PROLOGUE

"Mr. Cowley, I only need a few minutes of your time."

George Cowley, Controller of C15, did not pause as Miss Pettifer brought the Ford Escort up to the curb outside his Whitehall office. Barely sparing a glance as he opened the passenger door, the blond Scot curtly answered CI5's resident psychiatrist.

"Time, Dr. Ross, is what I'm sorely lacking. You'll have to make an appointment with Betty, somewhat after the PM, but surely before the Cabinet Minister." The door closed with a solid chunk, leaving the doctor standing alone. With narrowed eyes, she watched until the red car rounded the corner; its older aggravating occupant did not deign to look back. Shoving the report she had tried to share with Cowley into her briefcase, Kate Ross spoke aloud to the empty street.

"You're a crafty old man, George Cowley...you already know that you don't want to hear what I have to say." So saying, the lean brunette remounted the steps of CI5, hoping to catch Cowley's office assistant before she left for the day.

Kate Ross made her appointment with Betty for that Friday, only to be told, when the time came, that an unexpected operation had called Cowley out to the field. Patiently, she rescheduled for the following Friday. That meeting was bumped when Emir Selim moved his State visit up two weeks. Betty sympathized with her situation and placed her head of the list for Monday, but by now her own affairs had become tangled. A delayed return flight from a weekend conference held in Berlin caused the third cancellation.

Realizing that the fates were as much responsible as Cowley in the sabotage of their meetings, Ross decided to take matters into her own hands. As a Department Head, the address to Cowley's townhouse was known to her, and she felt a late night visit to the Controller was warranted. So it was with great determination and no little trepidation that she came to be ringing George Cowley's bell at a quarter to midnight.

Cowley confirmed the identity of his visitor from the study window before relinquishing his desk drawer revolver. Tightening his tie as he descended the stairs, Cowley briefly checked his appearance in the hall mirror before opening the door.

"Dr. Ross," Cowley said with a gesture indicating she should enter quickly, "If you expected to catch me in my dressing gown, you are doomed to disappointment. I assume you are here concerning our missed appointments."

"Mr. Cowley," Ross began as she removed her coat and placed it on the hallway hatstand, "I wouldn't bother you at home if it weren't important." Picking up her briefcase, she preceded the Controller into the lounge.

"Of that I'm sure," Cowley said passing to the sideboard and the liquor kept there. "I can cobble together some tea, if you like." At her negative shake, Cowley added, "I would offer you a drink, but I'm aware that you don't imbibe while on duty...and you are here on official business, correct?"

"Let us say, that now seemed the appropriate time for our third quarter meeting," Ross answered with just a hint at levity as she spread her papers on the table in front of the sofa.

Unable to entirely resist the stilted attempt at humour, Cowley grinned slightly as he finished his drink. Pouring another scotch and a small sherry for the Doctor, he took his seat in the leather wingback opposite the sofa. Ignoring the drink, Ross handed over a sheaf of papers for the Controller's contemplation. Nearing three o'clock, they finished reviewing the reports and findings of the latest barrage of psychological testing performed on C15 personnel.

"As usual Dr. Ross, your report is most succinct. But if you don't mind," Cowley said by way of dismissal, "the hour is late and I'm expected in the office by seven."

Ross' movement was calculated as she paused in the packing of charts and materials. "Yes, there is one other matter I would like to sound out," she remarked casually.

Cowley was no fool; it had taken two hours listening raptly to a report centering on 'The Summary of Interventions in Criminal Behavior Patterns' to bring Kate Ross to her real reason for being here.

"Aye, and what would that be?"

Facing him with the steady determination of a fencing master, Ross delicately raised the as yet untouched glass of sherry halfway to her lips. "What is your opinion of homosexuality within the ranks of C15?"

The moment stretched endlessly as Ross waited for the answer that would directly affect the lives of two of CI5's finest agents. Men that she found personally exasperating, but important men in the undeclared war against terrorism and anarchy.

---

6th September 1944

Just last week on the eve of the Liberation of Paris, George 'Morris' Cowley had been given his first posting: a billet as language advisor to Major Davies. But, the newly assigned Warrant Officer attached to Army Intelligence Exeter had little time to reflect upon his new position. His orders involved accompanying the Major across the Channel to question captured German Army Officers being held in Paris.

'Well, the Major will do the actual interrogations,' he thought truthfully. 'I'm just glad to be in the war--even as a glorified secretary. Anything's better than missing the show altogether.' That had been Cowley's greatest fear since the start of the war; that it would be over before he could get in. The underweight, gangling youth could thank his public school cleverness with European languages for this improved posting--that and a packet of margarine.

Morris Cowley had just finished basic a few weeks before in Aberdeen. Immediately assigned to records, it had looked as though he would while away the rest of the war buried hip deep in thoroughly boring and completely legitimate German bills of lading. When Major Davies' aide was suddenly down with appendicitis, Cowley was pressed into service as minutes taker and tea server...it had been his skill with the scones and butter that had initially impressed the Major.

Delivered from the mess, Cowley had noted that the rasher of "butter"--a one pound block of paper-wrapped lard topped with a flavour packet that was 90% yellow dye--had not been mixed. Quickly setting the tray down, he'd deftly rolled up a sleeve and began mixing the cool, slimy mess by hand. Cowley had been mortified when the Major had caught him "yellow-handed" just as he was settling the margarine into a bowl.

"My mother kneads it as well...says that's the only way to really make the margarine smooth," Davies had said. "What's your name, lad?"

"Warrant Officer Cowley, sir."

"I like when a man sees a job that needs doing--and then does it. Good show, Cowley."

When Davies had left Aberdeen a week later, Cowley had gone with him.

But that was a week ago; right now Cowley wished that he were in Exeter or Aberdeen or even back in Glasgow. Somehow the pilot had overshot Paris; a combination of bad weather and bad navigation. Even though the Jerries had been kicked out of 'The City of Lights' their presence was still felt--big guns, German crafted 88's, pounded the sky quite professionally. Hanging on tightly, Cowley could almost be glad that the American supplied DC-3 was shuddering so violently; it hid his involuntary trembling.

"That's it," Davies said loudly, after a particularly rocking burst. "We're going down."

What Cowley remembered next was the feel of long wet grass and cool rain soaking his uniform. Perhaps a hundred yards away was the twisted wreckage of their aeroplane, wingless and burning among the trees. He wasn't the only crewman who had been thrown from the wreckage, but he was the only one that survived. Disoriented, he completed his check of the dead while his head cleared. Before the young Scot could formulate a plan of action, the unmistakable feel of a pistol was pressed between his shoulder blades.

"Heben die handen auf!" a harsh Germanic voice commanded roughly, grinding the pistol into Cowley's thinly fleshed back.

"Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen," Cowley said quickly, raising his hands. Forced to his knees by a powerful shove from a Sergeant that had to be nearly double his weight, Cowley was searched and disarmed. A heavy hand on his shoulder insured his behavior against any sudden movement as his fate was debated hotly.

"Let us shoot him and be done--we've twenty miles to make before dawn," Rough voice said.

"No--" Heavy Hand countered. "Make it appear like he died in the crash...it could mean less trouble later. "

The big Sergeant who had forced Cowley down had keenly observed the blond boy's face during this exchange. Reaching out, he gripped Cowley's collar and with a small shake stated, "You understand us, boy. You speak German! "

"Yes," Cowley tried to answer smoothly, but the combination of shocks--the wreck, his capture and the chilling rain--made his strained voice crack.

Making a snap decision, the seasoned Sergeant ordered that Cowley's hands be tied and the area scavenged for anything useful. Barely thirty minutes after the crash, Cowley was being led into the forest by the three German scouts. Gagged and leashed with arms secured behind his back, Cowley was as helpless as a tethered goat. The experienced warriors gave the thin young 'Englander,' as they called him, no quarter during the night--"walk quickly and quietly" and "die" were his options.

It was lightening toward dawn when the scouts linked up with their platoon. Allowed the use of his voice and no longer tied like a dog, Cowley was passed on to an Oberleutenant who in turn handed the young man over to his superior. Even though the German Army was in retreat, it managed to retain the strict discipline and order for which it was infamous. Radio contact was made and a Command car would be sent to collect the prisoner for further questioning.

Cowley was passed off in this manner, much like a rugby ball; two days later he came to be incarcerated in a small SS outpost in Badenburg, not far from the French border.

---

Warrant Officer Cowley was given watery potato soup, a slice of black bread and plain tea twice a day. He didn't complain because the he knew that his enemies ate no better. To kill time while waiting for meals, he would gaze out the tiny window in the door of his cell. Cowley could discern three guards; they rotated eight hour shifts in the long stone corridor outside his cell and studiously ignored his presence.

After four days of this treatment Cowley was almost grateful when his interrogation actually began. It started innocently enough--after "breakfast" the morning guard took him out of his narrow cell to an open shower stall located at the end of the corridor. The plumbing was crude and looked to be a recent addition--perhaps installed when this building was assigned to the Gestapo in the early part of the war. Laid out for his usage were several articles: clean undershirt and drawers, comb, a thin towel, soap, shaving cup, brush and an American style safety razor.

One threatening gesture from the guard's Luger convinced Cowley to move slowly and cautiously as he completed his first wash up in nearly a week. It embarrassed him to strip in front of the other man, but he bore the indignity more easily than he might have under different circumstances--the invigorating tingle of cleanliness outweighed any feelings of mortification. He lathered his face to shave, wishing he actually had enough beard to make it necessary--but the ritual was an adult's, and by god he'd better be one here. While shaving, Cowley noted sturdy iron rings embedded in the age blackened beams above his head; they also looked new and slightly out-of-place and he wondered at their purpose. Cowley had little time to ponder as all too quickly his morning toilet was complete, and he was motioned away from the shower.

Cowley preceded the guard back up the hallway, presumably to his cell, when an ungentle prod from the handgun herded him forward. Mounting shallow steps, he and the guard ascended a level and entered a nicely appointed office. Seated behind a mammoth oak desk that had to be at least a hundred years old, was a small man of middle years. A most innocuous looking fellow, compared to the stories one heard told about the Gestapo--more the look of a banker versus a butcher.

"You may sit or stand, Warrant Officer Cowley," the banker-ish looking Nazi said quietly in lightly accented English, not lifting his eyes from his papers. "The decision is entirely yours--but I would recommend comfort." The guard took up a parade rest position just inside the door as Cowley gingerly seated himself in one of the two ladder back chairs before the desk.

'It is an officer's duty to seek escape,' Cowley thought as he tried to surreptitiously take in his surroundings. 'But escape seems bloody impossible from in here.' Indeed, the panel and wainscotting office was windowless; Cowley suspected that they were in the part of the building recessed into the hillside.

"If you would be so kind as to answer a few simple questions," Banker asked kindly without looking up. "We can complete your processing to a prisoner of war camp--paper work! You understand, eh?"

"Of course," Cowley answered almost warmly, responding to the perceived universal futility felt by all the world's pencil pushers. "What sort of questions," Cowley asked, familiar with his own side's POW processing forms.

"I have almost everything, really...the Sergeant who started your paperwork when you were captured was most thorough," he replied as he shuffled the thick form. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch? "

"Ya, ich spirche Deutch--but I prefer English," Cowley finished in his native tongue.

"That is fine, Herr Cowley...but tell me, do you speak any other languages--French?"

"I had a class in school, not enough worth mentioning," Cowley lied, his French excellent. Something in Banker's tone warned Cowley to answer carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"What about Polish and Czech?"

"No."

"Russian?"

"No."

"Herr Cowley," Banker said as he finally locked gazes with him. "You are not being very cooperative." Cowley now knew why the small Nazi had refrained from raising his face as long as he had; if a person could look evil, then the man before him was the devil incarnate.

Cowley had never given stories about the second sight any credit--they were fairy tales for entertaining children--but, the emanation of hatred that rolled off this man chilled George Cowley to his marrow. Unprepossessing and dressed in a dark serge suit, the balding interrogator's gray gaze was one of death. Cowley was reminded of the flat, glassy eyes of dead salmon.

"Herr Cowley's position is that of a secretarial interpreter, yet he claims ignorance of any other languages--excepting his own English, some good German and a bit of school boy French," Banker said, looking over Cowley's shoulder to the stationed guard. "Handcuff him, Sergeant. I am taking the Warrant Officer for a ride. "

Not yet alarmed, Cowley was led up another flight of stairs to the front of the building. Under guard, he stood blinking in the harsh sunlight as a car was brought around. He watched as his interrogator waved away the driver-obviously preferring the wheel himself. A sturdy bar had been attached to the interior of the passenger side door; his handcuffs were secured by the guard to this bar. Stepping back, the guard gave Cowley a knowing look that might have been--pity? Cowley wasn't sure, but his unease increased as his Nazi Interrogator pulled away from the Towne Hall turned prison.

Watching the road signs carefully, Cowley made mental note of the many empty homes they passed. He also saw how precisely the small man beside him maneuvered the vehicle; every movement economical and calculated. 'Almost fussy--like an old man set in his ways,' Cowley thought. Engrossed in his observations, he didn't see the gloved fist that connected with his jaw. The forceful blow slammed his head into the window, causing his vision to momentarily dim and quickly change to dancing stars before his involuntarily teary eyes.

"EYES DOWN! Eyes down--do you want your actions to proclaim you a spy? " The Interrogator switched to English, "I have personally identified nearly 14 spies in this area alone--at my last post I detected 27 traitors and seditionists; it is my intention to better my record here. That is why you are with me today--we go to the village Darmsbach--a veritable den of villainy. The bulk of my command is stationed there and I may require your assistance in questioning the spies I will find."

"You're daft--," Cowley exclaimed aloud, unmindful of his own safety. "There can't be that many--" It was then that another blow struck him full in the mouth, stopping his flow of words. Cowley bent his head to his restrained hands, dabbing at his bleeding lips. The Interrogator merely drove faster as he elucidated his position on spies and spying.

"Oh, you think you know so much, do you? Others have said that I owe my position to Eichmann, my Uncle! But no, I tell you! I've earned it...who else labors so hard on internal security--if not me?"

'My God, help me--he's mad,' Cowley thought as a wash of fear poured through his limbs like ice water. Cowley clenched his teeth behind puffy lips, lest their slight chatter betray his fear.

The mad dash ride was soon over as the car pulled into a tiny village, presumably Darmsbach. They were met by a uniformed detail as his tormentor parked the car. A sergeant with a weary expression saluted and opened the driver side door.

"Good morning, Captain Hegel," the sergeant said with a click of his heels. "We have gathered the suspects, as ordered. They are assembled in the church. "

"Very good, Sergeant. Take charge of the prisoner and bring him with us, " Captain Hegel ordered with a nod in Cowley's direction as he exited the car.

The sergeant was almost gentle as he uncuffed Cowley and led him toward the small white chapel in the heart of the village. As the three men entered the church, Cowley saw the motley collection people gathered within. Sitting on the front pew, under heavy guard, were what appeared to be two elderly laborers, such as one would see on any farm, a boy in his late teens, and a middle aged one armed man.

"These are the suspects, Captain. The village council surrendered them, as per your order," the sergeant who had met them stated.

"You see how I am obeyed, Herr Cowley?" Captain Hegel said gleefully. "With very little effort on my part, the local populace has expelled the vipers in their midst." With that, Cowley watched as the Nazi Captain regarded the row of men. He stopped in front of the elderly laborers and bent to examine their hands. With a curt nod, he excused one of the men and turned to again address Cowley.

"That one," Captain Hegel said this a gesture toward the quickly departing old man, "was truly a farmer--his hands told the story of his life. But you," Hegel said with a back handed slap to the other elderly man's face, "your hands are soft."

"Captain--please! I am retired these twelve years, " the old man wavered. "I paint now--portraits yes? "

"SILENCE! " Hegel screeched, shoving the elderly painter back onto the pew. The Nazi Captain started to move away from the three seated men, when unexpectedly the teenaged boy began to moan and howl in a keening, unnatural fashion--causing Cowley's fine sandy hair to rise in response. The young man seated next to the painter cowered and whimpered--'like a fearful puppy,' Cowley thought as he stood frozen in place. Bravely, the old painter placed his arm about the piteous figure.

"Don't frighten the boy--he's simple--doesn't know any better--" the elderly man began--but didn't finish. Hegel turned on his heel and with tremendous force struck the old man full across the face with his ornamental cane. Felled like an ox at market and barely a yard away was a dead man. Shocked immobile, the young Scot watched as the poor village idiot crumpled to the flagstones; his fist shoved half into his mouth to stifle the frightened squeaks emitted from the back of his throat--a release Cowley himself would have relished about then.

Towering over the body in a vibrating rage was Hegel, his stick drawn closed on his own shoulder, preventing his pursuit.

Slowly mounting the rostrum, as if he had all the time in the world, Hegel drew aim on the retreating, crab like figure.

"Nicht schiessen--NICHT SCHIESSEN! " Cowley had screamed, surging upwards, trying vainly to throw off Iron Hand, trying to distract Hegel. "DON'T SHOOT! " Hegel put five rounds in the boy before he was satisfied.

Cowley knew that the Captain spoke some word of command to his guard--but he was incapable of comprehension. Led past the massacred body, Cowley noted that the spilled blood was gradually seeping to a threadbare area. 'Wonder if the blood will fill in the faded colour?' Cowley thought, in shock. Taken back to the car and chained again to the door, Cowley sat benumbed for some time. Finally, he looked up into the eyes of his guard, eyes as blue and young as his own and asked, "Why do ye support him?"

He had couched his question in English and did not expect an answer--but looking into this young soldier's eyes was like reading a book. Germany had fought a multi-front war for many years...these soldiers knew it would soon be over. Better to live--better to stay with a madman in the Fatherland rather than fight on the Russian Front with winter coming on.

George Cowley would not have believed it possible that anything else could shock him this day, but during the drive back to Badenburg, Hegel pulled out his privates and roughly stroked himself--finally shooting a ropey white blat which landed on Cowley's trouser leg. Hegel had then massaged the mess into the material, his gloved hand eventually coming to rest on Cowley's own quiescent manhood. Pale, panting and too afraid to faint, for Cowley had a fair idea of what the degenerate Nazi might do to an unresisting body, he controlled the trembling until he was finally cast back into his narrow cell. It was then that he realized that this morning's horror had only lasted three hours--he was alone and free to weep out his fear and sorrow; just in time for supper.

---

Depression...Cowley could not imagine how he would escape, but he now knew that this was his only hope of survival; he sincerely doubted that Hegel would let him live after witnessing the murder of civilians. The chapter shows at the cinema always made escape seem so easy, but he had discovered that reality was another matter. Slowly coming out of his stuporous condition some time in the afternoon, Cowley had searched and researched his cell--seeking something, anything that would aid escape--to no avail. His only success had been working loose a leg from his cot. Not even the length of his forearm, it lacked the mass necessary to make a truly menacing club.

Despair threatened to swamp his saddened senses, but the optimism of youth resurfaced and beat back the crippling emotion. Believing that he should eat to keep his strength up, Cowley waited expectantly for his last meal of the day. In addition to the food, he might be able to trick a guard--trick a guard! How?

'I'll pretend I'm sick if it comes down to that,' Cowley thought. 'It's no' much of a plan--but I swear it's better than nothing...and if he shoots me...well, better to face a guard than that blindin' pervert Hegel.'

But Cowley was reminded of Burns and his 'best laid schemes of mice and men' when several guards, instead of one, came at sundown with two new prisoners rather than soup and bread.

Pressing his face to the tiny window, Cowley wanted to watch everything unfold, but a rap across his knuckles from a guard's truncheon forced him back a discreet distance. Cowley had noticed the newish iron rings in the ceiling beams just this morning--now he learned their usage. Under gunpoint, two leather jacketed figures were forced to reach hands over their heads. All that Cowley could note was that the prisoner closest to his cell was a spare figure and dark auburn hair. Swiftly, with the help of a stool, the guards passed a length of chain through the iron loop and manacled the man in place--back arched against the strain of the cuffs.

The same procedure was repeated for the other prisoner, but with one aggravating exception for the guards. They had not moved half a yard before one of the manacles sprang open with a clatter. Rushing back, the group subdued the large man who had only a second to adjust to his good fortune and struggle.

"BRING SEIL," one of the guards had shouted up to an awaiting companion and rope was brought immediately. Using hemp, they tied the struggling man in the same fashion that the lean man was chained. With a swift thudding kick high on the restrained man's thigh, the squad of soldier's left--leaving behind two men nearly suspended from the ceiling and an anxious, expectant Cowley. Waiting a moment to confirm that the guards had truly left, Cowley pressed his face again to his window and addressed the new prisoner's.

"Good Lord, mon--did they hurt you? Are ye all right?" The young Scot couldn't get a close look at the roped man--only the impression of strength contained in a leather flight jacket. "Are ye pilots--RAF--Eagle Squadron--what?" It was the lean man closest to him that turned to face Cowley and answer cautiously.

"Who's askin'?" His voice was an English accented purr, scorn filled and much more in command of the situation than his current appearance warranted.

Taken aback by eyes as hard and green as frozen pond water, Cowley none the less drew himself up and answered, "Warrant Officer Cowley--of Scotland."

A tiny smile twitched the chained man's lip--perhaps at the unorthodox introduction--not name, rank and serial number, but instead an almost archaic labeling--Cowley of Scotland. Stretching his back in obvious discomfort, the lean man was quiet for a moment.

"It's no harm in giving him a name, Mark," the larger figure called out softly to his companion in bondage, his accent easily that of a Londoner. "Call me David Bentley, lad."

"Yeah, that's Bentley--I'm Mark...Layton. We're flyers...and the less said about us the better," Layton answered with an exaggerated glance up the stairway.

'Loose lips sink ships,' Cowley thought, trying to glean every scrape of info from their half suggested hints--were the men on some sort of secret mission? "Aye, what ever ye think best." At the small groan that came from the larger man, Cowley asked again, "Are ye all right there, Bentley?"

"Of all the beastly luck! If that damned cuff had popped a minute later, we'd be well on our way to out of here," Bentley said. Just out of his line of sight, Cowley could hear the man frantically maneuvering. "And these ropes might as well be chains--can't budge 'em."

"We're getting out of here, Cowley," Layton announced, as if they were going for a stroll in the parkland.

"Take me with you!" Cowley exclaimed, hopeful and near giddy--the harrowing morning pushed to the back of his mind. "How can I help?"

"What's the opposition?" Layton asked.

Cowley concisely reported his knowledge of the building's layout, the guard's hours and rotation and the surrounding area up to and including the moment of his initial capture.

"Good lad, Cowley!" Bentley called sotto voce. "Didn't miss a tick--"

"But that's not the worst," Cowley interrupted. "There's the Captain here. His name is Hegel--and he...he's a warped nutter. I saw him murder an old man, an ejit and a cripple in cold blood. He--I'm--," he stammered and faltered, unable to even repeat aloud what had happened to him.

"Spit it out, Cowley," Layton commanded.

"I'm afraid of him--he's sick--evil," Cowley finished lamely. "If we escape and he catches us, well...dying's not the worst that could happen to us."

Neither of the new prisoners spoke for a moment, until Bentley finally broke the tension with a small laugh. "Lads, we haven't got much choice--do we? We can wait like good dogs for Hegel to come down those stairs or we can try to blitz out of this joint.

I vote for the blitz."

"Yeah," Layton answered with a soft dirty chuckle. "A blitz it is."

"A blitz out--lightening out--like thunder and lightening?" Cowley asked.

"That's exactly right!" Bentley answered. "After you've done this a few times you'll learn that the best time to escape is soonest after you're caught. That gives the enemy less time to dig you in."

"How can I help?" Cowley repeated his question from earlier.

"Stick your arm as far as you can out that window--how close are you to reaching me?" Cowley illustrated the foot gap left between his fingers and the lean flyer. Coming up on his toes, Layton edged over by six inches, but the pull on his arms was too great to come closer. "Crap," Layton said resignedly. "This is gonna hurt. Grab my shirt, boy, when I swing close." So said, he pushed off with his feet, allowing his full weight to swing from his manacled wrists, which bled immediately. In a small arch, Layton swung first back and then toward Cowley, who couldn't quite snag the flyer's shirt on the first pass. Repeating the procedure again, Cowley succeeded in grabbing the fleece lined coat. Halted abruptly in mid-air, Layton explosively swore.

"Fuck-all! That hurts...okay Cowley...in my shirt collar is a lock pick--it's like a steel tooth pick. Poke it through the fabric." Eagerly he held the man against the pull of his bonds and fished for the desired object--too late was Bentley's warning, "...and for God's sake don't drop it!" Cowley let Layton go in his attempt to catch the fumbled object. A half second later, all three men heard the tiny tool ping and bounce on the floor.

The boy could have happily shriveled up and died under Layton's scathing green gaze, but instead he pulled his arms in; he suddenly remembered his cot leg. Stretched on the floor, Cowley thrust through the tray trap in the door and was able to gently tease the sliver of metal into his hands using the cot leg as an extension.

"Now what?" was Cowley's cheerful question.

"You are going to pick the lock on your door," Layton answered.

"What! I don't know how."

"There was never a better time to learn, old son," Bentley called with just a touch of sarcasm.

Layton patiently spent the next two hours explaining the engineering behind locks and the variations among locks--a lesson Cowley hoped never to forget. At the end of two frustrating hours, Cowley was ready to curse himself as he repeatedly failed to line up the tumblers in this simplest of locks in his door. At last, when he had given up for the tenth time, Bentley asked a question.

"Cowley, have you ever seen a madrigal puzzle box?"

"Aye, me mother had one," he answered around gritted teeth.

"And what made it so special?"

Breathing deeply, Cowley wiped the sweat from his brow and blew the dust off his memory. Thinking back, he recalled the antique wooden box. Made of many layers of jigsaw cut wood, it looked like a solid wooden block that had been carved into a puzzle toy, but only one piece--a special piece--the linchpin, would allow the box to be worked and opened to reveal a secret hiding place for jewels or money. Cowley had been a clever boy and had unlocked its secret early.

"You had to see how the pieces went together in your mind, 'cause you could play with it all day and never find the secret hiding place."

"That's right," Bentley breathed.

In two minutes Cowley had his door unlocked and open. He rushed to untie Bentley, and after feeling returned to his arms, Bentley released Layton's manacles. While Cowley rubbed feeling into Layton's thin, but muscular arms, he got his first good look at Bentley as the man busied himself with some project. Using the shorter piece of rope that had been used to secure his hands, the dark haired flyer with his pale skin and black Irish looks, wound the cord in an intricate pattern about his right wrist and fist.

Icy fear churned in his guts as Cowley feared to hear the sound of footsteps from above, but his quick mind still had to question Bentley and his actions.

"What you doing there, Bentley?"

"Making a cestus," Bentley answered half distracted as he pounded his wrapped fist into his open palm. "Sort of like a boxing glove--would be better if I had some metal to wrap in it."

During this exchange, Layton shrugged off Cowley's helping hand--the sound of someone fiddling with the cellar door handle reached them all. Bentley quickly motioned Cowley toward Layton's dangling chains as he stationed himself to the left of the stairs. Layton took Bentley's old position and grasped the end's of the ropes--mimicking his recent state of bondage. Quickly catching on, Cowley reached up and grasped the open manacles--trying to ignore the tacky dampness that had to be Layton's blood. Their unspoken plan was as good a trap as any other they were likely to lay. Hopefully the guard would remain fooled long enough in the dim lighting to allow Bentley enough surprise to land a good blow with his makeshift boxing glove.

Surprisingly enough, it worked.

---

In the three days since their escape, the trio had set a brutal pace, traveling mostly at night in the cold and damp. Their direction of travel was always the one of maximum safety and least resistance: to the north and west was the vastness of Germany and the Schwarzwald Mountains, to the east was France and their own lines--but between them and their troops lay the bulk of the German Army. To the south lay a long strip of farming communities on the edge of the mountains. Easy travel and Swiss neutrality appealed to them all. But now, footsore and pinched with hunger, the escapees sought a haven--some place to hole up and rest for a day. The half-ruined wreck of a church seemed like a gift from God. More tired than he'd ever imagined was possible, Cowley stumbled across the threshold of the bombed out shell of a church. Layton and Bentley completed their circuit of the building; their satisfied expressions telling the young Scot all that he needed to know.

"We can rest here," Layton said hoarsely. "At least, for a while."

"Sanctuary," Bentley breathed with a sigh.

"Sanctuary," Cowley echoed softly. Like a stone dropped in deep waters, the very word sent ripples of comfort through his weary awareness. Moving to the driest corner, Cowley cast himself down. His last sight before sleep took him under, was of the two flyers sitting on a half smashed pew, shoulder to shoulder--gazing protectively into the night.

---

At the touch of a strong hand on his shoulder, Cowley jerked explosively from dark, dreamless sleep. Rubbing the coal from his eyes, he recognized Layton's voice a moment before he actually focused on the man in the murky dawn light.

"Shush--don't wake David," Layton whispered, nodding toward the sleeper curled up beside him. Taking in the guileless, sleep sodden form, Cowley gently disengaged from Bentley's arm--realizing why he was warm for the first time in days. Muscles stiff due to his stone pallet, Cowley accepted a hand up. Retreating a short distance together, he noted that Layton practically limped with weariness.

"Look Cowley," Layton began, "I'm sorry to wake you--but, I'm falling asleep on me feet. David only laid down a couple of hours ago and you're my next best choice."

He wanted to bridle at Layton for the imagined slight, but one look at the man's dulled green eyes surrounded by blood shot whites convinced Cowley to leave any sarky comments unsaid.

"Sure, Layton...why don't you have a lie down?"

Glancing longingly toward the huddled sleeper, the lean flyer only hesitated a moment before stripping off his fleece lined flight jacket. Handing the garment to Cowley, he led them to the foyer.

"Do you see that pine tree?" Layton asked, pointing to the horizon.

"Aye."

"When the sun reaches the top of that tree, two hours will have passed. Wake Bentley and have him take a walk about...if all's secure, maybe you won't mind taking the rest of the watch 'til noon--okay?"

"Aye," Cowley answered, eagerly accepting responsibility, even with strings attached. Shrugging into Layton's leather jacket, he was surprised that it practically swallowed his frame--Layton's waist was nearly as narrow as his own, but obviously the man's shoulders were much broader.

"Don't do anything foolish. Stay indoors and wake us if you hear anything. Anything, mind! And if you don't hear anything--if it gets really quiet--no birdsong or nothing--wake us for that, too," Layton said, heading for the corner where Bentley slept.

Cowley passed the two hours quietly, grateful for the warmth afforded by Layton's coat. Exploring their hiding place, he conscientiously kept an eye on the time-waking Bentley as instructed. Once certain that the big man actually heard him and was awake, Cowley led him to a virtually unscathed tiny back room.

"Look what I've found, Bentley," Cowley said excitedly, indicating a small wooden hatch in the floor that had been obscured by an oilskin cover. "What do ye think it is?"

"I dunno, Priest Hole--maybe...could be storage," Bentley answered thoughtfully. "Why don't we have a look?"

Together they lifted the little door and Cowley, being the smaller of the two, descended a narrow ladder. Standing in the tiny patch of light that poured through the roofless section of the church into this little cellar, he flashed Bentley the "V" for victory sign before disappearing into the darkness.

Dragging his feet cautiously along the packed earth floor, he moved forward with arms outstretched. It came as no surprise, yet it shocked him anyway, when he stubbed his fingers on a heavy metal object. Reminded of a party game from his childhood, Cowley tried to guess what the object was--tall, slender, with a definite pattern and a heavy base: a candlestick? 'Aye, definitely,' Cowley thought, wishing for matches as he continued a brief search of the area. His fingers brushed what felt like a wooden divider in the shelving and he came upon a row of glass objects. Unable to guess their nature, he determined that discretion was the better part of valour--he'd fumbled about in the dark long enough! Picking up the candle sconce and one of the glass objects for inspection in the good light of day, Cowley strode toward the ladder and Bentley.

"What have you got there," Bentley called down softly, his vision half blocked by shadows.

Looking at the treasure in his hand, Cowley called up joyfully, ignoring the solid silver candlestick.

"Peaches! "

Bentley and Cowley thoroughly stripped the storage room of all things useful. When Layton woke naturally in the late afternoon it was to a cold feast of ham and cheese, peaches and pickles. Digging into his meal like one starved, Layton had the happy tale out of them in no time.

"Near as I can figure," Bentley said around a mouthful of ham, "...must 'ave been the parish poor pantry. And let me tell you, mates," as he grabbed the two men in a tussling embrace, "We are the poor."

"It's war; people are starving...how do you suppose all this food was forgot?" Cowley asked.

"Isha bruddy miracle," Bentley answered, shoving a pickle into his gaping maw.

"It's somebody else's misfortune or stupidity--you remember that, Cowley," Layton said ominously. "Chances are the vicar died in the bombing and was no one left to know."

Feeling chastised by the man without knowing exactly why, Cowley stared at his hands and nodded. Their dinner continued in silence until Bentley stood and removed his jacket. Bending, he laid the garment across Layton's shoulders, who promptly shrugged it off.

"What's with you? You're cold, aren't you?"

"Horses smell better than your coat, mate."

At the beginning of their exchange Cowley had begun to shed Layton's jacket, not intending to monopolize the man's coat, but the biting remark concerning odor made him take note of his own filthy state.

"And what are you--a rose between two thorns?" Bentley belligerently challenged of Layton.

"I'm no better. Listen, I don't care if the ten thousand are upon us--I'm going to wash my clothes in that walled cistern out back," so said, the lean flyer stood, brushed the crumbs of cheese from himself and headed toward the back of the Church. Watching their companion retreat, it was Bentley who finally spoke.

"Oh, hell...he'll freeze if we don't take him something."

"It--it's sacrilege, but..." Cowley began.

"What lad?"

"Well, there's the altar cloths in the cellar."

For a moment, Bentley's look was one of pure admiration. "That's the spirit, Georgie!"

Cowley had fetched the various cloths meant as raiment for the altar, and all the rest of the afternoon was spent scrubbing grubby bodies and travel-worn clothes. He'd taken his turn at the privately walled cistern, shivering in the weak light of late fall--wrapping the large velvet sheet about himself like an oversize bath towel when finished. Entering the main hall, Cowley dropped his eyes in embarrassment; both of his companions were still naked. Stumbling over the trailing length of his makeshift clothing, he clumsily spread his uniform to dry on one of the less splintered kneelers.

Glancing up to look again at the two men, the young Scot unconsciously compared himself to them. The light afforded by this roofless structure showed the flyers to good stead--freshly washed and pink from a scrubbing, his companions were the glowing picture of health. His build was most similar to Layton's--both being lean, but there the resemblance stopped. Layton's wide shoulders and narrow hips were coated in sinewy muscle--like his Uncle Angus' racing greyhounds. Propriety made his eyes skip his manparts, but Cowley took note of how Layton's thighs broadened slightly and of the powerful muscles there. 'Like that statue in me history text,' Cowley thought, his memory supplying the reference of a colour plate from his class on Ancient Civilizations.

The figure cut by Bentley was another story. Dressed, the man looked larger; but in his nakedness he appeared even more powerful. With smooth skin the colour of clotted cream, Bentley's greater muscle mass and the classic proportions of a pugilist put Cowley in mind of what the Roman soldiers of yore must have looked like. Bigger in all the ways a man can be bigger. Cowley flushed self-consciously--comparing his own scrawny build to Bentley's.

Trying to distract his mind from such thoughts, he noticed that Layton was fashioning for himself a garment from an altar cloth.

"What you doing there, Layton? Making a toga?" Cowley asked, interested.

"Yes," Layton replied. He looked at Cowley and an expression of amusement crossed his face, obviously at the awkwardly clothed boy's expense. "Come here and I'll fix your togs."

Cowley shuffled over, mulling over Layton's words. "Toga--togs, it's the same word--isn't it?" He asked as the lean flyer began to adjust the sheet into a replica of his own garment.

"Yes--much of today's language is gleaned from the past. There you are," Layton said as he put the finishing touches on his handiwork. "Just like a Senator out for a stroll on the Appian Way."

Cowley's quick mind was dredging up information about the Appian Way--Something to do with the Spartacus Rebellion?'--when Bentley's heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

"That floor has just about crippled me--who'd like a little work out? Wakes up the ol' bones," Bentley said invitingly, waggling his eyebrows comically.

"Not now, David, I'll take the watch and soak up what's left of the sun," Layton answered. With a vague gesture of departure, he headed for the front of the church.

"Thus flies a faint heart," Bentley quoth in a flowery, half-mocking tone to his partner's back. "So what'll it be, Georgie? Are you game?"

Having a hard time imagining jumping jacks or other calisthenics in his flapping attire, Cowley was nonetheless game. "Okay, what'll I do?"

"Let's see--well, we need two pieces of wood, about so long and so thick," Bentley answered, holding out his hands in the desired measurements.

Computing the length, Cowley confirmed, "About the size of a milking stool's legs--right?"

"Righto!"

The Church was full of smashed furniture and splintered wood; it didn't take him long the find the desired objects--the dowels from two banners. During his search, Bentley had cleared away the larger debris from the center aisle.

"Okay--first, let's fix your clothes," Bentley said, reaching for the shoulder fold. Cowley wanted to protest, but went along with this man for whom his admiration grew daily. Deftly, a very different sort of garment was fashioned. Closed at the neck with a

splinter of wood, it cloaked him from neck to knees--leaving his entire right arm and side exposed. "This is called a chlamys...it comes from the Greek and means "military cloak". There was a time when no self respecting fighting man would wear anything else. As you see, it leaves your sword arm free."

"And these are to be swords?" Cowley asked, indicating the wooden dowels.

"These," Bentley said with a light jab to his ribs with the rod, "these are weapons...don't be fooled that they're only pieces of wood. A stick, in the hand of an expert, is just a deadly as a gun." Taking the proffered 'weapon,' Cowley stared dumbly at the hand that held it, only to feel a light tap under his chin. "Bad idea, sunshine. Never--never--take your eyes off an armed man...better yet to disarm 'im."

Cowley nodded as Bentley refastened his own clothing, his hand clenching and unclenching on his mock sword. With visions of his own wild heritage of Claymore-toting highlanders, the much smaller Cowley was steeled to present a determined attack; he definitely did not want Bentley to think him a coward.

"Are you ready?" At Cowley's small nod, Bentley only took a moment more to explain. "All right then, that stick is a short sword--an edge on both sides and a point at the top. That," he said pointing to Cowley's empty fist, "is a buckler--a small round shield the size of a dinner plate. I'll go slow with you and just defend--okay?"

"Okay." At Bentley's nod, Cowley set forth, intending to give the bigger man a run for his money.

Punching outwards with his fist, Cowley hoped to distract his opponent as he brought his weapon to bear. Attacking in great swings, he sought to impress this fighting man with his verve. Even though each of his wild blows and punches were met by Bentley, he was slowly borne back--carefully retreating down the aisle. When they at last reached the rostrum and called a halt, Cowley was winded while Bentley hadn't even broken a sweat.

"How did I do?" Cowley gasped out.

"Well, you've got guts, I'll give you that..." Bentley answered shortly. "But, your style could use some work. Let me show you some exercises." With that, the two men spent the next half hour in stylized movement to the chant of 'one-two-three-four'. The passage of time unnoticed, it was darkening toward twilight when Layton reappeared.

"You can't make a bulldog of a terrier, Bentley," Layton called out. "The lad's too slight for the short sword...but I'd bet a packet that he'd train up nice with a rapier."

"He's probably right, Georgie...the short sword is long gone. I'd learn the lighter weapons, but you know what they say; 'can't teach an old dog new tricks'."

"Yeah, when you get out of this, you learn something that'll be useful--not some old fashioned circus act--hear?"

"Sure, Layton, whatever you say," Cowley answered, somewhat confused. To cover his discomfiture, he went to check the state of his clothing. When he returned a few minutes later, it was to Bentley's hefty and extensive yawns.

"I'm knackered," Bentley managed between yawns. "You fellers have had a bit more sleep than me...I'm off for a kip." With a light slap on the shoulders for Cowley, the handsome blue-eyed man in his jury-rigged war cloak padded to the alcove they used for sleeping.

"I'll take the watch, Cowley...why don't you doss down too," Layton said laconically.

"I'm not tired...we could talk and keep guard together, if you like," Cowley answered neutrally, not really wanting to spend hours alone with this demanding, razor-tongued man. Running his fingers through a thick mass of close-cut auburn hair, Layton's critical eye roved the Scottish lad and Cowley felt every searing flicker.

"No--if it's all the same to you, I'll measure me length with Bentley. I'm a good bit older than you...and the sleep would be appreciated."

"Aye, no problem," Cowley answered, relieved and pleased to take the watch.

"Remember what I said earlier--you hear anything, you come and get us," Layton said before following in Bentley's footsteps.

In the still cold quiet of early evening, Cowley kept watch, hearing little and seeing nothing. Four hours after moonrise, the young Scot was chilled enough to risk fetching up a few more of the altar cloths to use as a mantle, his uniform still too damp to wear.

Ascending the narrow ladder with his light burden, Cowley paused in the little room to arrange the cloths about himself like a lady's stole. Settling into the new "garment," his attention was suddenly caught by a low moaning sound--as one in pain. Soft footed, he quickly traced a path to Bentley and Layton's sleeping place, intending to wake the men and report the odd noise. Coming to the doorway of the unroofed room, he froze as he again heard the sound.

There before him, limned by silvery moonlight, were his companions. Naked and plastered together in an almost wrestling embrace, the two men could have been a living marble sculpture. Layton lay atop Bentley, his left hand covering the bigger man's mouth--his right hand lost in the shadows of the other man's groin. Cowley almost interfered--for a half second believing that Layton was somehow molesting the man, the same way Hegel had handled him. But no--it was obvious by his arching spine and the stroking caresses delivered to Layton's sinewy back, that Bentley felt only pleasure in this act.

Cowley watched as Layton released his hold on Bentley's manhood and smoothly maneuvered upwards. Drawing back his hand from the man's mouth, Layton covered his lips sweetly with his own. Using both hands, the lean flyer cupped Bentley's cheek and neck, seemingly seeking to devour the handsome alabaster image beneath him. All the while, the bigger man writhed and bumped against his slighter partner; locked in a helpless dance of love.

Love.

The men were lovers...and he hadn't known.

Ashamed by his own stupidity and embarrassed to his soul by the display before him, Cowley wanted to run away--hide--leave this place, this country, this war and everything to do with it. Leave and not look back. But he was deep in the shadows of the lintel and to leave now would mean crossing a large expanse of moonlit hallway. Rooted in place by indecision, he wanted to move away, but not enough to risk detection by the two men. He knew it was wrong to look at the actions before him, but the his gaze was drawn anyway to the entwined men.

Bentley reached down and grasped Layton's lean hips, gripping hard and grinding them against his own crotch. Though the night was cold, the two lovers paid it no mind, for Bentley's muscles stood out in sharp relief--his veins fairly throbbing with heat and desire and Cowley could see a sheen of sweat gathered in the pool of Layton's back. Sudden movement almost startled Cowley as Layton pulled off Bentley's lips, leaving them teeth marked and passion bruised. The lean flyer arched up sharply, his hands flat on his partner's shoulders for support, his back bent like a bow.

Musculature bound in a rictus of pleasure, Layton was frozen in place above Bentley. Slowly at first, the lean man's narrow hips humped in short abortive jerks, but very quickly a writhing animal rhythm full of squirms and jabs emerged. Yet a virgin himself, Cowley had not realized that the act of love could have so much power--more similar to fighting a raging fire than what he had imagined. He was scandalized by the might and strength of their actions.

Abruptly Bentley reached up; leaving no doubt as to where he wanted his lover's head. With measured insistence, the bigger man brought Layton's mouth down to caress the pulsing hardness between his thighs. Expressive lips closed on Bentley's turgid member, as Layton's cheeks hollowed with the sucking pressure of this most intimate kiss. Layton moved completely to the side, cradling his head on Bentley's washboard stomach, never losing contact with the cock buried deep in his throat--Cowley could now clearly see all of Bentley's sex parts.

Layton's tidy hand stroked his partner's broad thighs, palmed the tightly drawn sac and rubbed the area beneath his balls--the flowing touches a ritual on the altar of love. Carding his fingers through Bentley's short and curlies, Layton gathered his own escaped saliva from around the base of the cock moving in and out of his mouth. Stunned immobile, Cowley could only stand and stare. Using his fingers, Layton dragged the moisture down--to the hidden opening of Bentley's body.

The young Scot was riveted as Bentley flung his arms out in pagan imitation of the Crucifix, as first one, then two of Layton's fingers crept between clenched buttocks and disappeared--consumed by Bentley's body. Bending his knees, the impaled man rotated his hips and pressed down on the sheathed fingers. The lean flyer's mouth opened and the glistening phallus, visibly dark with pent blood even in moonlight, slapped against the thrashing, tossing man's stomach with an audible smack. With a gentle pat to Bentley's flank with his unoccupied hand, Layton gestured for his lover to turn.

Fingers maintaining their deeply planted position, it wasn't until Bentley had completely rolled over and knelt--presenting his well-developed arse--that Layton removed the invaders. Bentley's black hair gleamed healthy and clean in the ghostly light; his head lay upon a fleece-lined jacket, thankfully facing away from Cowley. Layton positioned himself between powerful thighs, his own hard, graceful body taut with sexual tension. Resting his weight on neck and shoulders, Bentley reached behind and parted his own buttocks--inviting entry. At the first touch of Layton's long arching manhood, Cowley saw the bigger man release the hold on himself and use blunt fingers to grasp his lover's hips--demanding entry--pulling the cock deep into his accepting body.

Other than the two moans that Cowley had first perceived, their entire act of love had been conducted in almost total silence. Now, as the two bodies surged together in a rhythm as old as the planet, the sound was moist flesh on flesh, racing toward fulfillment Bentley dropped his hold and Layton grasped his partner's hips, holding on, stabbing deep into the recesses of his lover's body. It couldn't last long and it didn't as Bentley's head snapped up, a grimace of release that softened to one of rapture. Layton's own climax came thundering through him scant seconds later--his face also contorted with the joy of it.

The lovers subsided against each other, and Cowley took his chance to fade away unnoticed.

---

Cowley went out and immediately donned his damp uniform and said not a word to Bentley when he came to relieve him about an hour later. And rather than share sleeping quarters with Layton, he had gone to the storage room and curled up therewith the pieces of what his imagination had called a chlamys--but all the time it had really been just a fancy table cloth. The three soldiers spent the next day quietly, eating and sleeping in turns, preparing to travel again at sunset.

By late afternoon, Bentley had replaced makeshift clothing with his dry uniform and had tried repeatedly to draw Cowley out in conversation. They became more like lectures as Cowley only spoke when spoken to; Bentley spoke for hours on how to tell time and direction with the stars, how to build a fire out of almost any fuel--moss, dung, even bones...topics of survival. While Layton slept the afternoon away, Bentley had companionably placed his hand on Cowley's thin shoulder, asking if he'd like another workout.

Cowley whirled, jerking away from the unwanted contact. "Don't be touching me," he hissed, contempt evident on his face.

"All right, mate. What's your problem," Bentley asked, his voice tight and controlled.

"You heard me--keep your hands to yourself."

"What are you on about?" Bentley said with a trace of heat in his voice and face.

"Don't want you touching me--like you did the first night we slept here."

A look of intense concentration obviously yielded the desired information--Bentley had wrapped his arms around the shivering lad when he'd dossed down late that night.

"Kept you warm, didn't it?"

"Not as warm as you were last night," Cowley said with malicious intent.

Colour drained from Bentley's face as he stated flatly, "So you know."

"I know it's perversion and blasphemy! Sweet Christ, mon--in a church! Ye're as bad as Hegel--" But before he could finish, Bentley grasped his wrist in a biting grip.

"How can you compare life and death? You don't understand, lad--I've been a part of Mark for so long! I'd give my life for you--but if I had a soul, I give it up happily for him--" Cowley's fist connected solidly with the bigger man's jaw. Releasing his hold on the boy, Bentley shook his head and repeated, "You don't understand."

"And I never will."

"Never is a damn long time, Georgie."

---

Cowley and the flyers left at sunset and traveled through the night--avoiding farmhouses and more importantly--farm dogs. Every time they inadvertently disturbed a sleeping brute and set off a dervish of barking, Cowley's heart would leap to his throat--certain they would be challenged and recaptured. As time edged toward dawn they began to look for a hiding place to spend the day. But the farm land was smooth and devoid of places to conceal three grown men. All the buildings they encountered were occupied or too close to houses that were.

At last, with dawn lighting the sky, they crawled across a shaggy meadow and came to a paved road. Concealed by the long grass, they took stock of their surroundings. Beyond the road was a large plowed field and then began a copse of brightly coloured birch and thick fir trees. If they could cross the field unseen, they could hide during the daylight hours in the trees. With no kind of cover, they could only hope that any passing car would be heard in time to hit the deck--even then anyone casually looking across the field was bound to see them laying there. With no other real choice, they crossed the road and climbed the fence.

Cowley was a little ahead, with Layton in the middle and Bentley to the far side--almost like rugby backs in wing formation. They moved quickly, not quite running, but trotting along. Cowley supposed later that this was what had saved their lives.

Hearing an unnatural zinging sound, he noted the scrape of metal on rock a half second before Bentley shouted "GRENADE! " Instead of continuing his forward motion he started to turn, responding to the roar of Bentley's voice. As he completed the action, Layton slammed into his body--hard. Layton's momentum carried them forward a few more feet before the lean flyer bore him to the earth with all his strength. A ripping explosion and a rain of dirt fell onto Cowley's face, causing him to spit out the offending matter.

The weight pressing Cowley into the moist earth lifted. Frantic hands searched his face, neck and torso for injuries; these same slender hands soothed his racking coughs caused by the potato masher's bitter metallic stench. Gently, Layton helped him to sit up.

"Keep your head down," instructed a tinny, faraway voice.

'Concussed,' Cowley thought, 'but at least I can hear.'

Head hung low against gripping nausea, the Scot noted a warm, sticky feeling down his right leg--he was not shocked to find a piece of shrapnel had neatly entered his knee, merely at something of a loss on what action he should take. The decision was made for him as Layton used his fingers to widen the tear in his trousers. Exposing the wound and all of the gory leg below it, the slender flyer tightly wound the flapping shreds around the pulsing puncture.

"Put your thumb here," Layton commanded. Picking up the boy's limp hand he slapped it over the loose ends of the makeshift bandage. Together, for one long breathless minute, the two watched their handiwork--would the dressing hold or would the injury bleed out? During that moment of waiting, Cowley cleared his thoughts enough to consider the fate of their third compatriot.

"Where's Bentley? He was right behind--," Cowley's voice faded at the wild look that entered Layton's wide emerald eyes. Whirling, the wiry man scrambled on all fours back to the slumped figure nearly twenty feet away. Much slower, Cowley managed to drag himself closer. Unable to watch, he dropped his gaze, allowing his mind to drift on the hazy edges of pain, giving the partners as much privacy as possible.

Lying on his side, so still and quiet, David Bentley could have been sleeping. "The lazy berk can sleep anywhere," Layton choked out gruffly as Cowley tentatively placed his hand on Bentley's hip. Cowley tried to ignore the horribly wet feeling beneath his fingers, but his mind was forced to acknowledge at least one fact--'David was in khaki trousers when we escaped; how can they be red, now?'

Prepared to cradle the beloved head with his left arm, Layton used his right hand to cautiously roll the unresisting man onto his back. At first Cowley was unable to comprehend exactly how Bentley was injured--it took several seconds to accept that it was the man's sturdy legs, not his fatigues, that were torn. Bentley's large hand pressed into the big arteries of his groin, barely stanching the blood amid muscle and bone; his other hand seemed to search for something lost in the grass.

Pale and panting like a hound at the end of a chase, Bentley looked up into the eyes of his other half and gasped, "Mark, where is it? I can't find it." More urgently, the mortally wounded man cast about with his free hand.

"What is it, mate?" Layton asked sadly, taking his dying love's hand and pressing it to his face for a kiss.

"My sword...I can't find it."

"Think where you are, sweetheart...we've not got swords here."

Head lolling and lids sinking over faded blue eyes, Cowley would have believed him dead except for the labored breathing. Trembling in deep shock Bentley croaked, "The boy, is 'e all right?"

"I'm right here, Bentley," Cowley answered, giving the waxy face and the jaw he had stuck such a short time ago a light stroke. "We've got you now...just rest."

Seemingly ignoring the young Scot, Bentley used his gory right hand to pull Layton close. In a drowning voice, he stated desperately, "Mark, you can still get him out."

"Not without you--"

"Yes! You've got to go--GO! " Once said, Bentley's futile efforts to push Layton away only caused him to clutch his lover tighter. "Please Mark, please don't th-throw it all away. We've w-w-worked s-s-so hard... please."

"The mission," Layton whispered barely loud enough for Cowley's ringing ears to hear.

"The mission--and the boy," Bentley mouthed silently.

It was precisely then that the distinctive sound of a BMW motorbike could be heard in the early morning quiet.

"If we're going, we've got to move now," Cowley said quietly, his tone leaving no doubt that the decision was Layton's to make. Hurt green eyes locked with watery blue as Layton dragged stained fingers through his rumpled hair--as though massaging his head could help stimulate thought processes. His look changed to one of gratitude; Layton understood and appreciated the enormity of Cowley's gift. He relaxed his grip on the dying man, allowing Bentley to lie on the plowed ground.

"Godspeed, David," Layton murmured. In the half second it took to rise, the slender flyer visibly wrenched his thoughts toward the living and survival. Reaching his handout, he helped Cowley to stand. "Nine chances in ten, they'll catch us. It'll be hardest on you, what with your leg, but--if you're willing, we'll try."

Gripping the proffered hand in his own, Cowley schooled his face to mask lancing pain as he answered, "It's the trying that counts."

With arms secured around the other's waist, the two men lurched off--crossing the rough surface of clotted earth. Forewarned by their tragedy, they were able to locate and avoid a similar trip-wire grenade found at the wood's edge. Before passing into the welcome concealment of the trees, Cowley looked back toward their fallen companion. Uncertain if Bentley still breathed, George Cowley forever burned the image of this brave man into his memory.

---

Handcuffs weren't considered adequate restraints for the captured men--hobbling leg irons and cloth hoods that obscured the senses were unwelcome additions. In just a few hours, Cowley and Layton had been recaptured and were transported by car to Badenburg; interrogation began almost immediately under the professional auspices of Captain Hegel. Layton received the boon of abuse as he railed and spat at his tormentors; the only way to completely silence the lean soldier was to beat him unconscious. It was during these infrequent "breaks" that Hegel would come to call upon Cowley in the adjoining cell.

Captured, bleeding and unable to walk without aid--the young Scot was yet undefeated. Undercover the noise generated by Hegel and his goons, Cowley again separated a leg from his cot--not with the intention of using it as a weapon, but as a tool to reunite himself with Layton. Even as the other man's screams echoed and filled their narrow prison, Cowley would chip away at the mortar surrounding a loose stone discovered in the wall separating their cells. Located in the corner and obscured by the door when open, Cowley pecked away, removing the chipped pieces and secreting them in the bucket provided for his wastes.

Always forewarned by the deafening sound of silence, Cowley would quickly and painfully drag himself over to the opposite side of the cramped cell--replacing the cot leg en route. Surprisingly enough, Hegel's penchant for cruelty seemed satisfied by his treatment of Layton; perhaps he wanted to save the Warrant Officer for dessert. In any case, Cowley felt himself let off easily as the Nazi deviant would only occasionally crack a cane across his injured knee, causing him to writhe in pain.

"Remember, Herr Cowley," Hegel would say as he bent to grip the blond boy's face in his gloved hand, forcing his head back to a painful angle. "We are shooting spies. If you are fortunate, perhaps I will shoot you."

It took nearly two days of almost constant effort to remove the scrap of brick that had been used to bridge a gap in the floor. Two days in constant fear of discovery, fear that even if he did manage to make an opening, his companion would be beyond help. This had obviously been a cellar before the war--the brick walls were recently added to form cells in what had been a long open room. Had this been a regular prison, Cowley sincerely doubted his ability to prise a brick from the wall, but the sloppy masonry was on his side. He was given the opportunity to work during the second night when an air raid siren sent the guard away to secure 'lights out'. So it was, triumphant at last, that Cowley broke through in the dark of night and called softly to Layton. It was near dawn before he received an answer.

"D-David?" Layton moaned out weakly,

"Layton--it's me--Cowley." He was appalled at the weakness apparent in the other man's voice. "I've made a hole in the wall...near the door. Can you come closer?"

It was fully dawn before the pain wracked man finished his torturous crawl, finally moving into Cowley's limited range of vision. Cowley bit back the gasp that threatened to explode from his lips. It was impossible that a man so horribly beaten was alive--much less conscious. There was fresh blood matting Layton's short-cropped curls, a jagged cut bled freely just above a temple, and his right shoulder was grossly dislocated. Amazingly enough, Layton's face was mostly unmarked, excepting the swelling from a cheekbone broken during a beating.

"Hegel, that--that bastard Hegel," Cowley's Scottish burr changed to a growl.

"Leave it," Layton whispered.

"But, Layton--"

"I said...leave it," Layton gasped out. "That evil fucker is doing me a favour..." Emotion and weakness started a round of coughing that stained the lean man's lips cherry red with blood.

"You shouldn't...be here, Georgie," Layton murmured when he got his breath back, his eyes ancient and weary.

"Neither of us should--" Cowley began, but was interrupted by his injured companion.

"No--you don't...belong here," Layton insisted softly. "...jus'...can't twig... why...you...are here."

George Cowley was grateful that Layton's eyes were closed--it made his shame easier to bear. All colour drained from his face as waves of nausea mixed with adrenaline twisted his insides. Pulling back from their peep hole, lest Layton see guilt written in his pained expression, Cowley curled into a rigid ball with his back to the wall separating the cells. Manfully, he tried to stop the searing tears that burned behind tightly closed lids and failing that, sought to keep his racking sobs silent. With a gesture that was part hiccup, part dry heave, Cowley got hold of his surging emotions and pressed his face back to the small opening that united their prison.

"Layton--Mark," Cowley whispered, his voice hoarse with shed tears. "Ye're right--I don't belong here. I was put ahead in school and I lied meself two years older to get in the Army. I--I'm so bloody stupid! I didna' want to 'miss the show'--like war was the cinema," Cowley finished brokenly, his forehead pressed to the floor. He stayed that way until a cool finger tip gently stroked high along his temple and into his hair. Looking up, Cowley saw that Layton's hand and elegant fingers mostly filled the gap in the wall. His. own pitiful misery lifted; horribly injured, Layton put aside physical agony in light of Cowley's mental anguish.

Taking the offered hand in his own, he noted the blackish half-moons of Bentley's dried blood still embedded under Layton's nails. Cowley's thoughts were a whirlwind of recent memories: this hand supporting him up a steep hill, bandaging his wound, fetching water. He'd also seen this same hand arouse another man to love, and suddenly Cowley understood the humanity of it--the Truth attacked him viscerally, leaving him cold and astonished and struggling against it as ingrained prejudice was forcibly stripped away: 'Any loving's good...love, by its very nature, is good.' In the face of impending death that prejudice concerning homosexuality collapsed entirely, leaving behind a bedrock foundation of fairness.

Gripping Layton's hand tightly, he said, "Mark, tell me about you and David--please? I want to know." For a long moment there was silence and Cowley relaxed his grip, intending to feel for a feel for a pulse, when Layton gently withdrew his hand through the small opening. Peering worriedly at his companion, Cowley and Layton locked gazes. After a moment of intense scrutiny, Layton's faded green eyes softened.

"We've worked together...a long time," Layton answered softly. "...So many...missions--beating the odds, time and again--" The badly beaten man paused as a fit of coughing momentarily robbed him of speech. "In the beginning...we never gave the other a thought--just the job. But, in time we...changed--wanted more than we had..." Layton's eyes glittered wetly as grief and pain gradually dwindled his voice.

"Go on," Cowley urged gently. "Tell me more."

"You see...we...David and I...we've never--failed--before...we never died...before."

Cowley wanted to reassure Layton, but the lie withered on his lips--the man in the next cell was dying and nothing in Heaven or Earth was going to stop that. Listening carefully, he strained to catch Layton's words.

"What we wanted...isn't easy...I...would like to think...that...it isn't over...love shouldn't...end...it goes against everything...everything...I've...been taught..." It took minutes for Layton to finish his thought, as blood began to well in earnest, at first seeping from his nose and mouth and then spilling over in rivulets.

It was Cowley's turn to reach through the gap and stroke the undamaged cheek; offering what comfort he could. "You're right, Mark, love shouldn't end--and as God is my witness, I hope that somehow, just this once, the rules can be broken."

---

An hour later Cowley was still on his belly, maintaining feathery contact with features grown stiff and cold, unmindful of the sounds of hobnailed boots approaching. A clatter of keys and the door was shoved open, mashing his prone body further into the wall. The guards nearly pulled his arm out of socket as they roughly hauled him to his feet. Hegel stood in the doorway with his pistol drawn.

"Herr Cowley, it is time for you to take a trip," Hegel said in a calm and clipped tone. "Bring him! "

Suspended between guards who were most unmindful of his throbbing leg, Cowley's heart grieved at the waste of his life--the stupid dream of going to war versus the harsh reality--and how the course of his life might have differed.

Rough hands propelled him upstairs to the entry level. Suddenly thrust into blinding bright daylight Cowley flinched away from the silhouette he assumed was his executioner. His surprise was complete as his eyes adjusted and he could discern a kindly looking older woman dressed in all white. 'All white,' Cowley thought as he pitched forward in a swoon. 'Like an angel...'

---

EPILOGUE

Warrant Officer Cowley had been ferreted out by members of the Swiss Red Cross. His original capture papers, not the ones used as a ruse by Hegel, had been filed by the German Army. Fortunately for Cowley, the "Injured In Combat" box had been checked in error. Because there was no corresponding report of the injuries present, his case had automatically been placed on the priority list. Even then it had taken over two weeks to locate the young soldier. The older lady, a retired nurse, had dressed his leg immediately while others prepared to load him into the Red Cross lorry. Cowley had tried to protest, to explain that the body of another POW was in the building. Hegel stoutly denied his assertions; even if there was another prisoner, they did not have the proper authorization to collect anyone save Cowley. Ultimately, amid many reassurances that they would check further into the matter, Cowley was given a sedative.

Upon his repatriation, Cowley gave his superiors a complete report detailing his actions since the plane crash. When he'd asked if it would be possible to get a letter to Layton and Bentley's survivors, he'd been told to write his letters; they would be dispatched. When he'd tried to push the issue and acquire the post address for himself, he'd been told in no uncertain terms, 'Less Said, Better Said'. As far as the RAF and Army was concerned the young Scot had acted bravely and correctly under fire--but they weren't about to discuss the objectives of secret missions with a mere Warrant Officer.

As Layton had suspected, Cowley's injury wasn't so terrible. The secondary infection had been the real danger. Told that he would regain full usage of the limb, he was warned that any future trauma could overtax the already scarred leg. Morris Cowley recuperated nicely and spent the remainder of the war stationed at the War College in Sandhurst. He finished his studies there two years later, top of his class. The newly commissioned Lieutenant Cowley promptly took a leave of absence to finish his education at University.

It was during this time that Cowley intensified his search for any trace of Mark Layton and David Bentley. At first, it was out of a sense of duty and gratitude; he wanted to meet their parents and perhaps tell them how their sons had died--how he would never have made it without the brave flyers. But, he could never find any direct record or reference for either man. Once, he tracked down a Marcus Layton; he'd turned out to be an eighty-six year old Vicar in the Lake District. Internally, Cowley tried to explain away this total lack of information; many records had been lost in the blitz.

As he had gone up in both rank and security clearance, first in the Army and then MI5, Cowley had tried periodically to pull up any sort of reference on the two men: never obsessively, but rather like a hobby. It was during such a search that he discovered that Badenburg had been mistakenly bombed only a few days after his rescue. Not much was damaged and there was surprisingly little loss of life. The only building of any importance lost was the Towne Hall; a direct hit. Of the men posted in the Towne Hall--no survivors. Cowley realized that if Hegel had not succeeded in killing him, the bombing surely would have.

In November of '77, Cowley at last let the brash flyers go, but not without a sort of memorial. Having no sons of his own to name, he rechristened Bodie and Doyle. After all his research, Cowley knew that the names Layton and Bentley were stone cold, the perfect undercover 'baptismal' names for two of his best agents.

"What is your opinion of homosexuality within the ranks of C15?"

"Is your question personal or professional, Doctor?" Cowley asked at his most urbane.

"Either, if you like," Ross replied easily.

Leaning forward Cowley stated, "I've seen prejudice and stupidity in many forms; I've seen men killed for the crime of being born on the wrong side of an imaginary line drawn on a map, a line that has moved a hundred times in a thousand years. Aye, I break the rules--the stupid ones!--thus I've fought prejudice all my life; I'm not about to change now."

Ross watched as the Controller swirled the dregs of his scotch thoughtfully. "That is your personal opinion, Mr. Cowley?" Ross asked.

"That is my professional opinion," Cowley concluded. Together, with a small silent salute, the Doctor and the Controller kicked back their respective drinks, finishing them in one gulp. Setting his glass upon the table beside his chair, Cowley reached for a Bible that was shabby with use. With hardly an effort, Cowley lay the book upon his lap and allowed the thin pages to open of their own accord to a well worn spot.

"My personal opinion can hardly be said better than this," Cowley spoke before he began to read:

"Let brotherly love continue. Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for many have entertained Angels unawares.

"Remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them; and them which suffer adversity.

"Marriage is honourable in all..."

The moment of silence which followed the closing of the book was full and meet. Finally, Kate Ross reached for her bag to finish packing away her papers. Cowley stood and fetched her trenchcoat. Helping her into the garment, the old Scot saw her to his door.

"You are a good soldier, Mr. Cowley," she said. No reply was necessary.

Cowley stood guard at the door, making sure that she entered her car safely.

-- THE END -