The Professionals Circuit Archive - Guardian Angels	    Guardian
Angels

 

by Baravan

  
 *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...'

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