conflict had destroyed his only child.

A moan escaped him then, and he was barely aware that Franz had moved, paying no heed until the touch of the man's mouth on his temple brought him back to the present. Gathering what little remained of his self-control he straightened, feeling Franz partially release him until they stood in a loose embrace and he could see an echo of his own distress on Ulmann's face. Karl wanted to stay but knew it was not possible. His first duty now must be to Lisa, to the mother of his son. The news would break her apart, as it was doing to him, but she had no-one but him to turn to for help, no-one but her husband to help her through what he knew would be the worst time of her life. This time he must be the one to offer comfort.

"Franz," he whispered, his voice loaded with his pain, and he reached up to place his hand, palm open, against the Hauptmann's breast, before freeing himself reluctantly from the circle of his lover's arms. As he reached the door he turned, meeting Ulmann's gaze once more. "In the morning you and I will have a talk, hmm -- a proper talk."

"Yes, sir," The grating whisper went unheard as the Kommandant left the room. Ulmann slumped into the vacated chair and stared at the telegram still open on the desk. The confirmation of Carrington's death sentence included the time scheduled for his execution. If it was going to happen then it would take place within forty-eight hours. With deliberation Franz folded the paper into a small square and then tucked it into his breast pocket. Glancing down he encountered the paperwork still strewn across the Kommandant's desk. This at least he could do and he settled down to clear the tasks before him. The concentration required for the work almost diverted his mind from the events of the previous hour.

***

The night had passed with agonising slowness for them both Ulmann realised when he faced the Kommandant across the desk the following morning, looking down with ill-concealed concern at Karl's exhausted, grey-tinged features.

"How are you?" he asked softly.

The Kommandant's mouth twisted at the gentle treatment he was receiving but he answered quietly, "I am very tired and I think -- I think perhaps this is a pain which will never pass. However," his voice strengthened, sending with it an encoded message which Ulmann easily deciphered, "we agreed that we would have a talk, you and I."

It was not exactly how Ulmann had remembered the decision being arrived at but he did not argue, aware that it was time to clear the air between them.

"First of all," Karl continued, "the telegram confirming Carrington's sentence is not amongst the papers on my desk."

Wordlessly Ulmann retrieved the paper from his pocket and handed it to the other man. Just as silently Karl opened and glanced at it before placing it in front of him.

"I have contacted Leipzig this morning. The worsening situation has prompted me to suggest that the families of the garrison are moved out to the town. It seems likely that the Castle itself will come under heavy bombardment, in which case the town will be safer." He paused, as if considering his words. "Lisa and I spent much of the night talking. The situation is... uncertain, we are not even sure what will happen to..." he stumbled "... to Erich's body." He passed his hand across his eyes then laced the open sympathy on Ulmann's lace. The sight of it almost broke him and he swallowed, standing up and turning to stare out of the window, one hand resting at the small of his back in his characteristic stance.

"We are hoping that our son will be returned to us. It would be... We would prefer that he was buried in the village graveyard. It is a beautiful place -- very peaceful. Erich always loved it," he finished distantly.