"So many letters!" Herbert's wife picked up one of the envelopes which were heaped up on the dining table, and examined the foreign stamp with interest. "Are they really all from former prisoners of war?"

"Not just from prisoners," said Herbert. "Some of the guards have written, too. See this one, from a gentleman in Heidelberg? He says he was a sergeant of the Luftwaffe, posted to Stalag 13 as a guard. I believe it to be true, because so many of the prisoners write about 'good old Schultz', or 'our pal Schultzie'. Almost every story mentions him."

"They liked him?" Marianne tilted her head to the side. She seemed to find it improbable.

"Well, they speak of him with affection." Herbert unfolded the letter. "He says he knew all along what was really going on, but kept quiet because he didn't want to cause any trouble for the prisoners."

"Or for himself."

The interjection probably touched on some level of truth, but Herbert ignored it. "Actually, he would very much like to come to Hammelburg and take me around to all the old places. He seems to remember them very well. It's strange, I had no idea there were so many taverns and bars in the town."

"Apart from the ones you visited with the Englishman," said Marianne, somewhat tartly. Herbert blushed, and hastened to divert her attention towards a small box lying next to the stack of envelopes.

"Cassette tapes," he said. "From one of the prisoners – Mr Andrew J. Carter, from Muncie, Indiana. I don't quite understand his stories, they seem to go on for a very long time, with a great deal of digression and many amusing but irrelevant details, and then suddenly he says, 'And then we blew up the train and went home,' and that's the end."

He picked up a letter which he hadn't yet opened. He knew he should have, but seeing the name on the envelope, and how very thin it was, he'd had an attack of nerves. Of all the men and the few women who had memories of Stalag 13, the one whose opinion mattered most of all was the one who had written this apparently short missive. What if he didn't approve of this digging up of the past?

"What do you mean to do with all of this?" asked Marianne abruptly, recalling Herbert from his thoughts. He stared at her blankly, not sure what to say. Even though she knew the place had a hold on him, he had never really told her about the voices he still heard whenever he visited the old camp. His practical, sensible Marianne would laugh at him for such foolish imaginings.

"I – I don't know," he faltered at last. Then, imagining a hint of disapproval in her eye, his chin went up in mild defiance. "I just think these stories – all of the history of the place – it shouldn't be forgotten."

"But what if people want to forget?" Marianne's eyebrows drew in. "You know how the locals were, when you asked them about it. There are bad memories, not just good ones. They don't want to remember."

"Maybe not. Maybe they'd rather pretend it didn't happen, or that it doesn't matter any more. But it's not for them." Suddenly, Herbert found the words he was looking for. "It's for the people they used to be, and the people who lived here, and fought and sometimes died for things that were important. Even if some of them were wrong to do what they did, it's still part of the history of the place. You can't ignore the past just because it's not always comfortable. And if nobody is interested now, some day their children will want to know, or their grandchildren."

He turned the letter over in his fingers. Somehow, even though he hadn't looked at it, he felt more confident knowing he had it. "There's a planning meeting on Monday morning," he said. "I think I should talk to them about conservation of the site, or having a proper archaeological dig and preserving whatever they find. There was a Pickelhaube – did I tell you? Who knows what else they might find? Perhaps there should be some kind of memorial. I think I should tell them so."

"But, Herbert, you are afraid of speaking in public," said Marianne.

"I know. But someone has to do it," he replied.

Herbert spent the whole weekend crafting his presentation. He had material enough, from both sides of the conflict, to talk for hours, but he knew he'd have to keep it short to get a hearing, so he tried to choose the very best stories.

He woke early on Monday morning, and crept downstairs to go over his notes. The unopened letter caught his eye; he frowned as he looked at it. Then with sudden resolution, he opened it, and started to read.

Dear Herbert,

I know, that's a little informal but I've been hearing all about you from the boys, and I feel like we know each other. Kinch says you're a swell guy, and his opinion's good enough to bank on. Any friend of his is someone I'd like to be pals with, too.

He told me you're interested in how things were at Stalag 13. I think that's great, and not just because we had some pretty wild adventures and there are great stories to tell. The thing is, history's important. Someone once said if you don't remember the past, you're bound to repeat it. Whoever he was, he got that right.

I guess you've already heard a lot of the old stories, and I'll be happy to add to your collection the next time I write. But I've been sitting here, thinking about the old days, and the memories that come to mind aren't about missions and escapades and shenanigans. What I remember are the in-between times, when we were just prisoners, trying to make the time pass – exercising in the yard, or playing poker around the table in the barracks on a cold evening. LeBeau would have something cooking on that ridiculous little iron stove, making the whole place smell like the best kind of Paris bistro. Carter's just playing for fun, complaining loudly every time he has to fold and snickering under his breath whenever he has a good hand. Everyone knows Newkirk's got a couple of aces up his sleeve, but he won't play them, unless Schultz joins the game. As for Kinch, he plays a steady, safe game and never takes risks, except when he does. On a good day he can even bluff Newkirk.

The other guys too, Baker, Olsen, Walters, Addison, Brodkin – I wouldn't say I miss the old days, but I sure miss the company.

You know, Herbert, I think you might just have started something. I'm looking forward to seeing how it ends up.

Best wishes,

Robert E. Hogan.

Herbert folded the letter carefully and put it away. He wouldn't share it with the meeting, but he knew it would be in the heart of everything he said to them, and the thought would make the ordeal of speaking in public so much easier.

There was one more surprise waiting for him, before he left. Marianne had bought him a present: a new tie, vivid dark blue with a very narrow crimson stripe.

"I thought you should wear something a little more colourful today," she explained, as she knotted it for him, and smoothed his collar. "There! You look very handsome." She hesitated, then added abruptly, "My uncle was there, too."

"Your uncle…?"

"Uncle Wilhelm. You haven't met him," said Marianne. "He lives in a retirement home in Düsseldorf. I've always known that during the war he was the Kommandant of Stalag 13, but I wasn't sure I should say anything. It wasn't something he ever spoke of. So I called him, last week, and asked him if he would like to tell you about his time there, and he didn't exactly say yes, but he didn't say no either. I think we should visit him, quite soon. He might have stories for you, too."

Herbert gave her a hug, his heart overflowing with joy. Another voice, he thought. I wonder how many more there will be…

And that's it for another year. Twenty-five stories were posted under the banner of this year's challenge, which is excellent. Many thanks to all the writers who contributed, as well as to the readers and reviewers who so kindly expressed their appreciation. And a special thank you to Abracadebra, katbybee, konarciq, Sgt. Moffitt, Thaddeus MacChuzzlewit, whirlyite, and snooky-9093 for their per-story donations to a range of worthwhile causes.

See you all next year.