How could this have happened? he asked himself, watching for signs of life in the man lying on the hospital bed. The patient was breathing, but only just.

Newkirk was feeling numb. His hearing was curiously muffled, as though the explosion that had landed him here was still ringing in his ears; any attempt to move made him dizzy. That didn't matter, though. What mattered was that motionless body, clinging to life.

"Wake up," he said. "Come on, you silly bugger. Wake up."

But the patient did not respond. Newkirk had not really expected him to.

He became aware of someone standing in the open doorway of the hospital room, and felt a wash of relief flow through him at the presence of his commanding officer, even though he knew there was nothing that Colonel Hogan could do.

The Colonel approached the bed. He had a worn look, as if he hadn't slept.

"Oh, jeez, Newkirk," he said, in a low voice.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," said Newkirk. "I don't know what happened. It's all a bit of a blur still."

Hogan did not respond, but stood looking down at the immobile form under the thin blanket. "He could have been killed," he said.

Behind him, still standing in the doorway, Newkirk noticed the solid mass of Sergeant Schultz, the Sergeant of the Guard of Stalag 13. Schultz was visibly distressed; he'd never really got that whole opposite-sides-of-the-war concept.

"He looks very bad," said the sergeant.

"Tell me about it," muttered Newkirk. Hogan didn't say anything.

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz went on, in a low, pleading voice, "it is not our fault. It was saboteurs who blew up the bridge. We are not to blame."

It was obviously the continuation of a discussion that had gone on before their arrival, and Hogan dismissed it impatiently. "Whatever, Schultz."

He had never, within Newkirk's memory, spoken so sharply to Schultz before, and he seemed to regret it almost immediately. "Sorry. Look, just give us a minute, okay?"

"Colonel Hogan," faltered Schultz, "we must go back to the camp very soon. The Kommandant said..."

"I know, Schultz. Just one minute, is all I'm asking. Please."

Schultz backed out of the room, and Hogan leaned over the patient.

"Newkirk," he said, "don't let this beat you. We need you. Come back. Please, just...come back." He took a deep breath. "That's an order, Newkirk."

"I'm doin' me best, sir," said Newkirk, "but I don't seem to know how."

Hogan didn't hear him. Of course he didn't. He lingered for a moment, then sighed, and left. Newkirk remained, hovering uncertainly, looking down at his own inert body, lying on the bed.

I don't even know how I got out. How the hell am I supposed to get back?

He knew there had been an explosion; he remembered that much. He had no memory of anything leading up to it, at least, no memory that made any sense. Schultz had mentioned a bridge. Had there been a mission? If so, something had gone wrong. It troubled him that he couldn't remember. No, more than that, it terrified him, because if a bridge was to be blown up, he wouldn't have been there alone. Carter was the demolition man. Carter would have been placing the charges. If they had gone off prematurely - Where the hell was Carter?

Up until now, since he first came to awareness and found himself in this state of detachment, he had been tied somehow to the room where his comatose body was lying. Now a kind of panic seized him. He made no conscious effort to move, but found himself moving, driven by the need to find Carter, to know that he was okay.

It was unnerving, the way he was travelling; it was as if he were passing through a series of flickering images, like an old film with a lot of missing frames. It frightened him, and made him feel sick, but he couldn't stop, until he had determined that wherever Carter was, he wasn't in the hospital.

Newkirk was losing track of time, or perhaps time was losing track of him. His frantic round of the hospital left him disoriented, and it seemed that there was an interval of complete blankness before he realised that he was somewhere else, drifting through trees, following the line of a road. It was vaguely familiar, but since he had got so scared about Carter, he was finding it difficult to remember even the simplest things.

Just ahead was a small truck, heading towards...he couldn't quite put a name to it, but he knew the place, he knew it well. He was sure he didn't like it, but he needed to get there.

He was gaining on the truck, by another series of those odd leaps of time. Finally he found himself in the back, behind the driver. Schultz; that was the driver's name. He knew Schultz, and he knew Colonel Hogan, who was sitting next to him. Newkirk's panic abated, and with that his memory cleared. They were going to Stalag 13. Not quite home, but it would do. He had friends there. They would know where Carter was.

The early dusk of winter had descended when the truck pulled in to the compound. Hogan got out, and slammed the door. "Schultz, I don't want to speak to the Kommandant," he said. "Just tell him there's no change."

The Kommandant knows? thought Newkirk. If the Krauts knew about it...

It was strange. There seemed to be no indications about the camp of anything except business as usual. If an operation had come unstuck, to the extent of landing him in hospital, surely there would have been all hell to pay.

The Colonel was striding towards Barracks 2. Newkirk followed him, afraid of losing his grip again if he was left alone. The first person he saw inside was Carter, and the flood of relief almost swept him away. Everything became indistinct; for a moment he thought he was back at the hospital.

Oh, no, you don't, he told himself grimly, and fought his way back to the barracks.

"...don't know anything about it." That was Kinch speaking. Newkirk had missed something. He tried to focus.

"They're pretty mad about it, too," Kinch continued. "Hammelburg's full of Gestapo, and there's been a lot of arrests."

"Anyone from the Underground?" asked Hogan.

"That's the weird part, Colonel. It's completely random, it's like they're just picking people up off the street. They don't seem that interested in us, though. When they were questioning us, it was like they already knew we had nothing to do with it."

"Colonel," Carter put in, "if the Underground didn't blow up the bridge, and we didn't blow up the bridge, who did?"

"I don't know, Carter," replied Hogan. "Someone who doesn't have any contact with our organisation, otherwise they'd have known we were planning to hit that bridge. Someone willing to mount an operation in broad daylight, and who isn't concerned about risking the lives of anyone who happens to be around."

"Whoever it was couldn't have known about the work detail," said Kinch.

"They would have known that it's a busy road during the day," Hogan spoke softly, but the anger in his voice was all the more intense for that. "Anyone could have been there. It's not just because it happened to be us. There was a car on the bridge. The driver was killed."

Newkirk's thoughts veered off. The work detail. He remembered that. They were doing road repairs; a pretext to get a look at the bridge in preparation for its destruction. And someone had beaten them to it.

He realised he was losing the thread again, and forced his attention back to the conversation in the barracks. Kinch was speaking again: "...wants out of the infirmary."

"What does the medic say?" asked Hogan.

"Says he should be okay, but don't let him overdo it. He's already notified the Kommandant."

"Fine. Go and bring him back."

Someone was in the infirmary. Newkirk had been so worried about Carter, he hadn't given a thought to anyone else, or even noticed if someone was missing. He tried to follow Kinch, but he seemed to have lost the knack.

LeBeau, he thought. He was standing behind me when...oh, Christ, and I forgot he was there...