Stan opened his eyes and found himself in a big room with stone walls and high windows. Sun was streaming in through two of the windows and gleamed upon piles of straw littering the floor. A dozen Yank airmen and several R.A.F. men sat on the straw. Stan lifted his hand to the back of his head and groaned. An R.A.F. man near him said:

"A bit of a tough rap? Can I get you some water? It's all we've seen so far in the way of refreshments."

"Thanks," Stan said. "But where am I?"

"A Jerry prison. I take it you were one of the boys who bombed the fighter fields. I'm Captain Prentiss." The Britisher smiled.

"I'm Stan Wilson. I'm not sure I bombed anything. Is there an Irishman here by the name of O'Malley?"

"Right-o. He was dragged in with you." Prentiss got to his feet. "I'll go tell him you're awake."

"Thanks." Stan heaved himself to a sitting position and looked around. Several of the boys nodded to him but none of them got up. All of them were strangers to Stan, men from flights he had not worked with.

O'Malley came in from a narrow hallway and hurried across the room. When he saw that Stan was sitting up, a dark scowl on his face turned into a grin.

"Sure, an' I've been yellin' at them Krauts, tryin' to get them to send a Doc in to fix you up. They jest laughed at me."

"I don't need a doctor. How did the raid go?"

"The boys say we blew 'em off the map. I talked with a couple of Lib boys just brought in. We cleared the path to Berlin." O'Malley grinned eagerly. "I'm glad ye're feelin' foine now. We have to get out o' this hole."

Stan looked up at the high, barred windows. "Yes, we do," he said, more to encourage O'Malley than because he had any hopes. They were deep in the heart of Germany and soon would be in a closely guarded prison camp.

"They're takin' us to another prison in a few minutes. The guard says we get to eat before we're locked up again. We have to be questioned by the Gestapo." O'Malley leered angrily.

"You mean German Intelligence," Stan corrected.

"All the same. Himmler runs 'em both," O'Malley answered.

They were interrupted by a shout from the hallway. A burly German officer stamped into the room and stood looking at the men.

"Get to your feet!" he yelled.

The men slowly rose and stared at the officer. He glared at them, his eyes moving over them slowly.

"You should be treated as swine, you bomb cities and kill non-combatants. Der Fuehrer does not like this," he snarled.

"We are only following the example you set at Warsaw and Rotterdam," a British major said as he stepped over and faced the German. "We are prisoners of war and you'll treat us as such, my fine fellow."

Stan moved forward quickly. The R.A.F. major stood with his feet planted well apart, facing the German. The German lashed out suddenly with a knotted fist. The major swayed a bit and ducked the blow. He started a right cross for the German's jaw but Stan dived in and pinned his arms.

"Swine! Dog!" the German bellowed. "You will pay for this."

"Take it easy. Knocking his block off won't help you any," Stan said as he released the major's arms. "There ought to be better ways."

"I'm sorry," the major said stiffly.

The German glared around him. He puffed out his chest and struck a stiff pose.

"You are to be moved to other quarters. Anyone trying any sneaking business will be shot. Is dot clear?"

"It's clear. Get on with the moving," Stan said crisply.

"You better be after feedin' us," O'Malley broke in.

The officer blew a whistle and a squad of soldiers filed in. The men lined up and the officer began splitting the prisoners up into small groups. He sent six men away with the guards and whistled for another squad.

"They must think we're tough," Stan said and grinned.

Before Stan and O'Malley were sent out, a young lieutenant entered and spoke to the officer in charge. He faced the remaining men.

"Lieutenants Wilson and O'Malley are wanted at once for questioning." He glared about him.

Stan and O'Malley stepped forward.

"Come with me," the young lieutenant snapped.

"What? No squad with fixed bayonets?" Stan asked and grinned.

The lieutenant smiled. "Where we are going there will be no need for an armed guard." He walked away with Stan and O'Malley beside him. O'Malley kept a sharp eye open for a chance to escape. Stan was afraid if they passed an open door O'Malley would bolt through it.

They entered a long hallway and were marched to its far end where they entered a small room. There was a table and a few chairs.

"You may as well sit down," the lieutenant said.

"You almost talk United States," Stan observed.

"I should. I spent ten years in Pittsburgh," the lieutenant explained.

"How did you come to get over here in Germany?" Stan asked.

"During those years I was working for the greater Germany," the officer answered stiffly. "Heil Hitler." He did an about-face as precisely as though he had been on parade before Hitler and marched out of the room.

"Don't tell them anything," Stan said.

"Sure, an' the Gestapo has my life history written down anyway," O'Malley said. "I think we're in Berlin and I'd be after likin' it if I could get loose."

"We'll be watched very close at first. We'll have to wait," Stan warned.

Two officers, a major and a colonel, accompanied by the young lieutenant, entered. The ranking officers seated themselves at the table; the lieutenant stood before Stan and O'Malley.

"You are a part of the Eighth Air Force?" he asked.

"Yes," Stan answered.

"Do you know how many fighters and bombers your force has?"

"No," Stan answered.

"How many of the new type of fighters do you have? The sort you were flying when shot down."

"I've heard some of the boys say a couple of thousand," Stan answered. He was merely reporting a bit of mess rumor he had heard the day before.

The lieutenant scowled and spoke in German to his superiors. After that the questions came fast, but neither O'Malley nor Stan offered any further comment. They answered simply yes or no or refused to answer at all. Finally the senior officer got up in disgust and stamped out.

"You are fools," the lieutenant snapped.

"Would you talk if we caught you?" Stan asked pleasantly.

"Of course not, but we are a superior race. Now you will be given comfortable quarters and food. We observe the rules of war." He turned about and motioned for them to follow.

The boys were fed soup and fish with a slice of bread and a brown liquid which passed as coffee. O'Malley grumbled a lot, but he ate everything set before him.

"If this is what the Geneva treaty said captured officers were to eat, I'm a spalpeen," O'Malley muttered as he marched away with Stan to their quarters.

They found themselves quartered in an old stone house which had at one time been a residence. There was a high wall around it with many guards pacing back and forth and two searchlights located on platforms which were also occupied by a machine gun and its crew. But there was a yard and a few trees and shrubs.

"Not as bad as a prison camp," Stan said.

"Not very good," O'Malley said as he stood looking up at one of the machine-gun nests.

The boys were taken to a room on the ground floor where they met several other fellows from the Eighth. They had been located at the camp for several months and were eager to hear news from England.

Stan and O'Malley talked with them for a while, answering their questions. One of the boys, a bombardier from a Fort, explained the workings of the camp.

"They change us around quite a bit. New men come and some of the old heads go. I figure they do that to nip any escape attempts in the bud." He laughed sourly. "I never heard of anybody getting away from one of these camps."

Another chap drifted in and seated himself. He was a lank Britisher with a mop of black hair.

"I hear you hail from the fighter strip near Diss."

"That was our outfit," Stan said.

"I just got a new roommate who says he's a Yank who was stationed at Diss," the Britisher grinned. "He got shot down a while back. He just came out of a hospital. Got a bad rap on the head."

"We'd like to meet him. He must be one of the boys we lost on our first bombing coverage." Stan got to his feet.

He and O'Malley went upstairs and into the little room. Two men were seated on a bed playing cards. Stan halted in the doorway. Over his shoulder, O'Malley said:

"Sim!"

At first Stan was not sure. The man looked like Sim Jones. He was thinner and he had a freshly healed scar on his cheek. His face was sallow and he looked much older.

O'Malley barged past Stan and caught the man's hand. "Glad ye're alive," he said eagerly.

"O'Malley?" Sim stared at O'Malley as he said it. He looked up at Stan. "Wilson, you here, too."

Stan grinned. "Yes, I'm here. We cracked up on a fighter strip while bombing with Mustangs. I'm glad you made it safely. When I last saw you, your P-51 had buried its nose in the ground."

Sim's eyes narrowed sharply. "That crack-up knocked me silly," he said grimly. "I don't remember much." He put his hand to his head. "I was nuts for quite a while, I guess. Even now I forget things. Sometimes I forget what's happened."

"You'll come around," O'Malley said cheerfully.

"They might let us three have this room together," Sim said. "I'd like to have you fellows around."

"It could be fixed," the Britisher said. "They let us line up about as we wish. I'll help you fix it. I've been here a couple of months."

Stan went with the R.A.F. man. They located a non-com who told them to shift around as they pleased. He seemed to know who Stan was and all about him and O'Malley.

"Ve treat you goot," he said.

As they went back the Britisher said, "Some of these Nazis are beginning to try to make friends with us. I guess they figure they may need some friends among the Allies one of these days."

"They certainly will," Stan agreed.

The two boys with Sim gladly moved out and Stan and O'Malley moved in. They found Sim silent and moody, as though he was brooding over his capture and captivity. Stan spoke to O'Malley about it out in the hall.

"Sim is in bad shape. He ought to be in the hospital. We'll have to watch out for him."

"He'll be after comin' around," O'Malley said confidently.

They entered the room and found Sim staring out of a window. Again Stan was struck by the change in the boy. He seemed to have aged at least ten years. He turned toward them, then got up and closed the door. He walked over to a picture on the wall and moved it. Behind it he revealed a small hole in the paper. He placed his hands to his lips and shook his head.

Stan moved over and looked closely, then he pressed on the paper. There was a small cylinder under the paper. He grinned at Sim and O'Malley. Deftly he slit the paper with his fingernail and removed a strip of it, revealing a listening device. Taking out his pocketknife he neatly snipped one of the small wires.

"That will take care of that. Later we'll hook it up again so they won't be suspicious."

"They listen to all new men everywhere," Sim said. Suddenly he began to laugh. "But I have fooled them. I have worked out a way for us to escape."

Stan stared at him. He was not sure Sim was not still insane.

O'Malley said eagerly, "Spill it. Escape is what I'm lookin' for."

Sim went to the door and opened it. He looked up and down the hall, then closed the door.

"I was going to try it alone, but I may be able to take you fellows along." He spoke slowly.

"Sure, three can make a getaway easier than one," O'Malley said. Stan said nothing.

"Germany is cracking up fast," Sim went on. "Rotten inside with half of the guards scared they'll be stood up against a wall and shot when the invasion comes."

"They didn't seem to be slipping much where we landed," Stan said.

"But they are," Sim insisted. "I have a man fixed to take me out of here and across Germany. I'm to get him out of the country and guarantee he'll be safely kept over in England."

"Swell," O'Malley put in. "When do we get going?"

"It will take a day or so. He's no small fry either, he's a non-commissioned officer with some authority. He thinks the Gestapo is about to pick him off for not being tough enough."

"It sounds a bit too easy to me," Stan said. "But I'd take any sort of chance to get back into action."

"Tomorrow I'll let you know if you can go along," Sim promised. "Now you better hook that listening gadget up again."