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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.

Ulmann hesitated, unsure whether he should break into Karl's silent reverie, his decision forestalled when the Kommandant seemed to rouse himself

"In the meantime Lisa has decided to return to our home at Cochem after the weekend." At Ulmann's obvious surprise he elaborated. "Erich's wife is there. They will be able to comfort each other. Lisa can deal with the business -- we own some vineyards -- and continue her charity work. It will all help to keep her busy. Here, there is nothing for her to do and it does seem... the best solution."

Ulmann felt constrained to ask, "Does she not wish to be with you?"

Karl turned to smile at him and Franz flushed, knowing that the same thought had occurred to them both.

"Lisa and I have been friends since we were children. I think perhaps she knows me better than anyone. I am almost sure she knew about Willi -- although we never spoke about it."

Franz looked at him in amazement, uncomfortable with the thought that the Kommandant's wife might well understand why the Colditz second-in-command had been so attentive towards her.

The Kommandant had been watching Ulmann's face as these thoughts and feelings passed openly across his features. Reluctantly he acknowledged that while Lisa was less of an obstruction than they had ever expected, there were other pressures which could not be dealt with so easily.

The Oberst sat, one glance from him shaking Ulmann from his introspection and back to their immediate problems.

"Carrington," he opened. "He has become a good friend to you."

"Yes, sir," Ulmann met his eyes, refusing to be ashamed or intimidated. The Kommandant's gaze was cool and appraising but he could see no hint of censure in it.

"Mm." Wearily the Oberst dragged himself to his feet, picking up the telegram, and moved to stand by the fire. "Last night I heard of the death of a fine young man. There was nothing I could do to prevent that -- but I can prevent this. Be quite clear, Hauptmann, if I thought justice would be served by Carrington's death then I would carry through this order despite any protests or at any cost."

"I know that, sir."

Karl looked at him as if measuring the truth in his words, and then smiled. "Of course you do." The telegram was in his hand but as their eyes locked it seemed to slip from his lingers and fell into the hungry flames. In seconds there was no trace of it. "No telegram has arrived concerning Major Carrington's sentence. And no enquiry will be made from this camp regarding that sentence. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Herr Kommandant."

Their eyes met again and the warmth in the Hauptmann's gaze sent colour to flood Karl's face. The moment lengthened while they stared at one another and the Oberst felt his breathing quicken, witnessing the colour mount in Ulmann's usually pale features.

A knock on the door broke into the silent tableau and, Karl considered later, probably saved them from committing an indiscretion which, had anyone walked in, would most likely have resulted in a swift end before the firing squad. At the time they had both been startled but recovered their equilibrium with typical rapidity. The Oberst concluded their interview.

"Major Carrington will serve twenty-eight days in solitary confinement, dating from the day of his Court Martial -- March 16th. That leaves twenty-one days from today. I shall inform Colonel Preston of this when I see him later. In the meantime you may tell Major Carrington." Mindful of the Gefreiter who had just entered, he added. "That is all, Hauptmann."

"Sir," Ulmann saluted and left, trying not to appear too hasty in his retreat but eager to impart his news to the person it most concerned.

He was unconscious of the fond amusement of the man who watched his departure.

***

Ulmann strode across the courtyard and made his way to the American's cell. The Major glanced up as he entered, the sombre bearded face breaking into a wide smile as he saw the identity of the person intruding on his solitude. Ulmann was surprised at the amount of pleasure he felt at the welcome he received. "Hauptmann," Carrington greeted him cheerfully. "How are you?"

"I am well, thank you Herr Carrington. You appear to be in high spirits."

"Well, maybe no news is good news, huh." His face altered and he commented, "Unless you're here as a messenger? Don't worry -- I won't shoot you!"

The German half-smiled. "As a matter of fact I do have some information -"

Before he could finish Carrington cut in, his tone serious and all vestiges of his previous good humour gone. "Yeah, okay. Look -- I appreciate you telling me yourself. You got any details yet?"

Ulmann stared at him. The American's bearing had altered during the short speech, his back straight, chin lifted, every line of him proclaiming his determination to lace his late without flinching. The German felt a sense of pride that such a man called him friend. Hastily he cut in.

"You misunderstand me, Major. You are to serve a further twenty-one days in solitary confinement, after which you will return to the camp."

Carrington seemed stunned for a few moments, as if the news had removed the ability even to breathe, then he let out a breathless, throaty chuckle. "Here I am making peace with myself and preparing myself to die and Goddam if you don't come along and tell me I've got to go on living. Typical."

Ulmann smiled slightly, recognising both the teasing and the element of pain behind the American's words. Carrington had not wanted to die, yet he had not been afraid of it. In one sense it had offered him a way out of his own dilemma; an opportunity to avoid the pain and loss which would be an inevitable part of each and every day without Richard Player.

His tone serious, he replied. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Major, but I am afraid it is so -- you must live."

Carrington returned the smile and Ulmann knew that he had accepted his own veiled assertion. He would indeed live, using the same strength which had sustained him when he thought he was to die, and Ulmann was glad, recognising that in Carrington he had gained a friend who would be important to him throughout the rest of his life.

The American chuckled again, and this time there was more amusement than pain in the sound. "Well, Franz, I guess old Mohn ain't gonna get his pound of flesh after all."

Ulmann smiled slightly but did not comment on his remark.

"Thanks for telling me, Hauptmann Ulmann."

"It was a pleasure, Major Carrington."

13th April 1945

Colonel Dodd paused at the door of his room to extinguish the cheroot he had been smoking. Hauptmann Ulmann was waiting in the hallway, his expression carefully neutral but nonetheless preoccupied. Well, that was fair enough, Dodd thought. None of them had been in any doubt for some time now what the outcome of the War would be on the grander scale, but its effect on individuals was less certain. Whether Ulmann -- or any German officer at Colditz -- would survive the final act was something he wouldn't care to predict. Come to that, if the Russians arrived ahead of the Americans his own survival had to be pretty much a moot point. You turned them loose at your peril; nobody had any idea how they'd react when it came to the crunch.

"Can't be long now, eh, Hauptmann'?"

Startled from some reverie of his own, Ulmann was slow to react. "I beg your pardon, Colonel?"

"The end of the War. It can't be long."

"No, indeed." Politely, but with only a small fragment of his attention on the conversation, Ulmann moved aside for Dodd to precede him out of the Saalhaus and fell into step a little behind him and to the side.

"Thought what you'll do -- when it's all over?"

The question was a sharp one, and Ulmann was not sure he had an answer. His thoughts about the future were not of a kind he could share with the American.

"Colonel," he said, cautiously, "for several years now every moment of every day has been spent according to the dictates of a higher authority. I have no ambitions for the future -- except, perhaps, to be able to sit and read a book or listen to a little music."

Dodd's sandy eyebrows rose a fraction, and he paused in the doorway to the courtyard. "That's all peace means to you? Books and music?"

"And the company of good friends. Is it so much different for you?"

"I guess not. Oh, I don't go in for a lot of reading and such, but I want to work on my golf game -- and I have a grandchild on the way."

Ulmann forced a smile. He had been aware of it from censoring the prisoners' mail, but Dodd's pride in impending grandfatherhood was a delight in itself.

"Indeed? When is this to be?"

"End of July, my daughter says. If it's a boy they're gonna name him after me -- Maximilian! Can you beat that?"

"I congratulate you, Colonel -- and it looks as if you will be home in time for the birth."

"Yeah." Dodd's mood darkened. "Pity every guy who passed through this place couldn't have ended up safe at home."

"You are thinking of Pilot Officer Page?" Ulmann asked.

"And Muir... and Player. I didn't know either of those boys, but they left quite a gap. Did you like Player, Hauptmann?"

"Oh, yes, he was a fine young man." The answer was out before Ulmann had even considered the question, but he would not have retracted his response. "A fine officer, who did his duty," he amended slightly, aware that his enthusiasm had been noted. "Perhaps that is all one should aspire to in wartime." Ulmann's attention returned to the matter in hand. "After I have escorted you to the Kommandant's office, Colonel, I am going to release Major Carrington from solitary confinement. No doubt he will be glad to be back among his friends."

"Just as glad as they'll be to see him, Hauptmann. The place isn't the same without him."

"He is a very popular officer."

"He sure is. Hey, I thought Colonel Preston was going along on this trip?"

"The duty officer is escorting him; he will meet us there."

Dodd's shoulders lifted and dropped again in a mild shrug. "Okay," he said, jauntily, "lead on, Hauptmann."

***

Having deposited Colonel Dodd alongside Colonel Preston in the anteroom to the Kommandant's office, Ulmann retraced his steps towards the prisoners' courtyard and approached the solitary confinement cells near the main gate. Carrington was waiting for him, his meagre belongings already bundled together for transfer back to the senior officers' quarters. He stood up as Ulmann entered the room, gripping the bundle as though for reassurance.

"This is a most pleasant duty for me, Major," Ulmann told him, with what might almost have been a smile. "It would have been unjust and unnecessary to punish you any further. Your only concern was for Lieutenant Phipps and the other Prominente, that much was obvious."

"Obvious to everybody but Major Mohn. What happened to him, anyway? I gather he's not around any more."

"Major Mohn has left the Castle."

"Uh-huh. Where's he gone?"

"I do not know."

"I guess that makes you second-in-command, then, doesn't it?"

Ulmann inclined his head, making no reply but ushering Carrington towards the exit and down the short stone-flagged corridor to the barred door which led out into the sunlight. Escorting Carrington down the steps he paused, looking up into the clear blue sky.

"It is a beautiful day, Major."

Stunned, Carrington examined Ulmann's expression for signs of ulterior motive or incipient insanity. Finding none, he eventually replied.

"Yes. Yes, it is." Beautiful in more senses than one, he realised.

"Please carry on, Major."

Formally dismissing him, Ulmann moved away and observed Carrington's re-absorption into the daily life of the Castle. He watched as the American approached the reclining figure of Captain Nugent, stretched out in a deckchair trying to make believe there was a little warmth in the sun, and with amusement took in the delighted response not only of Nugent but of the other prisoners present in the yard when they realised that he was back among them. This was the harvest of Karl's decision to burn the telegram, and he wished they could have shared the pleasure of this moment. There would be little enough time to indulge in such triumphs from now on -- and perhaps very few such triumphs would again come their way. Nevertheless, whatever Carrington might achieve henceforward, Ulmann would always feel that part of it belonged to him.

***

No such pleasant reflections attended the Kommandant's meeting with the Senior British and American Officers. His orders were that the prisoners were to be evacuated from the Castle, and that they would no longer be under Wehrmacht control. The situation with the Prominente was still fresh enough in the minds of the two armed officers to cause serious alarm at this news. Matters were rapidly moving out of the Kommandant's control; while he had not even admitted it to Ulmann and scarcely to himself he now felt justified in laying out all the facts before the two Colonels.

"Once you leave the Castle, gentlemen, you will pass beyond my protection. There is nothing more I can do for you." He willed them to make the obvious assumption. "The SS are in the town, communications are in total confusion... No doubt there are trains still running," he added hopelessly.

"The mode of transport is hardly the issue," Preston interrupted. The Kommandant's heart leaped with sudden confidence; for as long as he had known Colonel Preston he had been absolutely convinced of the sharpness of his mind. No doubt Preston had already understood what he was steeling himself to say, but the words must be spoken plainly.

"No." He wished he had discussed this with Franz, but there had been so little time. Besides, the burden was his alone; the decision to lay it down must be his also. "Perhaps we might consider, Colonel, the terms under which this command could be surrendered to the American Army?"

Dodd and Preston exchanged glances, Dodd rising to his feet and crossing the office to look out of the window before he made any reply. In itself it was the act of a man already in command; unthinkingly he had behaved as he would in the office of a subordinate.

"Kommandant," he said, "I have no authority to negotiate terms on behalf of the US Army. You must know that. What I can do is accept your personal parole and that of your officers. If you place the garrison under the command of Colonel Preston and myself we'll make representations on your behalf to whatever side gets here first."

It was a bleak enough assurance. The Kommandant watched the two Colonels briefly, wondering whether they had already worked out their response to this not unexpected turn of events, or whether their calm acceptance of the situation was merely the result of their training.

"I will require some... guarantees... concerning my men," The words were formed only with difficulty; striving to remain the old-style Prussian aristocrat with the habit of command, the Kommandant had succeeded only in sounding like a man unable to face reality. "No flags to be displayed, either national flags or white flags of surrender. And the daily business of the Castle is to carry on as usual."

Without consultation Preston responded. "I think we can agree to that, Kommandant. The guards will remain on the gate, but they will no longer be armed. You will give me the keys to the Armoury and require all your men to surrender their ammunition. We wouldn't want any accidents at this late stage."

"Very well. But your word, Colonel Preston -- and yours, Colonel Dodd. My men have done nothing but their duty, and your treatment here has been fair."

"If you don't count locking us up in the first place," Dodd growled, nevertheless conceding the point. "I can't speak for Colonel Preston, but I'll do whatever I can to make sure your men are treated within the terms of the Geneva Convention."

Both men turned to look in Preston's direction. He, aware that he was under scrutiny, paused before replying.

"As you say, Max, if the Kommandant is prepared to co-operate with us we'll see what can be done for his men. I'd better have those keys now, Kommandant."

Slowly the Kommandant reached into his desk drawer, and with a hand that trembled hardly at all placed the small bunch of keys into Colonel Preston's open palm. It was so ordinary an action that the implications it carried did not immediately dawn on him; when at last he fully realised that he had just given over his command into the hands of his enemy he let it go without regret. Freedom came in many shapes and sizes, and in entrusting his keys to Colonel Preston he had bought the first measure of his own liberty. He should be feeling relief; no doubt he would, at some stage. For the moment, he felt only hollow -- and a little afraid.

"Where is Hauptmann Ulmann?" Preston asked, the harshness gone from his tone.

"I have given him orders... there are confidential papers to be disposed of."

The prisoners had seen various officers staggering across the courtyard carrying bundles of papers for some days now. The Castle's furnace had been busy day and night as Ulmann supervised the destruction of a mountain of paperwork. Stores lists, duty rotas, personnel evaluations, medical reports... the Wehrmacht had flourished on its bureaucracy, and now without a backward glance these documents and the man-hours that had gone into creating them were being consigned to the flames. Some future archivist would curse Ulmann's thoroughness.

It would be pointless to try and stop the process. Anything that might have been of value to the former prisoners would have been burned with the first batch; only the dross was left now. Ulmann might go on burning papers until the US Army marched down Unter Den Linden for all Preston cared -- the damage had been done long ago, and he had no stomach for any attempt to preserve what remained.

"I'll want to see him," he said briskly. "We'll need his help to keep things running smoothly."

"Hauptmann Ulmann will do whatever is required," was the arid response. "I will call a meeting of my senior staff and inform them of the altered situation. At such times as this men are likely to resist any authority, but as far as possible I will try to ensure their compliance."

"Thank you, Kommandant," Preston told him, with some finality, as though he were dismissing from his presence this man who had so abruptly and without fanfare ceased to be his captor.

***

The Kommandant's meeting with his senior staff was not protracted. Already the sounds of shelling were drawing closer; whilst the gunners of the US Army had not quite got the range of the Castle as yet, it was only a matter of time before they had it firmly in their sights. All contingents had been ordered to seek safety in the cellars; indeed there were men down there already, vast numbers of French prisoners having arrived weary and hungry at decreasing intervals over the past few days. If the paperwork was up-to-date -- and despite Ulmann's best efforts he doubted it somehow -- there were by now over twelve hundred men within, the 'prisoners' outnumbering their 'guards' by at least two to one. In the circumstances there was little he could do for them; food supplies might last another week at best, although he doubted that would be necessary. Bedding could be found, in the form of palliasses and blankets, for any who felt they could sleep. Apart from that they were under cover and sheltered from the bombardment, and it was no longer necessary for them to march anywhere. It was the best he could do.

With his officers gathered together in one place the comparison with the early, optimistic days of the War was all too evident. They were all tired, the absences in their ranks only too noticeable, their physical condition not much better than that of their charges. He did not intend to make a speech -- all the fine words had been drained from him a long time ago -- but he could not let the occasion pass without a word of gratitude for their loyalty.

"My friends," he said, suppressing the shake in his voice with the last remnant of his determination, "our work here is almost over. The Americans will arrive today, or perhaps tomorrow, and we will be their prisoners. I cannot predict what will happen to us, although I think we can expect generous treatment from Colonel Preston and Colonel Dodd. Our duty was to follow the orders we were given, and we have tried to do that with honour and compassion. Now... our honour is in ruins around us. I ask you to join me one last time in drinking a toast to our country; we have done all it asked of us, and can do no more. To Germany."

The little schnapps glasses, already placed on the salver and filled in readiness, were lifted. The men drank the toast willingly, although plaster-dust from the cracked ceiling had already spilled and filmed the surface. The Kommandant savoured the fiery alcohol for some long time, then set down his glass and stood to attention, briskly saluting those who had been under his command through thick and thin. He had not come to know many of them very well; Willi Schaeffer had been his friend, and Doktor Hoffner, and Franz Ulmann who had become so much more, but apart from that they had done their jobs and drawn their pay and he had had little involvement with their lives. Now, as they saluted and left the room, he began to regret that. Where would they go and how would they fare?

Hoffner and Ulmann remained behind.

"Karl? You will be safer in the cellar with the rest of us." The doctor's indulgent tone was the one he would have used with a hurt child, but the words seemed foreign to the Kommandant and he turned unseeing eyes towards his old friend.

"I'II join you there, Anderl. Just give me a moment. I want to make sure that I've remembered everything."

"Do you wish me to leave also, Herr Oberst?"

"No, Franz. Stay with me a while." Neither man turned to discover whether the doctor had left the room, although the discreet sound of the door closing reached them in a lull between bombardments. The room was already a ghost of its former elegance, thin white powdery plaster laying like snow on every surface. It was ridiculously dangerous to remain here, but Ulmann was as aware as the Kommandant of a need to close this chapter of their lives with some appropriate gesture. He stepped closer to the diminutive figure by the window, looking down into Karl's face in deep alarm at the signs of age that were now so apparent. Had they been there all along and he too blind to notice? Or had this ending caused them?

"Somehow," he said, attempting to be reassuring, "we will stay together, Karl."

"My dear Franz..." The tone was hopeless, as though in contemplation of a lost "... naturally, if we can. But if not... You must know, you have meant everything to me."

Ulmann drew nearer, almost crowding the other man into the window embrasure. He had always known the words would not come readily, but they were needed now more than ever.

"I love you," he said. "You knew that."

A wan, distant smile. "Yes. Of course."

The words ceased. Ulmann had no more. Time was closing about them, the fates marching relentlessly in their direction. Without preamble he lowered his head, unsurprised when his mouth found that of his commanding officer, and in a moment his arms had closed around the smaller man and pulled him into a kiss, an embrace, compounded of passion and reassurance and need and of so much more. Karl moved against him, responding avidly, hands holding onto him obsessively as though to press him into this moment and preserve it against the darker times to come. Duty had denied them so much -- had denied them the closeness and the release Player and Carrington had discovered. Now duty was done, and briefly it could be theirs.

"Franz."

Scarcely aware he had broken away, Karl somehow resisted the urge to resume the embrace and remain locked in Ulmann's arms until the fortress tumbled around them.

"Franz, we must go below."

"Are you sure?" For himself, Ulmann could not have cared less at that moment. His own safety had never been of much account; only Karl had ever concerned himself with it.

"If we can live, and be together... Yes, I think we must join our friends."

It was immaterial to Franz; he had all he needed here, in this dilapidated remnant of an office. Nevertheless he acceded to Karl's wishes, picking up his cap from the dusty desk. Karl took up his own, and the silver-framed photograph of his dead son. That, and Franz Ulmann, was all he cared to take with him from this place.

Still following some long-outmoded pattern of behaviour he allowed Ulmann to open the door for him and stepped through it first, and they walked together into a world that had changed.

***

The cellars were full. The various groups had remained together according to nationality, the Germans looking somehow smaller and less intimidating than ever now that they and their erstwhile prisoners were all under the same threat.

Carrington and Colonel Dodd watched the arrival of the Kommandant and Hauptmann Ulmann with detachment. Since the British seemed to have taken command of most of the functions of the Castle -- inventorying supplies, organising meals, issuing blankets to the French and so forth -- they had had plenty of time to talk about their present situation. It was obvious enough that the US Army had no idea the fortress on the skyline was a prisoner-of-war camp; they were merely using it for target practice on the grounds that it was German-held. It could be anything. Even had they known there were Allied prisoners inside, there was no guarantee they would have ceased shelling on that account. No-one on the outside could know that the garrison had surrendered to the prisoners. Displaying national flags or flags of surrender would be useless; there were German artillery units still near enough to take to shelling them even if the American bombardment ceased.

"Someone has to let our guys know what's going on," Carrington said, flatly. "If I could get through the lines, speak to the officer in charge..."

"It's a good way of getting yourself killed," Dodd responded sourly.

"Yeah, I know. And if I don't do it, how many other guys're gonna get killed?"

Another barrage echoed around the Castle, men glancing upward in alarm as the ancient building creaked and groaned around them.

Carrington could sense the unease of friend and foe alike, and became aware that on the far side of the room Hauptmann Ulmann had turned to look in his direction. It was as though their thoughts mirrored one another; he would have bet his last dollar Ulmann was also concerned with the same problem.

Excusing himself from Colonel Dodd, he threaded his way through the crowd in the cellar and found Ulmann moving towards him. They met at the side of the underground room in an area piled high with wine casks.

"How much more d'you think the place can stand?" Carrington asked without preamble, giving no hint of the plan which had formed in his mind.

Ulmann shrugged, a remarkably informal gesture from one who had always been so correct. "I don't know," he admitted.

"If someone could get across the river -- let the Americans know we're here..."

"That is madness." The tone was even, the German officer not allowing his alarm to show. After five years at Colditz and a closer acquaintance with this man than with any other prisoner he was fully aware that Carrington would never consider sending any one else on such a mission. "You do not know the area, Major. There will be Volksturm, maybe even SS units..."

"I know the area better than you think, Hauptmann. Could you find me a guard -- someone who knows his way around out there?"

Ulmann's expression was grave as he considered. "Yes, there are a few local men in the complement -- but the Kommandant would not order them to go. They would have to volunteer." Almost unwillingly his eyes strayed to the older man, following his steps as he walked slowly backwards and forwards as though unable to rest.

"Why don't you ask him?"

Carrington's soft words were scarcely an intrusion on his thoughts. Ulmann had already formed that determination.

"Very well. You should discuss this with Colonel Dodd and Colonel Preston. If they will agree..." He left the rest of the sentence unspoken.

"Okay. But I'll have to go as soon as it's dark enough -- we don't want to waste any time."

***

Several hours later Carrington stood in the courtyard flanked by two of the German guards. Ulmann had not had far to seek for his two volunteers; the first two men he had approached had agreed without hesitation. They stood now, slightly indecisive, looking from their Hauptmann to the American Major and awaiting their orders. They had been fully briefed on Carrington's intentions, bemused that in these last hours of the War it suddenly seemed that they and their prisoners were all on the same side. Perhaps, after all, the rumours were true, and Britain, America and Germany would join forces against the Russians. Britain and Germany were old allies; it had never seemed right that they should fight one another.

"Be careful, Major," Ulmann warned him anxiously. "If you run into any Volksturm, let the guards do the talking. I have been unable to find out where the front line is at present, but there are still SS in the town."

"I know, Hauptmann, I'll keep a watch out for them. You keep things together until I get back, okay?"

Ulmann acknowledged the request with a smart heelclick, as the instruction of a senior officer. Absent-mindedly returning the salute, Carrington was hallway out of the gate before he realised that there was anything unusual about it.

There was very little light as the three men made their way down through the Kommandantur courtyard to the main gate, turning left as they passed through it to exit the Castle complex via the buildings that formed the married quarters. Losing height rapidly, they were soon in almost total darkness as they edged around the perimeter fence of the park which had featured in so many past escapes. The notion came to Carrington that this was just another such escape, only this time he had Hannes and Friedl with him; they should be security enough against any marauders they happened to encounter, with the possible exception of the SS who would shoot all three of them without hesitation.

No sense in looking for trouble, though; they edged well clear of any signs of human activity. Their one encounter was with the Volksturm -- with a greasy-faced, fanatic-eyed young man, to be exact, who looked far too fit not to have been on active service -- and it passed off safely, Carrington's German guards convincing the man that they had just recaptured an escapee and were returning him to the Castle. In passing, they asked him for the location of the front line. The Volksturmer laughed in their faces.

"Front line? Front line? It's all over the place. The SS have pulled out. We're the front line, now, if you ask me. Go carefully; I've seen no American units this side of the river, but they'll be across before dawn."

Thanking him they went on their way, for perhaps half a mile more along the line of the river and away from the town. Then, cutting down through the pines towards a place where the river ran wide and relatively shallow, Carrington parted with his guards.

"Go back to the road and wait for me there," he whispered. "I'll be okay from now on. " In the darkness he reached out and shook hands with each of them in turn.

"Good luck, Herr Major."

"Thanks boys. You too."

He waited until the sound of their footsteps had died away, then began to search for a place to cross the river. Before long he had come across an area where the bank had fallen in, where he would be able to wade out for a certain distance before he began to swim. Stripping off his outer clothing, he lowered himself into the water.

***

Back in the cellars of the Castle someone had conjured up a meal. The Germans sat solemnly at tables, eating as though they might never eat again, while the British, French and Americans made inroads into the wine. No-one had dreamed of touching it until the senior officers had given their permission, but now with Colonel Preston's blessing they had set out to drink as much as they could before morning -- and Colonel Dodd was apparently determined to set a good example to his men. Already his face was a deep shade of brick-red and his voice slurred as he rambled through anecdotes of his long career and grandiose schemes for the future. At this moment, indeed, he felt there was very little he could not do.

Colonel Preston, less extrovert but just as deeply moved by the occasion, leaned against a pillar and watched proceedings with a fond eye. He had never felt so close to officers under his command as he had during his five year stay at Colditz, and he would never do so again. As a widower with two young children life in civvy street would not be easy for him; there would be challenges that equalled any he had met here. He hoped he had learned something from this experience that he could put to good account after the War; at the moment he was not sure what it might be, although he supposed that keeping the unruly British contingent in order might be useful practice for bringing up children alone. He noticed, too, that he was not the only one wrestling with thoughts and emotions that seemed to require solitude. Carter was sitting aside from the general melee, his thoughts apparently turned inwards, and in another secluded corner Brent sat, pencil poised motionless over his sketch-pad. Whatever good intentions he had harboured of immortalising this scene on paper had obviously gone from his mind.

The Kommandant, too, seemed preoccupied with some inner turmoil. His face was expressionless, seeming to have had all emotion drained from it, and Preston noticed that Hauptmann Ulmann was leaning close to his commander as though offering moral -- or even physical -- support. For a moment Preston envied them that closeness; he had never known a comrade who would always be there no matter what vicissitudes life threw his way. He had thought instead that was what marriage would be. Perhaps Dick Player and Phil Carrington were in the right of it after all -- perhaps in time of war the only closeness that was safe was that between brother officers. It was a bleak viewpoint, one he doubted Carter or any of the other married men would have endorsed, and yet could any of them claim as strong a bond with their wives as with their fellow inmates? He thought not.

***

Reaching the far shore in total blackness Carrington slithered on his belly through the muddy shadows, fetching up under the curling lip of the bank in a spot sheltered by low vegetation. He was already shivering the moment the cold air touched his wet skin, but he pursed his lips and whistled a shaky rendition of the opening bars of 'John Brown's Body'. Somewhere in the shadows he heard the sound of a rifle being cocked.

He whistled again.

"Hey, Kraut, we gotta copyright on that," came a voice out of the night -- unmistakably that of a young American soldier.

"It's in the public domain," Carrington responded mildly. "Soldier, I'm an American POW; I need to see your officer."

Silence, while a certain amount of slow thinking went on behind the butt of the rifle.

"Step out where I can see you," the soldier called out. "And identify yourself."

Carrington obeyed, hands aloft, calling out his name, rank and serial number as he rose.

"Okay, Major," said the GI, obviously not believing a word of what he said, "Just you stay in front where I can see you, and we'll walk real slow along the road until we find my Lieutenant."

"That's line by me, soldier," Carrington told him, through teeth that chattered, "but could you hurry it up? I'm freezing to death out here."

***

Morning crept over Colditz in unchanged form. In the kitchen the orderlies started breakfast as usual, baking bread and assembling the ingredients for the unhealthy grey sludge they passed off as porridge. Men with fragile heads shuffled out from various places of concealment; some had spent the night in the cellars, whilst others had returned to their accustomed quarters on the basis that although they ran the risk of being killed while they slept they had an even chance of a decent night's sleep. In the cellar only those who had anaesthetised themselves with alcohol got any rest.

This morning there was no sound of guns from any side. Instead birdsong could be heard above the Castle. It was like an English Sunday morning, the languid recovery from the night before coinciding nicely with someone else's preparation of breakfast, and a strange contentment hovered about the camp.

The opening of the main gate almost went unnoticed, given that most men's thoughts had turned inevitably to the subject of food. Indeed, when Major Carrington and his two German guards stepped through into the courtyard there were very few people present who had any idea of where he had been, or why. Those who did noticed that although apparently very tired he looked fit and well, hair and beard brushed tidy, wearing different clothes to those in which he had left. A small group of British prisoners approached him as he thanked and dismissed his two companions of the night, but Carrington fobbed them off without answers to their questions. He would report directly to the two senior officers before he told anyone else his news.

Hauptmann Ulmann intercepted him before he could reach the Saalhaus steps.

"Franz!" Carrington's greeting was warm and familiar. "C'mon, you'd better be in on this."

Without giving the German officer time to respond he headed off up the spiral staircase and was shortly thereafter thundering on Colonel Dodd's door, which opened to reveal a rather sorry red-eyed specimen of humanity chomping on a wilted cigar. Within, Colonel Preston was seated at the table; some strategy meeting had apparently been in progress.

"Jesus, Phil, give a guy a break; we didn't get a lot of sleep last night."

Taking the mild rebuke at face value, Carrington grinned back. "Sorry, Colonel, only I thought you'd like to know our boys'll be here by noon. I spoke to a Captain who said they had a bit of mopping-up to do in the town before they could get up to us. I assured them," he added, turning to Ulmann, "that we'd keep for a couple more hours."

"We'll play that down, I think, Phil," Preston told him decisively. "I don't much fancy trying to contain nine hundred prisoners if they suddenly decide they want to go out and join in the battle. The only way to keep these men safe is to keep them inside the Castle until proper arrangements can be made. What do you say, Max?"

Relieved that someone else was doing the thinking this morning, Dodd was only too happy to concur.

"I'll leave it in your hands, John. It's gonna take me till noon to clear my head. It's that damned German wine," he added accusingly as if the potency of the wine had been another underhand tactic in the War.

Ulmann did not take the bait. "What do you wish me to tell the Kommandant, gentlemen?" he asked.

"Tell him," said Carrington, keeping the initiative, "that we've been told to put out national flags. I know the Kommandant didn't want us to do that, but I don't think we have a choice. I'm not at all sure those guys trusted me, and if we don't do what they want they just might flatten this place and all of us with it."

And if I'd been them, I don't know that I'd have trusted me either, he thought with rueful honesty.

"I will report that to the Kommandant," Ulmann assured him gravely.

"Okay," Dodd put in. "Then I guess apart from putting out the flags there's not a lot we can do before our boys get here?"

"Oh, I don't know," Colonel Preston told him with a smile. "We might have some breakfast, don't you think?"

***

By late morning those who knew the import of Carrington's nocturnal assignment had managed to quell their sense of anticipation enough to try and keep the peace. Ulmann's document-burning campaign was drawing to a close, and elsewhere in the Castle men were taking stock of their years of captivity and making plans for the future. Captains Nugent, Downing and Brent were strolling in the courtyard like the old friends they felt themselves to be, skirting a boules match on the cobbles which seemed to involve at least half of the massive new French contingent.

"You know what I'm plannin'?" Nugent asked them, with a swagger as if no-one else in the world could have had the cleverness to think of it. Dutifully the two Englishmen shook their heads. "Army surplus. Figure it out -- there have to be hundreds of jeeps, ambulances, uniforms, cooking-pots, desks, chairs, mattresses... things the Army don't need any more and Joe Public'll be only too grateful to get his hands on. A guy could make a fortune sellin' it all off."

"Oh yes," Brent laughed. "Everything khaki or olive drab. Don't you think people'll be ready for something that doesn't remind them of the War, Harry?"

Slightly deflated, Nugent declined to answer. "So tell me how you plan to forget about the War, huh, George?"

Brent's far-away expression hinted of a dream that had kept him sane throughout his years of captivity. "I'm going to train as a zoologist," he said. "I want to spend the rest of my life studying animals and birds. Oh, they kill," he added in justification, "but they don't spend their lives dreaming up nastier and nastier ways of doing it, and building machines so that they don't have to see it done. There's something... honest... about animals."

"And there ain't about humans? Gee, thanks, George. How about you, Tim, what's your big plan?"

"Don't have one," Downing admitted "The Army's all I know. It's what I trained for -- the Guards. I'll stay if they'll have me. If not... farm somewhere, I suppose. Kenya, maybe, or the Far East."

"I don't believe it." Brent's flat denial seemed churlish, and Downing hastened to assure him he meant every word.

"No, honestly, George, I..."

"No, not you, Tim... That."

Downing and Nugent's gazes followed the direction of Brent's pointing finger, and in the same moment many of the others in the courtyard seemed to notice what had taken his attention. The main gate had opened just a chink and a head had appeared around its edge -- low down and seeming so small and far away that men rubbed their eyes in disbelief. The head wore an American issue 'turtle' helmet, and as the figure stepped cautiously into full view it became apparent that the rest of it was dressed to match. Nugent, paralysed by the sight, let out a long, low whistle.

"Christ, it's one of ours!"

"It's a bloody Yank!" Downing yelped delightedly, advancing towards the small, timid shape with no clear idea of what he intended.

Other men had the same thought -- the same impulse to sweep towards the astonished visitor. For a moment the American seemed as if he would turn tail and run, and then the human tide engulfed him and he was lifted shoulder-high as cheering erupted around the courtyard and echoed off the ancient walls, doubling and redoubling the shout of triumph that suddenly pervaded every room in the Castle and flew joyously over the rooftops and into the crown of blue sky above.

14th April 1945

The solitary, gum-chewing GI looked like every American mom's cherished picture of her son. Fair-haired and freckle-faced, his mouth open wide with astonishment at his discovery, he was at first intimidated by the crowd of strangely-dressed men who thundered towards him -- some apparently French, some British, and at least one bearded guy with a booming voice as American as the Statue of Liberty. Instinctively he shrank back, then when their friendly intent became clear he allowed himself to be hauled onto their shoulders and carried aloft around the courtyard to a cacophonous accompaniment of cheers, whistles and the clattering of tin cups on bars whilst a ticker-tape welcome of toilet paper and torn confetti showered down from the windows above. On the far side of the yard he could just see a group of enthusiasts ripping a German flag lengthwise before setting fire to the remains. No doubt about it; this had to be some kind of lunatic asylum.

"Where're you from, soldier?" The bearded man was wearing the uniform of a US Army major, and the GI slipped down from his perch to greet him properly.

"Sandusky, Ohio," he replied briskly. "Sir. Say, what the hell is this place?"

"This is Oflag IVc, a prisoner-of-war camp, and you just liberated it."

"I did?"

"All by yourself" The man clapped the GI on the shoulder. "Nine hundred guys in here will never forget you for that. Go on -- enjoy it."

So saying, the officer released the young man to the mercy of the wildly capering crowd, losing sight of him almost immediately as he slipped away to take his place in history.

***

Not everyone who had been present when the gates opened had chosen to indulge in the most extreme celebrations. A small group had remained to one side watching the proceedings with older or more cynical eyes, the two senior officers foremost among them. Thus they were ideally positioned to notice when the gate opened a second time, this time to its widest extent, and a jeep swung through to the accompaniment of renewed cheering from the multitude. As it pulled to a halt the officer in the passenger seat stood up, and Preston and Dodd both made their way over to greet the man.

"Colonel Harrity, 9th Armoured Division." He introduced himself with the kind of grin that signified he could cope with just about anything, and Dodd took a liking to him immediately.

Harrity was about forty, wiry and fit-looking, his hair longer than the US Army would normally have countenanced and his eyes a shrewd and good-natured blue. Given half a chance Dodd would have adopted this man as his son right there and then.

"Colonel Harrity, may I present Colonel Preston, the Senior British Officer? And my name, sir, is Maximilian Dodd." The smooth Southern courtesy which was as much Dodd's trademark as his cigars had not been dulled by his time in captivity.

"Delighted, gentlemen, delighted. Now, is there anything you need?"

Dodd and Preston looked at one another, and it was Preston who spoke.

"I think, Colonel, that as soon as it becomes available we'd all like transport out of here."

"Sure, I'll see what I can arrange, but it's going to take a couple of hours. Can you keep things together that long?"

"I should think we might manage." The Senior British Officer could not help the broad smile that crossed his face as he spoke. Only a couple of hours more, when he had kept things going for more than four years? Yes, he could cope with that.

"Okay. Now, is there anything you want me to take care of?"

"In what respect?" At a loss, Preston glanced over towards his fellow senior officer for guidance.

"I -- er," Dodd coughed. "I think, John, he means a little 'summary justice'. No, thank you, Colonel, I don't believe that will be necessary -- although there are a couple of things we need to bring to your attention. Won't you step inside for a moment?"

At Harrity's assent, Dodd guided the man towards an open doorway which led away from the noisy celebrations and into a small dim area that was for the moment untenanted. As soon as the three of them drew to a halt, Dodd broached the subject that was troubling him.

"Colonel, a detachment of eighteen prisoners was removed from here on 8th March heading for Stalag IVz at Altengrabow. We believe them to be under Wehrmacht control, but it's our opinion that Hitler ultimately intends to use them as hostages. There was nothing we could do to stop them being taken, although we did try to assure ourselves of their safety as far as possible. We'd like very much to find out what happened to them."

Harrity nodded. "Can you get me a list of names?"

"No problem. One more thing."

"Yeah?"

"You need to look out for a Major Horst Mohn, a Luftwaffe officer. He's maybe six feet tall, brown hair, grey eyes, probably still carrying the scars of an old stomach wound. He was second-in-command here until he disappeared on March 16th. If you find this guy, make sure you hang on to him. He's pure poison."

"I'll pass the word around. Consider it taken care of."

"Thank you, Colonel." It was Preston who spoke. "Now, may I ask your intentions concerning the German officers remaining in the castle?"

Harrity rubbed a thoughtful hand across his chin. "They'll be the prisoners of the US First Army," he said, "and dealt with strictly in accordance with the Geneva Convention. Is that what you mean?"

"Partly," Preston nodded, "but within the limitations of their duty the Kommandant and Hauptmann Ulmann in particular have treated us with great courtesy, and we would be obliged if you would treat them in the same way."

Harrity's eyebrows rose. This was a new one on him; he did not often meet anyone with much concern for the defeated German Army, and it was perhaps the last thing he had expected of liberated prisoners of war.

"I'll see to it personally," he confirmed. "My orders are to take everybody here -- prisoners, Germans, the whole crapgame -- to a transit camp near Chemnitz. There's a unit from the War Crimes Commission waiting there to interview you, and what ultimately happens to your Krauts will be up to them. I guess you could put in a good word on their behalf if you wanted to."

"Thank you, Colonel Harrity, we'll give that serious consideration." Dodd was aware his younger colleague was anxious to be about his business; it had become customary to think of Colditz as the centre of the universe, and it would have been easy for them to lose sight of the many claims on the Colonel's time. "We'd like to offer you a drink, but I suspect you have other duties."

"Afraid I'll have to take a rain check, Colonel, but thank you. I have things to do in the town -- but first I need to go on over and accept your Kommandant's formal surrender. You want to come with me?"

"No. No thank you." Preston demurred instantly; Dodd, who might have accepted, chose instead to follow his example. The victories and defeats of armies in the field seemed scarcely relevant at this moment; there had been no personal triumph over the Kommandant for either of them, and neither felt any need to witness his final capitulation.

"You go ahead, Colonel," Dodd conceded, accepting and returning a casual salute, friendly rather than military. In a moment Harrity was striding back across the yard, leaving the two men staring after him with their thoughts in some disarray.

"Is this really freedom, Max?" Preston asked after a moment. "It's been so long, I'm not sure I recognise it any more. It seems incredible that it can be over as easily as that -- just because Colonel Harrity says so."

"Oh, you'll get used to it -- but for the time being we're needed here; for one thing, we have to try and stop our men taking the place apart and smuggling it out bit by bit as souvenirs. C'mon, John, we still have a little 'senior officering' to do."

With a laugh Preston conceded the point, following Dodd out of the seclusion of their small corner and into the chaos of the courtyard once more.

***

The sounds of rejoicing had long since reached the devastated Kommandantur building where the remaining German contingent were housed. The Kommandant and Hauptmann Ulmann had settled in a small office, no larger than seven feet in any dimension, which had formerly been the preserve of the Supply officer. It contained a large scratched and battered desk and two chairs, and one wall supported a set of pigeon-holes which had long since been emptied of anything but dust.

The Kommandant's only concern now was to make his handover to the Americans as correct as possible. He had been working for some time on updating the nominal roll of prisoners, annotating it so far as he could with the departure dates and destinations of all those who had been removed through official channels during his tenure, and as he did so it was brought home to him with crushing force how few of their fates were known for certain. What, for instance, had become of the French who were removed in April of 1944? Where, now, were the Prominente whose destination had caused both Carrington and Ulmann such anxiety? He supposed all such matters came under the cloak of 'Nacht und Nebel', the notorious policy of 'darkness and fog' which had surrounded so many official decisions towards the end of the War.

"There are," he said, unevenly, "two hundred and seven men I am unable to account for; one hundred and forty three French, forty one Poles, eighteen Prominente -- and five prisoners escaped and recaptured away from the castle whose fates are not known. We know that the French and the Poles were taken away to work camps; how many of them, Franz, do you suppose have survived?"

Ulmann's hand rested lightly on the Kommandant's shoulder, bestowing reassurance. He had tried to relieve Karl of this particular task, but the older man's stubborn sense of duty and his obsessive need to concentrate on the minutiae of the handover had been too great for him. Instead he had opted for sitting as close as he could, offering occasional support and encouragement, trying to distract Karl's attention from the uncertainty of their own destiny.

"I... don't know," he said slowly. "But what more could you have done? You brought the garrison and the majority of the prisoners to the end of the War alive and in reasonable health; how many commanders in the field can say the same?"

"It was not enough," Karl told him. "My hands are still just as dirty; I should have seen the evil in what we were doing -- all of us, Franz, even you -- but I didn't. Willi tried to tell me, but I didn't listen to him. I often think that perhaps he had the best of the bargain; where he is, no guilt can touch him."

Recognising the blackness of the mood, Ulmann refrained from comment. How could he utter platitudes, even with the best of intentions? Their country, their beloved Germany, had lost so much -- and so had they. Finding each other, acknowledging the truth of the feelings they shared, had been their only consolation; it was all they would take from the wreckage of so many lives.

Outside in the corridor there was a flurry of activity, the sound of footsteps, and then a brisk knock at the door. One of their own guards entered and stood smartly to attention, capless and dishevelled but still adhering to his duty to the best of his ability. Despite himself; the Kommandant found a thin smile for the man.

"Herr Oberst, the American Colonel is in the courtyard. He says... he says he is ready to accept your surrender."

A deep sigh, an acknowledgement, and Karl rose to his feet wearily. With slow, deliberate movements he took up his cap from the desk and set it on his head, taking an extra moment to adjust it to perfection. Then, with Ulmann close at his side, he stepped out into the watery sunlight.

The Kommandantur courtyard seemed much changed, even allowing for the considerable contingent of American soldiers ranged around its perimeter. The garrison had formed up in neat files, soldiers standing at ease as they waited for the final act but snapping to attention at the sight of their Kommandant. The scene was orderly enough to gladden the most critical eye; civilised men behaving in a civilised manner, no matter what their various governments may have decreed.

The American Colonel strode over, snapping off a sharp salute which the Kommandant returned.

"Sir, my name is Harrity, Colonel, United States 9th Armoured Division. I'm here to accept your formal surrender."

For a moment the Kommandant eyed the man almost in disbelief. He had been anticipating this moment for a long time, and somehow he had expected it to be different; he had expected it to be without any shred of dignity for the conquered; he had expected mockery and insults rather than this punctilious military courtesy. A sense of bewilderment had set in, his mind dissociating itself from its surroundings, and it was only with an effort that he managed to pull himself together enough to respond to Harrity's greeting.

"On behalf of my officers and men -- and myself -- I surrender," he said resolutely. "I have here a manifest of the garrison and prisoners which is as complete as I can make it. I would ask," he added, in a lower tone, "that we be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention."

The American nodded in acknowledgement. "You are prisoners of the Army of the United States of America, Kommandant, and will be treated appropriately. My orders are to move you out as soon as possible, and I expect to have transport here within the hour. Until that time you may move around the castle freely, but if you make any attempt to leave you will be shot. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear, Colonel."

"Uh-huh," Harrity took a moment to assess the man who faced him; pale and resolute, the German officer seemed an unremarkable figure to have inspired such respect even in his prisoners. Many men in his position would have tried to impose their personalities on the command by sheer arrogance, suppressing with brutality any opposition to their will, but the two captive Colonels had obviously had a very different experience with this man. Despite the circumstances, he found time to be intrigued. "Very well, Kommandant, you may carry on. I'll inform you of the transport arrangements personally as soon as I can. If you're in any doubt about your personal safety I'd suggest you stay put over on this side of the Castle, but I guess you know your prisoners have a pretty high opinion of you and this guy Hauptmann Ulmann. Whatever it was you did to deserve that, don't mess it up now."

The American's remark only added to the Kommandant's bewilderment. He had known Ulmann was held in great esteem by many of the prisoners but it had never really occurred to him that he himself was also kindly regarded, although he had been aware of a mutual respect between himself and the senior officers. Perhaps he would take more away from his time at Colditz than he had anticipated.

"Thank you, Colonel, I will bear in mind what you say." A further brisk exchange of salutes, and the brief interview was terminated. Colonel Harrity turned and walked away, the papers the Kommandant had given him tucked under his arm, and with his departure went the very last vestige of German authority in Colditz castle. The Kommandant watched it go, and did not feel a single twinge of regret.

***

The sudden change in the regime at Colditz, although predicted well in advance, had nevertheless taken some men almost by surprise. Carter, in particular, was feeling excluded from the general air of rejoicing. He left the courtyard and made his way to the dormitory, spending some time collecting together all the letters his wife had sent him over the years, preparing himself mentally to leave the Castle. His movements were slow and considered, everything he did now being stored away in some secret reserve of memory for future reference. There would be those who could not wait to walk away, to turn their backs on the fortress and forget about it forever. Of them all, Carter was the first to realise that freedom might have its drawbacks -- that they might, in some cases, look back on their time in Colditz fondly, as the time in their lives when they had been of most use.

A modest career in the Town Clerk's Department beckoned him; the permanent weakness in his ankle meant that he would always limp, and no doubt by the time the vivid memories of the War had faded his younger colleagues would come to consider him a figure of fun. Only in Colditz -- in the four and a half years of his residency -- had he made a difference. As a seasoned escaper and later Escape Officer he had helped or hindered men's plans, had used his wits and his talents time and time again in the cause of his own freedom and that of others. Compared to his brief career as a pilot it had been a far greater achievement; what could civilian life show him that paralleled in any way his role here? Fatherhood, he supposed without much enthusiasm. Growing old and fat and forgetful surrounded by his family. It was what many men dreamed of -- and indeed what a good many of them had been fighting for. Could it ever, now, be enough for him? Or would there always in future be an emptiness inside, a sneaking unworthy wish that captivity -- and usefulness -- could have extended forever?

He shuddered, bundling together his belongings in a distracted haze, trying to find within himself that joy he had always expected would follow when the end of the War was announced. It was there, but it was far below the other feelings whose presence caused him such grief. Much of his growing-up had been done at Colditz; it had been his University, and the thought of leaving it behind gave him more pain than he could ever have imagined.

***

Carrington, too, had taken a back seat during the merriment in the courtyard. His exertions of the night were beginning to catch up with him, and he had suffered many of the misgivings that had occurred to Carter. Feeling detached from the celebrations around him, he had nevertheless stayed long enough in the midst of the throng to exchange greetings with his friends, retiring at last to the turret windowsill where he and Dick Player had spent so much time together. Now, when he looked out at the vista of stone walls, blank sky and figures in the courtyard, the pain of Richard's absence was somehow dulled, transformed by the delight of their fellow prisoners. How many of them would spare a thought for the young Naval officer? Very few, he suspected, although they had all valued him when he was alive. Memories fade; Carrington knew that. In time even he would find it difficult to recall Richard's face, the tone of his voice, the mannerisms that had once been so familiar to them. That was the way it was supposed to be, however, and nothing could take away from him the knowledge of Richard's love; he'd carried that with him through two long years of separation, and would carry it for the rest of his life.

He had none of Carter's anxieties about the future, however. His life's pattern was already set; plans made long ago and only delayed by the War would finally come to fruition and he would continue to serve his country as he had been doing. The details of the work might change from time to time, as might the identities and uniforms of his colleagues, but as long as there was a job for him to do he would do it.

He'd worked as hard for the freedom of the individuals in Colditz as any man, and in the end he'd been the one privileged to usher in the freedom of them all; this was as much his triumph as anyone else's, and while he could not share in their noisy delight he took quiet satisfaction in the achievement. Every stone of the castle had some tale to tell; the rooftop opposite was the one over which he and Carter had edged with the two Poles back in '42 before the identity of the traitor was discovered, the kitchen to his right had marked the first stage of his escape with Pat Grant, the chapel away to his left had been the site of the extraordinary French tunnel. It would be interesting to go over there now and lift the floor and see whether the tunnel was still in place -- maybe even go down there and take a look; he'd never get a better chance.

And then there were all the escapes that hadn't got further than the planning stages; tunnels and substitutions, false papers and uniforms made and hoarded -- the place had been a hive of industry, with officers making whatever contribution they could to the general effort. They could all take a great pride in having been involved.

Hell, he thought, we even built a glider! What would Ulmann have made of that, if he could have seen it?

And in that moment, the determination formed that Ulmann should see the glider. There was just about time, the transport wasn't coming for a while; why couldn't he just walk on over to the Kommandantur and invite Hauptmann Ulmann to come for a stroll with him?

The Kommandant'd never make it up all those stairs, he acknowledged ruefully, but Ulmann... yeah.

He had little difficulty talking his way into the Kommandantur building. Even walking out freely through the main gate with American servicemen standing guard was not the culture shock he might have expected, but the pleasure of the two senior German officers when he arrived at their refuge caught him unaware. His request to the Kommandant to be allowed to 'borrow' Hauptmann Ulmann for a few minutes, however, returned the compliment in full.

"Of course, but... why?"

"Well, Kommandant, I can't tell you that without ruining the surprise; you're just gonna have to trust me. What d'you say, Franz?"

"I... yes. I'll go with you."

Carrington nodded. Then, without a trace of awkwardness, he held out his hand to the Kommandant.

"We might not get a chance to say 'goodbye'," he told him. "I guess you already know how much we three have in common; it's good to know some of us found something to hang on to in all of this. I... er, I brought you something."

From his jacket pocket he drew the battered remains of the book of poems Dick Player had abstracted from the Castle library and which Ulmann had passed on to him three months earlier. It was all he had to remember Richard by, yet there seemed to be a more pressing need than his own; if these two men were also to be separated, they too might find some value in the verses Mohn had so despised.

Karl took both the book and the offered hand in some astonishment. "Goodbye, Major Carrington," he said, with stunned simplicity, not betraying whether or not he had any idea of the significance of the gift. That was all right with Carrington; he knew Ulmann would understand. "Perhaps -- perhaps we will meet again, under happier circumstances?"

"I'm counting on it." The handshake was as warm as any between friends, and then Carrington spun away towards the door. "Don't worry about Franz -- don't I always make sure he gets back in one piece?"

Before the Kommandant could make any further response Carrington had vanished out into the courtyard and with a shrug and a bemused expression Ulmann followed him a moment later, leaving Karl standing alone in the small office and wondering whether, at this late stage, everyone around him had succumbed to a particularly virulent form of infectious insanity; nothing else could explain Carrington's conduct -- except perhaps that he had been insane all along and no-one had ever noticed.

Carrington's gift had left him dumbfounded, and he turned the small volume over and over in his hands as though he had no real idea what a book was for. Yet he remembered that one particular book had been a talisman for Player and Carrington, and he supposed that this was it. The American's generosity was astonishing, and he patted the book affectionately before slipping it into his pocket. Major Carrington had certainly turned out to be a man one could respect; in fact, he had displayed some very unexpected qualities. But where on Earth had he taken Franz -- and why?

***

They encountered many amused glances as they crossed the courtyard and entered the building side-by-side, but no hostility was expressed towards the German. Indeed one or two officers even called out greetings, culminating in Captain Downing's friendly "Hello, Hauptmann, where are you heading?" as they worked their way up the second spiral staircase.

"Major Carrington has invited me on a 'mystery tour'," Ulmann replied swiftly, provoking great amusement in his audience.

"Has he really? Well, if you're going where I think you're going, Phil, I'd like to tag along."

"Be my guest, Tim. Any idea where Shaw is?"

"I think he's up there already, doing guided tours at half-a-crown a head."

"Great minds think alike. Well, c'mon, Franz, we still have a mountain to climb."

"But there is nothing up there except the prisoners' library!"

"That's what you think!" Carrington called back, dashing on ahead.

Downing laughed again. "Press on, Hauptmann," he urged, "it's worth all the effort, I can assure you; I'll follow on behind."

In this order, therefore, they made their way up the remaining stairs, arriving at the prisoners' library to encounter a small group of men laughing and chattering in very high spirits. To Ulmann's astonishment, however, a large set of bookshelves had been pulled away from one wall to reveal a hatchway which obviously led into some secret area, and Carrington made straight for the opening and dived through it.

"After you, Hauptmann," Downing told him genially.

Ulmann folded his long frame into the gap, emerging onto a narrow, dusty stairway, and set off upwards in Carrington's wake to find himself in a wide attic space entirely dominated by the blue and white bulk of what appeared to be -- and when he closed and re-opened his eyes in disbelief certainly was -- a full-sized glider.

"Why, Hauptmann Ulmann -- come to see Colditz's best-kept secret?" Squadron Leader Shaw's hearty greeting resounded around the attic. A few other officers were present, inspecting and admiring the astonishing contraption Shaw and his team had created, exclaiming in delight over the ingenuity of its construction. "Let me take you through the design of the beast, Hauptmann; the airframe is made of beech, the..."

Shaw got no farther, for the German officer's response to the sight stopped him in full flow. A grin of stunned delight crossed his face, to be followed a moment later by a deep rumble of laughter which took Ulmann firmly in its grip. A moment later he was convulsed by it, his eyes shining with mirth as he caught at breath without success. Here was farce, indeed! Here was something funnier than any contrived stage performance! Here was the triumph of the human spirit over adversity, and he found it at once so comical and so enlightening that he was helpless before it.

"Oh, gentlemen," he said, struggling for words, "my congratulations. It is a wonderful sight -- a work of art -- a miracle!"

Amused, Shaw clapped him warmly on the shoulder. "I'm glad you like it, Hauptmann. You truly had no idea it was here?"

"None in the world; this attic does not even appear on the plans. And you have built all this... this beautiful craft... without proper materials or tools? Squadron Leader Shaw, you are a true visionary."

"Thank you, Hauptmann. Come and have a look at the workshop."

"Certainly. And you must tell me how you did this..."

As Shaw led the German officer away on his guided tour Downing leaned closer to Carrington. "Imagine that," he grinned. "Old Ulmann, laughing. Didn't know he had it in him."

"Great, isn't it? Maybe he'd just forgotten how. Maybe we all have."

"Hmmm. Well then, no doubt this is where we start to learn again -- eh, Phil?"

"Can't be soon enough for me, Tim," Carrington told him with a smile.

***

The first trucks pulled into the Kommandantur courtyard some forty minutes later to remove the German contingent. Ulmann and Carrington were at the time just returning through the gateway, with Colonel Preston close behind, much to the relief of the Captain who had been left in charge of the transport arrangements and had formed up the remaining guards as before whilst allowing the officers to remain inside the building. The Kommandant, however, stood in the doorway with Doktor Hoffner, overseeing the procedure with his usual thorough caution. His men had not been handled with kid gloves precisely, but he had seen no evidence of maltreatment of any sort, and they filed into their allotted vehicles with weary resignation rather than anger or fear.

The American Captain ticked Ulmann's name off the list he carried. "Okay, that's everybody. Senior officers in the last truck."

Preston crossed to where the Kommandant stood, facing him with neither a smile nor a salute but with an expression that carried genuine regret.

"Well, Kommandant, in four years this is the first time we've said 'goodbye'."

The Kommandant's mouth twisted wryly. "You have won a great victory here, Colonel Preston," he said. "You, personally."

A momentary embarrassment, then Preston said, "Somehow one doesn't think of it like that."

"No. I am quite sure you would not. Goodbye, Colonel." The Kommandant offered a salute, the correct form imbued with a respect that had been earned over four painful years. Preston returned it, but then spoke again, holding out his hand.

"I hope you'll shake hands as well, Kommandant. Goodbye, and good luck."

"And to you, Colonel." A brief handclasp, and the Kommandant turned aside to conceal a sudden flux of emotion. This was all far more difficult than he had expected it to be.

"Hauptmann Ulmann." Preston also shook hands with the Kommandant's perennial shadow, then stood back with arms folded and head on one side whilst Ulmann and Carrington helped the older man into the truck.

"So long, Franz," Carrington said, loudly enough for at least half the Americans in the courtyard to hear him. "Take good care of yourself."

"Thank you, Major Carrington. I have..." Words failed Ulmann then and a long pause ensued, the two men looking at one another intently as though remembering everything that had passed, measuring the years of captivity in the growth of friendship.

I have learned so much from you.

But perhaps it was something that should not after all have been said.

It was Carrington who broke the impasse, gripping Ulmann's hand in both of his and squeezing with all his might.

"The next time we meet," he insisted, "I'll expect you to call me by my first name."

"Philip," Ulmann said, with difficulty. "Goodbye, Philip."

"'Bye, Franz -- for now."

***

Ulmann could not afterwards have said how he struggled into the truck; it was certain that he could not see for the stinging in his eyes, and that willing hands had pulled him upwards -- Karl's and those of Hoffner among them -- and helped him into his place on the last half-metre of wooden bench. The lower back of the truck was closed up instantly, Ulmann's view of the courtyard restricted to a small rectangle at eye height as Preston and Carrington obligingly moved back into his line of sight. There could be no more conversation; the engine of the truck was already being revved up, a shudder passing through it and everyone aboard as it began to move. Then, slowly, the figures of the two Allied officers began to grow smaller as the truck moved at funereal pace towards the exit, the town and the future. In one last despairing moment Ulmann held up a hand, seeking a final contact with the friend who had had such a catalytic effect on his life, and the wave was returned by both Carrington and, to his surprise, Preston. Then the truck passed under the archway and out onto the road and Ulmann turned to face the small, pale figure of his Kommandant on the seat opposite.

Karl reached across and patted his hand reassuringly.

"This is not the end of anything, Franz," he said, and Ulmann nodded in agreement.

"No," he said, accepting the truth of the words even as he turned his hand to accept his lover's grip. "This is where it begins."

***

The trucks to remove the ex-prisoners were not brought right into the castle but remained lined up along the road outside. It proved difficult to marshal their intending passengers into any semblance of order -- an end-of-term spirit imbued the men, and they clustered in the courtyard with their belongings like so many overgrown schoolboys heading home for the holidays. Some, it seemed, were intent on taking half the castle home in their luggage, whilst others had formed the determination to walk out unburdened, hands in pockets, and shrug off in that moment everything that Colditz had meant to them.

The French would not be quelled; in vain their officers called for silence, but to them freedom meant also a release from the necessity of obeying such commands and they continued to sing at the tops of their voices and generally to act like wilful children until the order was given to board the trucks. What ensued then was something resembling a stampede of wild animals, with the British and American contingents standing well back while the chaos began to sort itself out, taking great delight in the enthusiasm of the French troops and at the same time feeling slightly superior to them.

It took a considerable time, and if a muted chorus of 'Why are we waiting?' broke out amongst his own men Preston had the good sense to ignore it. He certainly took no notice of the buzz of conversation that became more apparent when the French chattering and shouting was subsumed in the roar of truck engines as their allies preceded them on the road to Chemnitz. Eventually, however, he called everyone to order.

"Gentlemen, will you now please prepare to board the trucks?"

***

He was impressed with the way they lined up quietly to do so, as though in deliberate contrast to the performance of the French. Most of them were going to have to leave their souvenirs behind, he thought with an indulgent smile; there was far too much extra baggage for any self-respecting aircraft to carry. But let others explain that to them when it came to embarkation; he had done with his role of headmaster, his chivvying and chiding and chastising. It was a profound relief, now, to let the responsibility not only for them but also for himself pass into someone else's hands at last.

Colonel Harrity's driver was standing by the gate waiting for him. So were Carter and Brent; everyone else had gone on ahead. They had filed out neatly in ones and twos -- Downing had rocketed out on a 'liberated' motorcycle, Shaw strolled away deep in conversation with the Padre, Carrington and Nugent wisecracking to the last.

"Colonel Harrity's waiting outside, sir," the driver told him, interrupting a moment of reflection as Preston stared slowly around the litter-strewn yard. Whatever the fate of the castle, someone was going to have a monumental cleaning-up job to do before it could be put to use again. "Colonel Dodd's with him .They thought you'd be more comfortable in the jeep."

Preston's eyebrows rose. "Thank you. I'll be along shortly." He turned back to his contemplation, the voices of the years calling to him from the now-silent stones. Like Carrington before him he saw a story in every cobble, every window bar, every discarded length of plaited blue-and-white rope festooned around the walls. Men's ingenuity was written in every line, their courage in every shadow, their determination in every lock, bolt and bar. Let others see captivity as failure if they must, but to him Colditz had been a triumph. In years to come none of them would be ashamed of having been captured; they would speak of their time at Colditz with pardonable pride, and he would be among them. It was the achievement of their lives, and it must never be forgotten.

The driver went on ahead. Carter and Brent flanked their Colonel as silently, involved with their own thoughts, the three of them stepped through the gate, walked down across the Kommandantur courtyard -- and exited at last into the road outside.

14th April 1945

Neither Preston nor Dodd looked back as the jeep pulled away from the Castle. Ahead of them stretched their convoy, thirty trucks in a dark green snake already spread out over a mile or more of road, and steadily Colonel Harrity's driver worked his way up through the procession passing one after another with the jeep's lights on and one hand on the horn. There would have been little possibility of conversation, had any of the parties felt in a talkative mood, until the leading vehicle in the convoy had been passed and they were out on the road to Chemnitz at the head of the parade. Their progress was not especially rapid, however, due to the unpredictable nature of the road's surface and the frequent pot-holes and diversions. As they slowed to overcome yet one more in a series of obstacles, Harrity swung round from the front seat and addressed his two passengers.

"That Luftwaffe officer you mentioned to me... Major Mohn?"

With difficulty Dodd drew his attention away from the infinite and back to the immediate. "Horst Mohn. What about him? Have you found him?"

Harrity grimaced. "Well that's kind of a moot point, Colonel. We've got a body -- charred and buried in a shallow grave on the edge of a wood -- and we've got your man Mohn's identity documents. Problem is they're not as badly burned as they ought to be, which makes me wonder if they were put there for us to find. My people say the man's been dead about three or four weeks, which would fit in with the last time you saw Mohn, but were going to need an autopsy before we can be sure."

"I'm sure," Colonel Preston said crisply. "It's just too convenient. When he left the castle he must have been well aware that someone would come looking for him sooner or later; what better way to put them off the scent than by providing them with a body?"

Harrity's grin broadened as Preston spoke. "That's pretty well what the guy from the War Crimes Commission said, too. He called him a sneaky bastard; said he'd strangle his own grandmother if he thought it'd do him some good."

"Sounds as if he knew the Herr Major pretty well," Dodd told him. "Who are these people, Colonel? Intelligence?"

"Mostly. This one was seconded from your British Navy, Colonel Preston. Said he used to be in submarines. Matter of fact," he added thoughtfully, "he said he'd been a POW too, but he didn't say where. Guess it could've been Colditz at that."

A thin smile from Preston. "I doubt it, Colonel. We only had one Naval officer who escaped from Colditz, and he was reported killed in the Med." That memory would live with him forever; Carrington's quiet grief; the compassion of the Kommandant and Ulmann, his own stunned disbelief at what he was hearing and the way it was said were images he sometimes had difficulty reconciling with the circumstances of the War. So a man had died; what made him special enough for the two Germans to pay such particular attention to his death? Yet recalling it now was the twisting of a knife in a wound, as though in some way Dick had represented all that was good in Colditz -- the spirit of survival, perhaps.

"Is that so? Well, that's a pity," Harrity continued, oblivious to Preston's internal monologue. "From what I've seen of this guy Player, though, he knows what he's doing. If that body isn't Mohn -- well, we'll just keep on looking."

In the back seat of the jeep looks were traded that spoke of a sudden convulsive surge of hope ruthlessly quelled by souls that expected nothing but the worst.

"Did he say 'Player'?" Dodd asked Preston. "Can it be a brother or something? I mean, how common a name is it in England?"

"Comparatively rare." White-faced, Preston sought to deal with teeming emotions and thoughts that would not be controlled. "Colonel Harrity, you did say the Naval officer's name was Player? Do you happen to know his first name?"

Catching on quickly, Harrity shared the wildness of the surmise.

"You think it could be the guy you knew? No, I don't know his first name -- but he's a Commander, young, blond, I guess what you'd call upper-crust."

"That certainly sounds like Dick, although the last thing we heard he was only a Lieutenant-Commander." Preston had become agitated, glancing back towards the ribbon of the convoy as it followed them along the tortuous route. Somewhere in one of those thirty trucks was a man who would sell his soul to see Dick Player alive and well again; was it possible that he might after all have the chance?

"Colonel Harrity, if this Player is the same man who escaped from Colditz back in '43 we have some people who are very anxious to meet up with him again -- and one in particular he's gonna want to see. They -- uh -- they were close." That just about covered it, thought Dodd, although if what he knew of Phil Carrington was anything to go by it matched his passion about as closely as a candle-flame matches the sun.

"Is that so?" Harrity's eyebrows soared, but to his eternal credit he did not ask any awkward questions; had they known it, the two Colonels were projecting the strong desire that he should not, so he accepted their words at face value. "Well, what d'you want to do about it?"

"I think I'd better speak to Commander Player as soon as possible," Preston told him, "and Max, you'd better take charge of Phil. We can't have this situation getting out of control."

The older American nodded his agreement. "Okay," he said. "Colonel Harrity, is there any way we can get there well ahead of the trucks?"

"Sure -- they're restricted to convoy speed. We can go faster, but we'll get shaken to pieces."

"I think we'll risk that, Colonel. If this is Dick Player, we've got to get to him first."

Harrity didn't quibble. He'd learned enough about Preston and Dodd in the last few hours to trust their instincts; if they said it was important then hell, who was he to argue?

"You heard the Colonel," he told his driver with a shrug. "Step on the gas."

***

The transit camp was based at an airfield which had obviously been damaged by bombing at some stage in its career. Camouflaged buildings in a variety of utilitarian designs bordered a network of roads and runways, and the place was a hive of activity as trucks and jeeps in all manner of Allied liveries pulled in and out at frequent intervals. In all conscience it was not an attractive location, but to Dodd and Preston who had seen little but the environs of Colditz Castle for some considerable time it was Shangri-La.

As the jeep turned onto a perimeter road the two officers were distracted by the sound of a transport aircraft thundering along the main runway, making a laboriously slow take-off into skies that were no longer filled with the Luftwaffe. They watched it go in fascination, then turned back to Harrity as he remarked quietly, "There go another fifty guys heading for home, gentlemen. Your turn in a few hours -- just the formalities to deal with first."

"My children," Preston said suddenly. They had never been far from his thoughts, but the notion that he would see them in the next day or so was utterly bewildering. How they would have grown! His daughter would be almost nine by now, his son seven, and he had missed the most vital part of their childhood. What was more, he hadn't been there to console them when their mother was killed; how long ago it all seemed, yet the wound was still raw. "My children."

A comforting hand on his shoulder. "C'mon, John, this is no time to fall apart. Your children'll be fine for a couple more hours."

"I know. I just hope they'll recognise me."

Dodd grinned. "Let's get this Player business sorted out," he said, "and then I'm going to buy you a drink. What about it, Colonel Harrity, is there somewhere around here a man can quench his thirst?"

An answering smile from the younger officer. "There sure is, Colonel -- and by the way, the name's Ed."

***

Within ten minutes of arrival at the transit camp, Colonel Preston found himself alone in a small waiting-room into which the sun poured like molten gold. Half a dozen odd chairs were ranged around the walls, a few books scattered on a table in the centre -- it could have been a dentist's waiting-room but the signs of recent occupation placed it firmly in a Luftwaffe establishment of some description; even the calendar bore Gothic script and the text in German. When shown into the room he had taken a seat as requested, but as soon as his escort departed he had stood and walked to the window, feasting his eyes on a view of hangars, taxi-ing aircraft, trucks, motor-bikes and the general melee of activity. It so fascinated him that he did not hear the door open and close quietly, and the words which dropped into the room hit him with a hammer blow.

"Colonel Preston?"

He swung round, finding himself face-to-face with a strong-looking and confident fair-haired man in the uniform of the Royal Navy, three rings of gold braid on his sleeves.

"Good God, Dick, we thought you were dead." The impulse to greet Player like a long-lost brother almost overcame him, but Preston settled for a handshake which became a two-handed grip while his eyes stung and blurred. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. Do you know that Phil Carrington's with us -- in our convoy?"

"Phil? No, I had no idea. How on Earth did he end up back at Colditz?"

"That's a long story, but he's coming here. He believes you're dead," Preston reiterated. "The Germans told us HMS Tercel had been sunk with all hands."

"So she was, but I wasn't with her -- I'd just been seconded to Combined Intelligence. She was under her new captain; he lost her first trip out -- and himself if it comes to that. Colonel, are you telling me Phil's..." He stopped, the words just not forming in the face of Preston's revelation and his own sudden confusion.

"You know Phil." It was the understatement of a lifetime. "How do you think he'd have taken news of your death?"

Distress washed across Player's regular features. "God," he breathed, "I can't begin to imagine. I only know how I'd've felt... Colonel, I'm going to have to put this right."

"The minute our convoy arrives, Colonel Dodd will find Phil and bring him here," Preston assured him. "In the meantime, tell me how in Heaven's name you ended up in Combined Intelligence."

A short, delighted laugh. "Oh, Colonel, that's the funniest part of all. One weekend when I was on leave I bumped into Ted Bentinct-Boyle at a party; he was working for the War Crimes Commission and he said they might have a job for me. By the time I got back from my next cruise it was all set up -- and now I'm preparing cases for the Tribunal."

"Tribunal?"

"It'll be at Nuremberg, as soon as we can get everything organised. We're going to put Hitler and all the top Nazis on trial -- and we need witnesses against them. People like yourself, Colonel."

Preston's expression froze. "I can't be a witness against anybody," he said coolly. "Except possibly Major Mohn. I won't say anything against Ulmann or the Kommandant, and I don't suppose you'll find anyone else who will."

"No, Colonel," Player responded reassuringly, "I don't expect to. I would imagine they'll be interned for a while, but I shouldn't think we'll need to prosecute either of them. They'll be free to return to their homes -- if their homes are still there."

The Colonel let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Anything else," he assured Player with gratitude, "would scarcely be justice."

The Naval officer did not hear him. He had turned away and was now looking out of the window towards the main gate -- which, for the moment, appeared to be quieter than usual.

"How far behind did you say your convoy was, Colonel?"

***

It was another half-hour before the slow-moving convoy approached the perimeter of the airfield. Dodd, smoking and striding back-and-forth along the length of the building like an expectant father, spotted the first truck as it turned in through the gate and hurried back towards the point where Harrity's driver had set the three Colonels down. If he wasn't careful there could be total chaos here as nine hundred prisoners tumbled out of the trucks, and he wouldn't stand a snowflake's chance in hell of getting Carrington out of the middle of the mess. He'd evolved a simple enough plan; stop the first truck and send one man from it to each of the others looking for Major Carrington. Until he had Carrington, no-one else would leave the trucks -- and they could make whatever they would of the delay. Preston's assurance that the Intelligence officer was identical with the Player who had escaped from Colditz eighteen months earlier had been no real surprise to him -- it would have been too much of a coincidence had it been anyone else -- but there were still a lot of questions unanswered, chief among which was how the hell Phil was going to cope with knowing that the lover he had been mourning was alive and well and not a hundred yards away.

From somewhere close to the tail of the convoy Carrington came hurrying, uniform cap in hand, an expression of deepest concern on a face which had aged appreciably even during the short time Dodd had known him Oblivious to the shouts of the other ex-prisoners as they disembarked, Dodd drew Carrington into the building and into the temporary quiet of a long, cool corridor.

"What's the matter, Colonel? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Not yet. But you're about to." He gripped Carrington's arm in ham-fisted reassurance. "Phil, Dick Player's here -- alive and well, and can't wait to see you. Room 31, down the corridor on the right-hand side." Dodd turned, indicating with his free hand. "It's him all right, Colonel Preston's been talking to him. You'd better move, Phil, before we both get trampled in the rush."

"Colonel, I..." Utter mystification on Carrington's face, and for a moment he held onto Dodd as to a life-raft in a treacherous sea. His mouth was moving but no sound came as he made incoherent attempts to question or thank his unexpected benefactor. Then he tore himself away, turned and ran down the corridor, the hurried sounds of his feet a counterpoint to the babble outside.

What the Colonel had said made no sense at all. Richard alive? Here? Some mistake, of course, some trick of the light or error of identification. Richard was dead, drowned in the Mediterranean

But men like Max Dodd didn't make that sort of mistake, and his heart had given one convulsive leap of intuition as if it knew far better than his head that he had heard the truth.

Richard...

Thirty-one right. He stopped in front of it, trying to get his breath, straightening his jacket and tie -- and the door opened and Colonel Preston stepped out. Beyond Preston Carrington could see nothing, but he was aware that the door was being held open for him and he was being ushered inside. A desk, a couple of chairs, filing cabinet, wall-map...

It was a plain, functional office like a hundred thousand others all over the world and he thought he was alone there until someone spoke to him gently.

"Normally," the well-remembered voice told him, "I object to kissing men with beards, but in your case I'm prepared to make an exception."

"Richard? Oh my God, Richard!" Astounded, Carrington turned to find the slender uniformed figure of his deepest fantasies. He had changed hardly at all, except that he looked healthier and better-fed and that his hair had been cropped shorter. He still had that expression of gravity over mischief, the schoolboy suddenly turned serious, and Carrington's heart plunged and curvetted frantically as his emotions ran riot.

"Put your arms around me, you bastard," Player demanded, the words trembling with anguish.

Carrington's cap dropped to the floor, unregarded, and he swayed forward like an automaton, arms extending of their own volition to enfold him in a crushing embrace that threatened to topple them both.

"Hold me. Just hold me. I've spent the last two and a half years wishing you were there to hold me, Phil..."

Then words ceased abruptly as Player's arms snaked around Carrington's neck and he drew the taller man down towards him and into a kiss that had less to do with passion than with bloody-minded obstinacy and an affirmation of their shared survival.

"I'm alive, Phil, and so are you!"

That notion was slowly seeping through to Carrington's stunned senses, although he was still half-expecting to be woken by a grim-faced Hauptmann Ulmann come to escort him out of his solitary cell on one last long walk.

How? why?

Yet the warmth in his arms was real and solid enough and the ensuing kisses were at once familiar and new, the first exchanged in freedom and the pattern for many more to follow.

"God, I thought I'd never see you again!" It was Player who was doing all the talking, his brain racing like an over-revved engine as he tried to assimilate the fact that they were together at last.

"How can it be you?" Carrington asked dazedly, his lips tingling with the taste of the younger man's mouth. The last few hours had been a patchwork of discordant images that formed no logical picture; this reunion with Richard was the last thing he could possibly have expected, and therefore it was what had happened. The world had turned upside-down and they were still together; he clung to the form that had ghosted through his dreams, and still more tightly to the knowledge that this was real. "How can you be here? Jesus, Dick, they told me you were dead and I believed it... everybody believed it. How the hell did you get away when the sub was attacked?"

Bruisingly aware of the pain his lover had endured, Player was almost apologetic.

"I'm sorry," he said shakily. "I'd forgotten how good the Colditz grapevine was. It didn't occur to me anyone there would have heard about Tercel -- that I was aboard in the first place, let alone what happened to her."

"It was Franz and... and Karl, who told us." Carrington was conscious that for some time now he had been thinking of the two German officers more by their names than by the ranks they had held in what was no longer an Army. "Ulmann and the Kommandant," he explained to the bewildered Player. "I guess if you have to hear that kind of thing it's better if it comes from a friend." Much of the context of this remark was lost on his companion, but Carrington knew that there would be endless time, now, to explain everything that hadn't been clear at first. "God, I've got so much to tell you," he admitted, wryly. "About them, as much as anything else... but I want to hear what happened to you."

"There's no story... none at all. I'd left the ship just before she sailed; I wasn't on board!" Never had the guilt of that knowledge seemed quite so acute to Player as at this moment. "Charlie Creegan, poor sod, my First Lieutenant... he got the command..."

And Charlie Creegan and all the others had died aboard HMS Tercel. How could anyone be alive and free and happy when so many good men had perished? Or was it only right that they should celebrate the knowledge that something had been saved from the wreckage? Was the very fact that they were here, and together, the validation of everything their friends and comrades had fought and died for? In that moment Carrington knew it would take years... decades even... to reconcile the internal conflict, to balance the guilt with the joy and to come at last to an equilibrium.

"I love you," he said, suddenly. It was the only thing that seemed important. "If I hadn't been such a coward I'd've said it right at the start, as soon as I knew it myself. I thought I'd lost you... and we'd never said it. In case I never get another chance, you'd better hear it now."

"I've known it all along, idiot." The reply was gentle as Player's hands swept in warm reassuring circles across Carrington's broad back. "You never fooled me for a moment with your speeches. But we'll have plenty of time, Phil. We'll have all the days and nights together we could possibly want."

"Well, you sure as hell better love me!" Almost truculently, Carrington made one more effort to extract the words he had for so long needed to hear. "That's all that's gonna make any of this worthwhile. Just say it, Richard... please."

"Yes. Yes, I love you. You know I do; you always knew. Trust me, Phil, everything's going to be fine. I promise."

Now, after it was all over, it would have been so easy to fall apart, to let go and let Richard take the strain for a while, but Carrington pulled himself together and stood looking down into Dick Player's pale eyes and watching as they filled with unholy fire.

"That's a promise I'm going to hold you to," he told him... and kissed him again.

***

The noise level in the corridor had risen appreciably by the time the door to the small office opened about ten minutes later and the two figures emerged. Although they had done their best to replace their masks of professionalism, neither Carrington nor Player could be unaware that their happiness hung around them like a golden cloud -- nor that it would be infectious. Plunging out into what threatened soon to become a chaotic situation, with men milling and queueing and being ushered in all directions through the low, dark passageway that ran the length of the building between distant squares of sunlight, the two men were reminded irresistibly of the mayhem of the first day back at school -- an impression heightened by the appearance of the two Colonels waiting like anxious parents a few paces away.

Gripping Player's elbow in a proprietorial manner, Carrington steered him through the crowd.

"Colonel Dodd, sir," he said without preamble, "may I present Commander Richard Player, Royal Navy? Dick, this is my CO, Colonel Max Dodd."

The formal introduction appealed both to Dodd's sense of propriety and his sense of humour, and the look on Carrington's face was that of a young man presenting a prospective bride for inspection.

"My boy," he said, "I've heard a lot about you." He shook hands warmly with Player, free hand patting him on the upper arm.

"I wish I could say the same, Colonel, but there hasn't been time to hear about all your exploits."

Dodd's grin made him appear ten years younger. "Well," he said, wryly, "for that you can be profoundly grateful. But I hope we'll have a chance to meet when things are a little quieter."

"Rely on it," Carrington told them both, determinedly.

Player turned his attention to Preston.

"Colonel," he said, "I know we both caused you a lot of trouble, one way and another. I'm sure it will be a great relief not to have to worry about us any more."

Preston grimaced, the expression on his face not the mask of unadulterated delight Dodd had worn so much as a tortured look of pleasure which sat uncomfortably on top of concern and distress.

"Worrying about you both has become second nature," he confessed with uncharacteristic frankness. "I wish I thought things could be easier for you now, but your way of life will always be fraught with difficulties."

"We know that, Colonel," Carrington told him. "It's just that we've come to believe it doesn't matter a hill of beans."

The Senior British Officer nodded his acceptance of this gentle philosophy. "I hope you're right, Phil. What are your immediate plans, do you know?"

Dodd glanced at him in some amusement, wondering what Preston's response would be if the two said that they were planning a June wedding followed by a honeymoon in Scotland. Fortunately it did not seem to have occurred to either of them to be flippant.

"I'Il have to stay here, at least for the time being," Player said. "This assignment will take months, if not years. Ted will be flying out in a day or two, and we'll get on with interviewing POW camp administrators. I'll do what I can for our Kommandant," he added, reassuringly.

"Just make sure he's not separated from Hauptmann Ulmann," Carrington told him. "I don't think either of them would ask for more than that, just at the moment."

"They would probably have been kept together in any case," was the response, "but I'll make certain of it. Leave it to me."

"And what about you, Phil? You'll be sent home to the States, I suppose?"

Carrington shrugged. "Yeah. No choice about that," he said. "And I'd like to see my family... and maybe Patti. But as soon as I can, I'll turn around and come right back. There has to be some kind of job I can do over here; if I pull a few strings I can probably get assigned to cover the Tribunal." He glanced across at the fair-haired Britisher who had made all this not only possible but necessary. "Looks like I'm not going to get away from Germany for a while after all. I could be back here in two or three weeks."

"As long as you manage to find enough time to shave before you turn up here again," was the whimsical answer. "I told you before, I don't like beards."

"In that case," the American said affectionately, "consider it a thing of the past."

"My God!"

A sudden roar, the length of the corridor, and conversations all around them that had been in full and jovial flow were interrupted. At the far end of the passage a group of Colditz old faithfuls, including Captains Brent and Downing and Flight Lieutenant Carter, had just emerged from an office and Downing, somewhat loftier than the rest, had caught sight of a face he thought he recognised... but could not have done, surely, because the man to whom it belonged was dead. "Dick bloody Player!"

The chorus of disbelief around him grew, then fell away in the face of his certainty. Brent struggled to see what his friend had seen, then began wading through the crowd in a despairing effort to fill his eyes with the spectacle of his friend alive and whole and restored to them all. "Dick! Dick, is it really you?"

Behind him the group of ex-prisoners jostled to meet up with a similarly striving group comprising the two Colonels with Carrington and Player. Somewhere in the middle of the corridor they met, surrounded by strangers, in a chaos of handshakes and embraces, Brent making a beeline for Player with every intention of wrapping him in a brotherly bear-hug and trying to say in a split second all that he had omitted to say over their shared captivity. When he reached him, however, he found that he was simply standing back, smiling fondly as others crowded in to look at Player, to touch him, to convince themselves that he was alive, to absorb into themselves a little of the magic his return had created.

"Good old Dick," Brent breathed, his eyes misting in a way he hadn't expected. "Good old Phil."

A hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed affectionately, and he found himself turning to look into Carrington's insanely-grinning face. The worry-lines had begun to vanish already, the haunted quality was gone from the American's eyes, and although he still seemed shocked there was a serenity about him Brent could only envy. There would be time enough for stories later, Brent realised; for be introductions and explanations, for plans and schemes, but for now there was only the simple fact that they had all survived and that their friendships were intact. He grinned back at Carrington, trading without words the reassurance that they were both free of their personal prisons; that peace had found them at last.

There was nothing else -- nothing in the world -- that mattered any more than that.

***

The evening was beginning to close in. It had been a long day, colder than he had expected, and he had spent most of it tucked down in a damp corner between a wall and a barn in a place where the weeds were shoulder-high. The farm was derelict anyway and had obviously been that way for a good many years, but he wasn't about to take any risks at this stage. He'd covered his tracks as carefully this morning as he had for the last several weeks, never making a move unless he was certain it would be safe to do so, considering every possibility before settling on a course of action. That was why he'd decided against hiding in what remained of the farmhouse or the outbuildings; while he would certainly have been warmer, he would also have been trapped. This ill-smelling corner was uncomfortable, but the discomfort was keeping him alert -- and there were several different avenues of escape available to him.

He was moving around every so often, making sure his legs didn't cramp into uselessness, checking the horizons in all directions for any sign of movement. So far, apart from the infrequent drone of an aeroplane, there had been nothing to disturb the atmosphere of rural decay. That was the way he liked it.

He'd had plenty of time to think, just lately. Not only here, but also on his long pilgrimage across the countryside. It had all been on foot; the identity documents he had stolen might just fool the occasional country policeman but they wouldn't stand up to inspection on the railway, and the only things moving on the roads were military transports. Those and refugees, amongst whom it had been easy enough to lose himself when the need arose. Who looked at the dispossessed, with their long sad faces and their bundles of belongings? He'd helped to push carts, carried children on his shoulders, made small-talk with people who had lost everything; despising them, he had let them hide him. Even they had their uses.

He had let his beard grow, of course. Having no way of preventing it anyway he had accepted it as the best available natural camouflage, but had been shocked to discover how much of it was grey. Still, it made him look more like a peasant or a labourer, and for the time being that was what he must appear to be. After all it was a labourer whose documents he carried, a man at least ten years older than himself whose twisted back had kept him from any useful service in his country's hour of need. Killing such a man had been no real difficulty, even after two days living rough in a wood without food or shelter, and burning the body afterwards had been a positive pleasure; the heat from the flames had been welcome on a cold night, and no-one had come to investigate.

At first the idea of disguising himself as a peasant had disgusted him. Used to the best of everything -- to the finest food and wines, to the best conversation, to the company of men of vision -- he had been reluctant to lower himself to the level of the underclass. They were, after all, not real human beings like himself but something raised only slightly higher than the animals. He was one of the conquerors, not of the conquered -- but he had told himself that kings in legends often strolled among their people in disguise, in order to learn more about them. Knowing about these less-than-people would be useful when he returned.

When they all returned; when Germany was great again.

The inner pocket of the coarse jacket he wore contained all his luggage. It held his Iron Cross, and the photograph of himself shaking hands with the Führer. It also contained a small amount of money, all he had been able to assemble at short notice, which should be enough to get him to Geneva. There, once he could establish his identity to the Bank's satisfaction, he had all the finds he needed to get him into the Odessa's pipeline to South America. It might take several months, but the routes were secure; unlike the stupid British whose short-sightedness had sabotaged so many escape plans, he was absolutely certain of every move along the way and was prepared to wait endlessly until the time was right.

A smile twisted his scarred face. The British had always thought so highly of their puny attempts and had found it so amusing to twist that fool Ulmann around their little fingers. None of them had seen how trivial and pointless it all was, how they were running around like mice in a maze in a futile endeavour to evade something so much greater, so much more magnificent than they could contemplate. The Thousand Year Reich would come; if it was postponed a year, a decade, even a century, it did not matter. Millions of men had died to make Germany great; millions more would die, if necessary, to establish that greatness in the eyes of the world. Men were mortal; the vision was eternal.

***

As nightfall approached he made his move. Crossing an empty hillside, he skirted a scar in the ground until he could hear the sound of running water several feet below. Loose rocks slid about under his feet, and at times he had to brace his hands against the ground to stop himself sliding sideways. The direction of the setting sun and the pattern of the stars as they appeared gave him his compass heading; he was a pilot, and he knew his constellations as well as any man. Navigating by the stars was nothing new for him.

The other side of the ravine lay in Switzerland. There were no border patrols here, in the wild country. It had never been possible to cover every mile of every frontier; even the Romans with their stoutly-built walls had never quite succeeded in producing a border without weaknesses. This one he had known about for some years -- without ever thinking that he might need to use it himself. He wondered how many of his comrades had already passed this way, and how many more would do so? Was the Führer already safely out of Berlin? Or was he still somewhere behind on the lonely road, his brilliant tactical brain already turning towards the next campaign, the next glorious victory?

Stumbling, sliding, catching at clumps of weed and prominent rocks as he descended, he realised he had reached the bottom of the ravine only when his feet landed in ice-cold water and the shock drove the breath from him. He lurched sideways, standing upright in water up to his knees, then stepped out into the current. It was a struggle, but as he reached the middle of the river a shaft of moonlight fell on him and he was able to see the way ahead.

Half-falling, his heart thudding dangerously from a combination of effort and excitement, he forded the rest of the stream and emerged shuddering with reaction to scramble up the opposite bank and throw himself face-down on the grass at the top. He was soaked, and the nearest habitation was at least five miles away, but a feverish thrill ran through his body as he repeated to himself again and again that he was free. The road lay open now before him, and he would not return until he returned in triumph.

He was the last man to escape from Colditz Castle.

His name was Major Horst Mohn.

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