Kinch sat at the radio, staring at the cold, metallic dials. He heard shuffling in the fitting room. Must be Newkirk and Carter changing for the mission, he thought. Carter was going to blow a ball-bearing plant while Newkirk, LeBeau, and Hogan were going to sneak into General Meier's office to get battle plans during a party. The shuffling got closer. A blond head with a black cap poked into the doorway.

"Hi-ya, Kinch!" Carter's enthusiastic voice pressed against the dense dirt. Kinch smiled.

"Hey, Carter. It's nice to see you, too," he said.

"Any last info?" a sly voice practically whispered in his ear. He almost hit the ceiling.

"Geez, Newkirk! You could've given me a heart attack!" Kinch said crossly as he mock clutched his chest.

"You? Taken down by a mere fright? I don't believe it," Newkirk said in jest. He flashed Kinch a grin. Kinch waved him off.

"I'm more fragile than you realize. That's why I'm left here so often, you know," he joked. The joke fell flat with the slight hitch in his voice. Kinch saw a flicker of concern pass over Newkirk's face and quickly said, "No more info, by the way. You're all set to meet up with LeBeau and Hogan at the car right outside of camp. Good luck."

"See you in a few hours!" Carter waved as he practically flew to the door.

Newkirk slowly followed. "Umm, guys?" They turned back. "Stay safe," Kinch said. Carter nodded and Kinch thought he saw a light turn on in Newkirk's brain, but it could have just been a trick of the dim lighting.

"You too," Carter said. Newkirk rolled his eyes, and then they were gone.

Kinch dropped his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. And that was the very problem. He was safe. As safe as one could possibly be in the middle of Nazi Germany. And they weren't. They were probably as unsafe as one could possibly be. He contemplated the ceiling. Waiting. He twirled his pencil, then set it down decisively. It was always worse when all of them were gone at once. The thought that he could lose them all in one night— He got up and started to pace. And he was stuck here. After a minute, he sat down again and opened his novel. He closed it immediately afterwards. He put his chin on his arm and watched the second hand on his clock tick-tick-tick.

An hour later, a soft voice startled him out of his deep contemplation. "Newkirk? Is that you? You shouldn't be here for another two hours," he whispered, not wanting to disturb the almost haunted gloom around him. A quick thought about lightbulbs burning out flickered through his mind before he heard the reply. It was a lot closer. His heart rate went up without him really knowing why.

Newkirk spoke through his heavy breathing, and it was savage. "Of course it's bloody well me! And it's only me, Kinch. Why weren't you there? WHY!?" The anguish in his voice was too hard to listen to. Kinch's stomach flipped. This wasn't happening. "I trusted you, Kinch! They're all dead. Every last one of 'em." Newkirk was sobbing now. "It's your fault, you hear me? Their blood is on your 'ands, Kinch. Yours!"

"I— No—" he sputtered.

"Yours," Newkirk repeated again.

"But I couldn't do anything. I was ordered to stay here!" he said desperately.

"Oh, blame it on the Colonel why don't you. 'e's gone. And you could have prevented it if you 'ad been there. You could 'ave." Kinch was drowning, drowning in a sea of guilt.

"But..." he whispered.

"But," Newkirk mocked. There was silence in the dark. Then, Newkirk's voice was everywhere, but... it wasn't Newkirk. It was him. "Yours," his voice whispered.

He felt a rushing sensation and his head snapped up. He blinked in the sudden light. He jerkily got to his feet and rushed to the hallway. Nobody. It wasn't real.

Numbly, he walked back to his chair and dropped heavily into it. He took a slow, deep breath. It wasn't real. They would be fine. And it wouldn't— it wouldn't be his fault.

And he pushed it down.

Again.