Summary: In 1943, during the height of World War II, the Germans decided to put all of their bad eggs in one basket. Meaning, all of the best escape artists from every prisoner of war camp in a new, state-of-the-art facility. Wait—maybe that's not such a good idea...

WWII au based off of the 1963 film, The Great Escape.

US/UK and FrUK love triangle, established SuFin, Pol/Liet, eventual BTT friendship, and some Spamano. Five chapters.

A/N: This was something I started years ago, and remained a project I wanted to write even after I fell out of the Hetalia fandom. But since I'm back for a hot minute, I went ahead and wrote it. Because dang it The Great Escape is one of my favorite movies and the perfect setting to write so many of the characters. This fic is pretty England and America centric, with multiple pairings, but the focus is definitely action/adventure and friendship.

The movie was based off a true story from WWII, and they took some creative liberties with the characters, so I'm going to take creative liberties with the movie to fit the Hetalia cast. You don't have to watch the movie to read the fic, but I do recommend it since it is AWESOME.

I try to explain everything clearly, but in case it helps, here is a list of the characters, their "roles", and who they're fighting for:

"Big X" – Arthur Kirkland (Britain)

"Cooler King"– Alfred F. Jones (U.S.A.)

"Intelligence"– Matthew Williams (Canadian for Britain)

"Scrounger"– Antonio Carriedo (Spanish fighting for Britain)

"Forger"– Francis Bonnefoy (French-Canadian fighting for Britain)

"Commandant"– Colonel Ludwig Bielschmidt (German Luftwaffe)

"Tunnel Kings"– Berwald Oxenstierna (Swedish fighting for Britain) and Tino Valnamoinen (Finnish fighting for Britain)

"Manufacturers"– Toris and Eduard and Raivis (Resistance)

"Mole"– Peter Kirkland/Sealand (Britain)

"Ferret"– Gilbert Bielschmidt (German officer)

"Dispersal" – Raivis (Resistance)

"Surveyor"– Lovino Vargas (Italian-American U.S.A.)

"Tailor" – Feliciano Vargas (Italian-American U.S.A.) and Feliks Lukasiewics, (Resistance)

—Raivis is Latvia, Eduard is Estonia, Toris is Lithuania, and Feliks is Poland—

I don't typically write in third person omniscient, but since there are so many moving parts, I thought it might be for the best. Hope you enjoy it!

The Great Escape

Chapter One: The First Day

1943

Sagan, Nazi Germany

It was morning when a dozen trucks pulled onto the long driveway of the new prisoner of war camp. All of them were dark green with cloth tops, and inside each were dozens of foreign soldiers watched by armed German guards. Some of them knew each other, and some of them didn't. English, American, Australian, Canadian, and other nationalities were crouched on the metal bed of the trucks. Alfred had his baseball glove on his left hand, and habitually tossed his baseball in the leather pocket over and over again. He didn't talk to anyone. Seemed like there were no Americans on this truck. But it was full of characters, which he found entertaining.

A French-Canadian or Frenchman – judging by the accent – was conversing animatedly with some British officers. He seemed so sophisticated and genteel in his indigo clothes and long blond hair, if also a bit annoying. Alfred couldn't figure out how he fit in with the rest of them.

There were two stoic blonds at the other end. Well, one of them very stoic and very serious, who kept his gaze firm on the wall across from him. The other a little smaller and a little kinder-looking. He was patting the stoic one on the back and saying something to him. Probably words of comfort.

Alfred tried to stay optimistic. But secretly he did wonder if maybe they weren't going to another camp. Maybe they were going to be taken to the Gestapo and shot. That was always a possibility, and he knew it.

So when the truck finally parked, sending everyone but the armed Germans tumbling to their side, Alfred tucked the ball back in his glove and took it off. He stared at the back of the truck with hard eyes.

Commotion began to trickle outside, and he heard other trucks parking and some Germans talking. Then at once the back of the truck was yanked open and someone shouted:

"All right. Everybody out."

No one had to be told twice. Two at a time they hopped out of the truck, and Alfred found himself close to last. He actually laughed when he saw that they were indeed at another camp. Some people gave him odd looks, including the two tall blonds, but he carried on and joined the crowd of other men. He was the only one not in uniform, so he hoped that he would be easy to spot if anyone he knew was here too—Alfred was still wearing his grey jumper, leather jacket, and beige pants. But when he glanced around him, it was a sea of blue and grey uniforms: all of them tattered, dirty, and worn.

They were led through the gates and an important looking German flanked by armed guards was watching them. He was Luftwaffe. Colonel Ludwig Bielschmidt, the commandant of the camp. He looked at the prisoners milling about with sharp blue eyes, and kept his hands folded behind his back as he observed them. These were the greatest escape artists of all the prisoner of war camps, and watching them now it was very clear—because absolutely no one was standing still.

One of the prisoners dressed in blue and carrying a brown sheepskin-lined jacket over his shoulder paused at the wire blocking off the few feet before the tall fence. He was the only Spaniard in the camp: named Antonio Carriedo. He glanced from guard tower to guard tower. This was unlike any of the camps he'd been in previously. It was obvious the Germans had poured incredible effort and money into this place. The fence around the perimeter was tall, and the number of guards was almost obscene. He spotted large lights attached to the tops of the towers to search the compound at night.

Antonio scratched his head and smiled. If the Germans put in this much effort, it seemed like he was doing his job right after all. They all were.

The wooden houses, or huts as they called them, were hoisted off the ground by about a foot, and organized in neat, calculated German rows. Two young men were walking fast by them, and one of them named Lovino, crouched down and peered underneath. His jacket puckered as he knelt.

"Lovi," Feliciano, his brother, whispered. He followed suit and deftly looked underneath. His blue uniform had been stripped of its buttons, so it flapped to his sides whenever he moved. "What do you think?"

Lovino grumbled something indiscernible and resumed walking. Feliciano was fast to return to his heels.

"What was that?" Feliciano asked again.

"They're not making this easy," Lovino muttered, and his eyes stayed on the rows of huts. All of them wooden and the same. He wondered which would be theirs.

As the Vargas brothers were leaving, the two tall blonds stopped at the same hut and watched the German guards. The taller one wearing glasses crossed his arms.

"Berwald, how far do you think the trees are?" the softer one asked, peering past the fence to the forest. His name was Tino Vainamoinen—he was Finnish but was fighting for England. His friend was Berwald Oxenstierna, and was Swedish and fighting for England. They were known as the "tunnel kings". And right now that's all they could think about. The next tunnel. Getting out.

"Two hundred feet," Berwald muttered shortly. Without any change in expression, he corrected, "Almost three hundred feet."

Tino whistled and rolled his eyes to the guard towers again. "We'll get Eduard to make a survey."

"Long ways to dig," Berwald said.

Tino glanced at him. Berwald's face always stayed icy and firm, but Tino could tell from the grip of his hands on his sleeves that he was dreading the next tunnel.

"I wish 'Big X' were here," Tino sighed. "I wonder where he is?"

"Maybe he's dead," Berwald replied shortly. "Taken by Gestapo."

"I hope not. I hope he makes it here. We sure could use his help." Tino paused and looked at Berwald again. Tino tentatively rubbed Berwald's back, trying to calm Berwald's nerves. Slowly, Berwald's shoulders relaxed and the gleam in his eyes faded. Tino tugged at his arm, and together they walked somewhere else.

All of the prisoners continued milling about. But they stopped in their tracks once they heard the large, imposing gates shut with an echo. They were trapped again. Another prison, for who knows how long. While the rest of the world keeps fighting, they are trapped here. And it was made very clear to them that this time the Germans were not going to be as easy to slip past.

Colonel Ludwig Bielschmidt was put in charge of the camp once the power was given to the Luftwaffe. And he was almost thankful. He may be German and he always wanted to obey and help his country, but he knew that if it wasn't him in charge it could have been the Gestapo. And the Gestapo were in no way German to him. They were scum of the earth. They had no respect for prisoners of war, and everyone standing in this camp now would be shot on the side of the road if they got their way.

That was not the way Germans should handle things. And it was certainly not the way the Luftwaffe do.

He stepped off of the compound to his office for a moment, and ordered that the senior British officer, Group Captain Matthew Williams, be brought to him. Ludwig was rigid against his desk and shining in his perfect navy uniform from head to toe, emblems and pins gleaming from the sunshine of the window. But the Group Captain brought inside was the opposite.

It almost pained Ludwig to see Matthew. He was tall and blond, hair a little unkept, and his uniform intact but badly worn. There was something soft in his face that made Ludwig sad, because perhaps they could have been friends in another life. But his blue eyes were guarded and they looked at Ludwig with no openness or vulnerability. Obviously in this life, the two of them could never be friends.

Once the door was shut, Ludwig paced around the side of his desk.

"Group Captain Williams, I hope you can act as the liaison between the prisoners and I," he said. Matthew stood still on the other side of the room. "Over the past four years, the Reich has been forced to utilize a considerable amount of manpower, money, and resources hunting down escaped prisoners of war, and that is the exact reason this new facility has been built."

"Nice to know we're wanted," Matthew smiled shortly. Even his voice was soft. But war has obviously sharpened it with laden anger. Ludwig turned to his desk.

"There will be no escapes from this camp. None."

"Commandant," Matthew piped up, voice gaining more strength and less fear. "It is the sworn duty of every officer to try to escape. And if they can't, it is their sworn duty to harass the enemy to the best of their ability."

"Yes, I know," Ludwig replied dryly, offering Matthew a wry smile. "The men under your authority have been most successful." He picked up a folder from his desk and breezily opened it. This man…Feliks. Escape, recaptured, escape, recaptured, escape recaptured." He dropped it on the table. Matthew gave nothing away in his stare. Ludwig picked up another file and read. "Peter Kirkland—eleven escape attempts. Even tried to jump out of the truck on the way here." Matthew shrugged his shoulders, so Ludwig continued. "Oxenstierna—known to have participated in the digging of eleven escaped tunnels. Bonnefoy—four. Carriedo—five. Valnamoinen—four. Yourself—nine. Vargas—seven. The list is almost endless." He slammed the folder onto the table, and picked up one other folder, far thicker than the rest. He glared at Williams. "This man – Jones – seventeen escape attempts. Group Captain, this is close to insanity. And it must stop."

"Do you expect officers to forget their duty?" Matthew asked smoothly.

Ludwig pressed his lips together and straightened. "No," he admitted. "It is because we expect the opposite that we have brought you here." He waved to the window. "This is a new camp. It has been built to hold you and your men. It has state-of-the-art facilities and security measures. And with me you will not be dealing with the common jailor, I have been personally selected by the Luftwaffe high command. We are essentially putting all of our bad eggs in one basket. And we intend to watch this basket very carefully."

"My," Matthew said softly, a small smile on his lips.

Ludwig pressed on, "You will not be denied the usual facilities. You will have sports, a library, a recreation hall, and for gardening we will even give you tools. We trust that you will use some of these tools for that purpose. Expend your energy on these activities and give up on escaping. This way can all sit out the war as comfortably as possible."

Ludwig walked to Matthew, who had fallen silent and observant, and offered him a cigarette as a peace offering. Matthew's eyes were still hard, but in a slow, careful movement, he took the cigarette delicately in his fingers and did not refute Ludwig's statement.

Ludwig hoped that was a good omen for this new camp.

Outside, Antonio was still taking a lax tour of the compound. He spotted some open green trucks carrying cargo parked near a few of the huts. There weren't any Germans there, and they left the windows down, so with a cursory glance over his shoulder, he approached the truck and peered inside. Maybe he would find something interesting. Antonio was always looking for something useful. He only managed to get his head halfway inside when he heard a German yell at him in accented English.

"What are you doing by the truck?" he said, and swiftly marched to Antonio's side. He was in all black, even his hat, and neat silver hair shined underneath it. His gaze was powerful and red, but not necessarily violent. Just intense.

Antonio leaned against the truck, his arm resting on the open window. "I'm stealing tools," he said with a smile. It was amusing how shocked the German was at his reply. It almost looked like the German wanted to laugh.

Instead, the German coughed and gave Antonio a firm point. "For stealing tools you will be sent to the cooler," he warned, and with a slight pause, he reached for Antonio's arm to pull him away.

Antonio chuckled and backed away. "No, no! I was only kidding!" he promised. "I'm just looking around. Not stealing anything."

The German narrowed his eyes, then stood straight and crossed his arms. A smile was definitely tugging hard at the corners of his lips. "Oh, you're the Spaniard. The only one we have. Antonio Carriedo, right?"

Antonio flashed him a smile, and his eyes danced. "Didn't know I was that famous." He pulled the jacket from his shoulder and held it in his arms. "And you're a German."

The German raised his chin and now he was smiling. "Well, actually I'm—" He stopped mid-sentence and looked around fast. Satisfied, he leaned close to Antonio and whispered very seriously. "I'm Prussian."

Another laugh escaped Antonio's lips and he looked up. "Is that a secret?"

"A awesome secret," the Germa—Prussian proclaimed confidently. His smile vanished and he regarded Antonio more curiously now. "Why do you fight for England? You're Spanish after all. Aren't there better things to do over there, like fight bulls?"

Antonio wanted to see how far he could push this one. The Luftwaffe in general weren't as violent as the other Germans – they were of a higher class – and this guy in particular seemed to be a little more open. Might as well give it a shot.

"Why would I fight bulls when they never did anything wrong?" he teased.

Ah, but maybe that was a tad too far. The Prussian iced up in a second and those strange red eyes flashed dangerously.

"Go away from here," he ordered Antonio with a hard push. "And if I find you stealing tools it'll be the cooler. Remember." He poked his head in the truck as if to check whether Antonio managed to take something.

Antonio chuckled and tossed his jacket over his shoulder again. "All right. All right. See you around, Prussian."

Antonio made a mental note of this character. He'd keep the Prussian in mind if he needed to steal something. Even if he didn't appreciate Antonio's joke, it was obvious he liked to talk. And Antonio could be a smooth talker when he wanted to be. Happy with his plan, Antonio began whistling a vague Spanish tune and strolled down the line of huts.

Meanwhile, Berwald and Tino lingered near the front gate watching a large group of men dressed in heavy coats line up.

"Berwald, who are they?"

Berwald squinted behind his glasses. "Russian prisoners. They cut down trees."

"Oh, I see," Tino said and looked at their picks and axes. "Do they keep them here in the camp too?"

"No, they take them out," Berwald replied shortly. Then he stiffened, and without looking away from the Russians, he slowly dropped his bag to the floor and removed his jacket. "Tino," he called. "Cigarettes."

Tino blinked once before he realized Berwald was already working on a plan. They've been with each other through enough escapes to know each other's cues. Berwald's were always short and cryptic. But Tino has known him for years now. He knew when Berwald was cooking something up.

Without a word, Tino retrieved cigarettes from his breast pocket and passed them to Berwald. Berwald took them delicately and held them by his side. He gave Tino the look—the look was a hard, intimidating glare to anyone else. But Tino was used to it.

"Got it," he smiled. "I'll talk to Feliks." And in fast strides, Tino left Berwald's side and bee-lined for the group of loud men lingering by the outdoor sinks.

They were the group of Eastern Europeans. Tino and Berwald had seen them in plenty of camps before.

Feliks Lukasiewicz was the loudest of the group, and the only one not in uniform. He was Polish, blond-haired, green eyed and wore peculiar civilian clothes. His odd manners and style of dress caught attention wherever he went. Typically he was seen babbling in a one-sided conversation with his close friend Toris. Just like this moment.

While Feliks was perched atop of his suitcase, waving his hands around, Toris was standing about a foot away, tiredly rubbing his temple.

Tino marched up to them and didn't bother with introductions. "Berwald and I have a blitz in mind. Do you think you guys can put on a little show?"

"Oh, wow," Feliks grinned and picked himself up. He pushed his pink scarf over his shoulder. "That was like, totally fast. Even for you guys."

"Some people don't waste time talking," Toris commented dryly.

The other Eastern Europeans neared. The smaller one was Raivis, and the taller one in glasses was Eduard.

Eduard put a finger to his chin. "What did you have in mind? An all-out go?"

"Choir practice?" Raivis prompted.

"How about like, knuckles?" Feliks said happily.

Toris glared at him. "It better not go like last time."

"Knuckles will be fine," Tino said, not giving attention to their spat (they were always arguing after all). He looked at Berwald standing near the hut. "I'll leave it up to you guys, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Feliks shrugged his shoulders and tossed his scarf into Toris's hands. "No problem at all." Toris frowned as he held the pink fabric.

Tino nodded and swiftly scampered away. Feliks was ready to start the show.

Feliks didn't enjoy actual fighting – he was a bit of a scaredy-cat after all – but he loved play fighting. And even more so when it was with Toris.

Even when he yelled, he grinned. "You damn Liet! You totally took my scarf, didn't you!" He rushed up to Toris and grabbed the scarf from his hands.

Toris hated play fighting—especially with Feliks. But he grit his teeth and followed Feliks's lead. (Why did it always have to be his lead?)

"You dirty Pol! Get your hands off my scarf!" he shouted. Some German officers were turning their heads now. Toris shoved Feliks's shoulder, and as usual Feliks looked equal parts scared and sad that Toris was fighting back.

But Feliks was quick to raise the façade again, and he laughed maniacally. "You know what, Liet? I have something else for you." Feliks pulled back his arm and swung his fist across Toris's left cheek. "How do you like that?" He kept laughing.

"For god's sake, Feliks," Toris grumbled as he held his cheek. "You asked for it!" And he charged Feliks to the ground. They rolled in the dirt and Feliks gave random shouts like "what the hell! Why are you attacking me?" and "my scarf is going to be totally ruined you know". Toris wasn't actually hurting him, but they kept rolling on the ground, both of them shouting, until there were whistles, German yelling, and soldiers pried them away from each other.

"Hey, hey! Easy!" Feliks whined, as a German pulled him to his feet. He patted some dirt from his hair. "We were just like, having an argument. What's the big—" Feliks's voice closed when he made eye contact with the German officer standing between them. Well, not German, it was the Prussian. He wasn't the one who had pulled Feliks and Toris apart, but he seemed to be commanding the operation. Any remaining part of Feliks façade faded and he felt himself shrink in his clothes. Those red eyes were scary.

The Prussian regarded Feliks and Toris with a fiery discipline. "What the hell is going on here?" It wasn't a yell, but his voice was loud and strong anyway.

"I, um, I…" Feliks's voice trailed off. He wanted to hide behind Toris, but was forced to stand alone in his place.

Toris noticed Feliks discomfort with some concerned empathy, maybe also frustration. It was always like this. So Toris smiled and tried to play it off. "We were just having a friendly little argument. Isn't that right, Pol?"

Feliks's green eyes were wide and they shot between Toris and the Prussian.

He didn't have a chance to reply before the Prussian was staring him down. "No more fighting, got that?" He looked to Toris. "No more." Then he nodded to the other German officers and walked away. "Now everyone get back to your huts! At once. You hear me? Get back!" A large crowd had gathered to watch Feliks and Toris's little scramble, and several German officers were keeping them at bay with heavy guns.

Feliks's hands were trembling, and he shoved them in his pockets so no one could see. He was staring at the floor and saw Toris's boots appear in front of him.

"Come on, Feliks. It's okay. He wasn't actually going to hurt you," Toris said gently and he held Feliks's shoulder.

Feliks sniffed. "What the hell was with those like, red eyes then? What is he? A dragon?"

Toris sighed and tried to be diplomatic. "He's just doing his job. He's German—what do you expect? Now, come on. Let's go join Raivis and Eduard."

Feliks nodded and began walking with him. He found a little spark and was able to give a last quip to Toris. "You did totally ruin my scarf, you know. You better do something to make it up to me. Like something good."

Toris rolled his eyes.

Feliks was troublesome in a good or bad mood. If it was good he liked to boss Toris around and act obnoxious and selfish. If it was bad he turned into a little kid that needed to be protected. Toris had too many experiences with both sides, and although he loathed them both, he did prefer Feliks happy. At least he would smile then.

And as they rejoined the crowd of other prisoners, Toris was relieved to see that their spat hadn't been a waste. Berwald had disappeared from the side of the hut and into the line of heavily-clothed Russians. Tino was nowhere in sight either. Perhaps he was hiding in one of the trucks carrying branches. Toris was more apprehensive about his escapes, but he did wish them the best of luck. All of the prisoners did the same. They may not all be of the same nationality, but they did have a few things in common: they hated Germans and they all desperately wanted to get the hell out of here.

Alfred was still wandering along the perimeter of the compound, occasionally tossing his baseball and catching it with his glove. The German guards regarded him with silent disapproval, but said nothing. Alfred stopped in a place between two towers and looked around. A plan was slowly formulating in his mind.

"Alfred!" someone shouted.

Alfred turned around and saw Feliciano rush up to him, smiling wide and very happy. His brother Lovino walked slowly and darkly behind him.

"Feli! Lovi!" Alfred cheered as he was pulled into a fast hug by Feliciano.

"Don't call me that," Lovino ordered, and made no move for affection.

Alfred laughed and patted Feliciano's head. Feliciano looked up at him in such relief.

"Oh, Alfred. Thank god. You're the only other American here! No one else from our team is here, you know? Do you think the other Americans were transferred?"

Alfred smiled. "Yeah, maybe! I haven't seen any of the other guys here either." Secretly, he wondered if they'd been taken by the Gestapo, but he didn't want to tell Feliciano that. Lovino seemed to share his concern, as he grumbled something under his breath and turned away. "You wanna know something cool, Feli?"

Feliciano's eyes sparkled. "Oh, yes please! Do you have a plan already?"

"I always got a plan," Alfred grinned and ignored Lovino's other low utterances. Alfred gestured to the towers with his chin. "See how those two towers are placed?" Feliciano nodded. "Well, there's a blind spot right in the middle. The one on the end is too far. If I jumped in, they'd never see me. Especially at night."

Lovino tossed his head back and gave him a glare. "For fuck's sake. You're crazy. There's no way that would work."

Alfred tossed his baseball in the air and gave him a playful wink. "Think so? Let's find out right now." Alfred tossed his ball over the wire, and it rolled to the tall fence.

The three of them paused and glanced between the towers.

"Congrats, idiot. What now?" Lovino said after a few moments.

Alfred looked at him. "Now I wait for the perfect opportunity. It'll be super cool. Wanna stay and watch?"

Lovino shook his head. "I'm taking a walk." He turned on his heel and headed the other way.

"Lovi?" Feliciano called, and before leaving, said a few last words to Alfred, "good luck!"

"Thanks man," Alfred cheered and waved his glove as the Italians marched away. He turned his attention back to the towers. These Germans really never got bored of watching them, did they? Get a life, Alfred thought.

Suddenly, a loud whistle echoed across the compound. And some Germans were ordering the Russian workers to get in line. They began marching, all of them slow and quiet, with their heads tilted to the ground and heavy tools perched on their shoulders. Berwald fit in very easily after he traded his cigarettes for a fur coat and a saw. Apparently Feliks managed to scramble in wearing a coat far, far too large for him. Berwald pressed his lips together when Feliks bounced beside him.

"Hey, hey," Feliks whispered and his eyes were wide. "Do you know any Russian?"

Berwald glanced to the side. He wanted to ignore him, but Feliks really didn't know how to shut up.

"Berwald! Did you like, hear me? I don't know any Russian, man. Help a girl out!" he poked Berwald's sleeve, trying to get his attention.

"Ya lyublyu tebya."

Feliks stopped poking and repeated the words. "Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu tebya…" He glanced to Berwald again. "What does it mean?"

"I love you."

"I…" Feliks bristled and a frustrated blush rose to his cheeks. "I love you? Oh my god. What use is that?"

Berwald shrugged his shoulders and kept walking. "Dunno. Wasn't going to use it."

"Oh my god, man. Oh my god," Feliks complained. "What am I going to do if they stop me? I totally don't know what I'm going to do."

Then why did you jump in? Berwald questioned silently.

They managed to march all the way to the open gate of the compound until the commandant, Ludwig, ordered them all to stop.

Feliks was shivering in nerves, despite the enormous coat. Berwald stayed still with his saw.

Ludwig wandered into the group of Russians, looking crisp and tall in his uniform and black boots. He almost looked annoyed to be doing this.

He stepped in front of Feliks and sighed. "Get out, Lieutenant Lukasiewicz."

Feliks's eyes were practically bulging. "Oh my god," he whispered and frantically removed his coat. He tossed it over the shoulder of a Russian and scurried out of the Russian line.

Ludwig stepped over to Berwald – perhaps the only person taller than him in the whole compound – and said, "you too, Oxenstierna." Ludwig grabbed the saw from his shoulder and passed it to another Russian.

Berwald said nothing, and slowly left the line, in the same direction as Feliks.

Ludwig stepped aside and yelled, "march!" The Russians began moving again, and as they passed him he plucked a pitchfork from one of their hands. After the Russians, there came trucks carrying large piles of pine branches. Ludwig made eye contact with the drivers, and they came to a halt. Ludwig raised his pitchfork and stabbed once in the pile. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. He raised it again and before it plunged, a small British voice piped up.

"Wait, wait!" A boy – really – a boy who could not have been older than nineteen, popped up and stood on the branches. He was covered in pine needles, but stood up proudly, if not childishly.

Ludwig shook his head and produced his notebook. "Your name?"

"Kirkland," the boy said. "Peter Kirkland."

Ludwig flipped through the pages. "Ah, Peter Kirkland. British." He looked up and continued without humor, "you're smaller than I thought you'd be."

Peter frowned and clumsily stepped his way out of the pile and hopped onto the floor. "At least I'm not German," he grumbled.

Ludwig shouldn't let a comment like that slide. He shouldn't be letting a lot of things happening slide. But it was the first day, and he knew the prisoners were testing him and the camp out: it couldn't be helped. It was a soldier's duty after all.

Ludwig put his notebook away and reclaimed the pitchfork. He continued his slow walk to the next truck and raised his pitchfork. This time he didn't stab once before a whistle stopped him.

Ludwig glanced to the side and pinpointed Berwald as the whistler. Berwald dropped his hand from his mouth and watched Ludwig with no expression.

Then heads popped up from under the branches in both trucks, and men climbed out of the piles.

Ludwig would make a mental note that Berwald seemed to be one of the leaders here. Among those that climbed out, Ludwig recognized Tino, Raivis, Eduard, and the Vargas brothers. He sighed again. This was like babysitting children. Can't look away for one second.

He dropped the pitchfork to the ground and clasped his hands behind his back. "I will not take action against any of you now. This is the first day here and there has been much stupidity and carelessness…" he paused for dramatic effect and cast his angry glare across the prisoners and the guards. "On both sides."

Alfred was watching the entire event in avid interest. And finally he noticed that the guards in the towers were looking away. Finally, a golden opportunity.

In deft movements, Alfred hopped over the low wire and walked to his baseball at the fence. He didn't pick it up, and instead backed against the fence, pressing himself against it and determining whether he was right about the blind spot. He stayed there for a few minutes and a triumphant smile spread across his lips. Looks like he was right. Dang, he was just the coolest hero—

"Hey, you!"

Alfred's heart sank and he looked fast to the compound. It was the Prussian in black that spotted him, and without warning the guards in the towers turned their machine guns onto Alfred, aiming at the dirt near his feet. Bullets kicked dust in the air.

"Oh—dang it!" he cursed and stepped away from the fence, waving his hands in the air, one of them gloved and yelling, "don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

The Prussian was sprinting to him now and with one hand signal the fire stopped.

Alfred turned around, arms still up, and gave him a dumb, innocent look. "Hey man."

"You," the Prussian put his hands on his hips and stared him down. "What are you doing? No one crosses the wire. It's off limits."

Alfred spun around. "What wire?"

The Prussian raised his voice and pointed to the ground, "this wire! The warning wire." Alfred finally looked at it and gave a slow nod. But the Prussian was relentless and he continued. "It is absolutely forbidden to cross it. You know that. What the hell were you doing?"

"Oh, well I was just trying to get my baseball," Alfred explained innocently. "See, my baseball rolled over. How am I supposed to get my baseball?"

The Prussian looked behind Alfred and he tilted his head, slightly confused. But in the next moment he was rigid and he shouted, "then you ask permission. Find a guard and ask for permission."

Alfred shrugged his shoulders—that seemed to irritate the Prussian even more. "All right. Can I get it now?"

The Prussian crossed his arms and Alfred took it as consent to retrieve his baseball. He skipped back to the fence and picked it up.

"You! Don't move! What are you doing?"Another German shout bellowed across the compound. By now a crowd had gathered to watch the next spectacle, and the guards had to push through to make it to the wire.

The Prussian didn't bother to look, and in low German, he muttered, "god dammit Ludwig. Don't kill my thunder." Alfred figured he wasn't meant to hear that, or at least understand it. But he did pick up a few German words here and there during his stay.

Now it was the commandant marching swiftly to him, trailed by several other armed guards.

"What are you doing here by the wire?" Ludwig demanded, sharing a short look with the Prussian. "Gilbert?"

The Prussian – Gilbert apparently – opened his mouth to reply, but Alfred interrupted.

"Well, like I was telling ol' red eyes here," he smiled. "I was trying to cut my way through the wire because I want to get out."

Ludwig glared at him and gestured to a guard. "Search him."

"No need, man. I gotcha," Alfred laughed and revealed a wire-cutter from his inside jacket pocket. He tossed it into Ludwig's hand. Unfortunately, Ludwig caught it with practiced ease.

He eyed the wire-cutter and turned it over in his hands. Then his sharp, blue eyes were on Alfred again. "I have had the pleasure of knowing quite a few British officers in this camp. And I'd like to think that the British and I have come to an understanding."

Someone laughed among the crowd. Alfred and Ludwig both looked—it was the boy, Peter, standing next to Matthew. He gave a cheeky grin.

Ludwig ignored him. "You are the first American officer I've met. Jones, correct? Alfred F. Jones."

"Captain Jones, actually," Alfred corrected.

"Seventeen escape attempts?"

Alfred smiled and glanced at the fence. "Eighteen."

"You're a tunnel man. Engineer?" Ludwig continued.

"Flyer," Alfred added.

Ludwig narrowed his eyes. "I suppose you're what they call in the American army, a 'hot shot pilot'."

Alfred smiled in a way that said What can you do?

Ludwig passed the wire-cutter to another German and cleared his throat. "Tell me, are all American officers so ill-mannered?"

"Hm," Alfred hummed. "About ninety-nine percent, I'd say. Not all of them are as good-lookin' though."

Ludwig pursed his lips. "Then perhaps you will have the opportunity to learn some manners while you're here." He looked to Gilbert. "Ten days isolation for Jones."

"Captain Jones," Alfred corrected again, pointing to his badge.

Ludwig eyed him. "Twenty days."

"You'll still be here when I get out?" Alfred jeered, but Gilbert was already at his side, pushing him to walk.

"Cooler. Now." Ludwig ordered. Once Alfred was being led away he glanced to the crowd. "Peter Kirkland—cooler. Twenty days." He allowed himself some mild satisfaction as he watched Peter grumble and be forcefully torn away from the rest of the prisoners, and pushed to follow Alfred in his walk.

Ludwig smoothed his hair back. Always children, these prisoners. Always.

Lovino was sitting on the footstep of a hut next to Feliciano and near their friend Matthew. Matthew was standing with Berwald and Tino—the other two, Lovino wasn't as close with. They were kinda odd after all, and they always had different jobs than Lovino when they worked on an escape together. But Matthew had always been patient with Lovino and Feliciano, so he felt a little more comfortable with him.

Lovino pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket and held it between his lips. His hands searched his pants for a lighter, and the cigarette bounced in his mouth as he cursed, realizing he'd probably lost it again.

Then a man dressed in a blue uniform and crème turtleneck materialized by his side, holding a flame in front of him. Lovino jumped slightly, and turned with narrowed eyes at the man responsible. He didn't recognize him, but that wasn't unusual. It seemed like Lovino didn't recognize a lot of people here.

It was the Spaniard, Antonio, and he gave Lovino a dazzling smile and kept the flame there. "Need a light?"

Lovino said nothing and silently lit his cigarette against the flame and leaned back against the hut.

Antonio shut the lighter, and leaned against the wood of the hut. He was silent for a while, lighting his own cigarette and dragging it slowly to and from his lips.

Lovino cast short glances to him every few minutes, wondering what this man was doing here. Didn't seem like he knew him, Feliciano, or Matthew. Definitely not Berwald and Tino. Yet, Antonio remained there, smoking his cigarette and smiling secretly at the people around him.

"It's been an interesting twenty minutes, huh?" he prompted.

Lovino was so caught off guard he coughed his smoke out. It was annoying as hell when Antonio laughed. "It's just the usual," Lovino deadpanned. His eyes shifted to Antonio again. "You're Spanish?" The accent was pretty damn obvious.

Antonio grinned and suddenly thrust his free hand to Lovino. "I am. Antonio Carriedo," he announced. Lovino made fast work of the handshake and looked away. "And you are?"

Lovino ran his fingers through his hair, debating. But Feliciano looked at him expectantly, so he sighed and turned around. "Lovino Vargas."

"Oh, Italian?"

"Unfortunately I'm American now," Lovino rolled his eyes and dropped his cigarette to the ground. He stomped on it.

Antonio had an easy laugh. "Maybe right now that's for the best," he said. "Sometimes I wish I had moved to America."

"You'll regret it," Lovino warned. "Stay in Spain. The food's probably better there."

Antonio looked pleased. "Have you been?"

"No," Lovino admitted and he crossed his arms. "But I've read about it."

"I'm very flattered," Antonio smiled and let his own cigarette drop to the ground.

Lovino frowned. "Don't be." But a blush betrayed him, and he had to face Feliciano again.

Their conversation faded, and the two of them tuned to Matthew, Berwald and Tino's talk—basically complaining about this morning's failure. But then everyone shut up when they spotted German cars pulling just outside the gates of the compound.

Matthew practically gasped. "You don't think that could be—?"

Berwald stared and said nothing. Tino stepped a little closer, and his face paled.

"Matthew, I think it's the…"

"Gestapo," Antonio finished. His voice was clipped and he suddenly pulled another cigarette from his pocket. Lovino was surprised at the abrupt change in tone, and swiftly looked to the cars again.

Uniformed German soldiers flew out of the car, and slowly, someone else dressed in a beige trench coat – a prisoner by the look of the handcuffs – was pulled after them.

"Big X," Tino said and he grabbed Berwald's shoulder excitedly. Berwald half-smiled in return.

"Oh, thank god," Matthew grabbed his head and released a shaky breath. The next second, he pulled himself together and matched eyes with everyone near him. "Don't pay too much attention. The guards here might not know who he really is. I'll spread the word that Arthur's here. I have to find Francis first." Matthew practically ran away, he was so frantic.

The rest of the group more or less kept their eyes on the event outside the gate. Arthur, or "Big X" as he's known among other escaped prisoners, was escorted away from the car by the Gestapo and to the office building of the commandant. The Gestapo were eerie and each of them wore eager, violent expressions. They looked at Arthur almost excitedly—because he was so close to landing in their "care" permanently.

Arthur tried his best to ignore them, and kept his eyes glued to the path in front of him. His hat had tipped on his head, but he didn't bother to push it back in place with his hands handcuffed. He eventually ended up in Ludwig's office. Ludwig was sitting at his desk, signing papers. He looked up when Arthur and the Gestapo entered.

One man, wearing a full-length leather coat stepped to Ludwig's side and said, "the prisoner Arthur Kirkland is being discharged under your care Colonel Beilschmidt." He dropped documents onto the desk carelessly. Ludwig looked at Arthur—whose expression was firm and pointed to the ground. Ludwig noticed a scar by his eye. No doubt the Gestapo had been cruel in their keep of him.

"We must insist that Arthur Kirkland be kept under the strictest confinement permanently," the man in leather added.

Ludwig pursed his lips and pulled the documents in front of him. He picked up a pen. "I'll make a note of that suggestion," he replied tersely.

"Colonel, we have reason to believe that this man is the leader of numerous criminal escape attempts," the man continued gravely.

Ludwig sat up straighter. He did not appreciate the tone. And he did not agree with the Gestapo. "Arthur Kirkland has been under the Gestapo's care for three months, and you are telling me that you only have reason to believe?"

The man in leather pulled on his gloves. "If he once more falls into our hands…he will not be so lucky."

Ludwig's brows lowered and his gaze was strong. "Air force officers are the responsibility of the Luftwaffe. Not the S.S. or the Gestapo."

The man in leather smiled. "At present, yes Colonel. That is why we have returned him to your care. Of course, if the Luftwaffe is not up to the task, all of the prisoners will be under our charge. I hope we have an understanding," he said, and rose from his chair. He and the other Gestapo stopped near Arthur. "Squadron leader Kirkland," he warned. "If you escape again, you will be shot." They turned on their heels and faced Ludwig with raised hands. "Heil Hitler!"

Ludwig paid very close attention to the papers he was signing and did not immediately respond. But the room grew tense, and he looked up to find the Gestapo eyeing him. Ludwig smiled complacently and stamped the papers. Slowly, he raised his hand and said, "heil Hitler." But it did not sound very genuine.

The Gestapo narrowed their eyes and prepared to leave.

"Excuse me," Ludwig called, and he held the document in one hand. Without a word, one of the Gestapo marched up to him, grabbed the paper and together they exited from his office. The door slammed shut and the smile disappeared from Ludwig's face. He laid his stamp on the table with too much force.

Eventually, his eyes returned to Arthur, who had been breathing far more easily now that the Gestapo had left. He looked beaten and tired. But he did not regard Ludwig with much more favor than the Gestapo, and instead remained silent.

Ludwig clasped his hands over the table, and cast a fast glance to the German guard in the room. "Will you please un-handcuff him," he ordered quietly.

The guard did as he was told, and it did not escape Ludwig's notice how relieved Arthur's face was when his hands were finally free and by his side. Perhaps the Gestapo were right about this one. Perhaps he was going make a great deal of trouble for Ludwig. It should certainly count as warning that with his hands free, a slow determination crept across Arthur's face and a vigor that was not their previously, lit up his green eyes.

But Ludwig did not agree with the Gestapo. At all. Or ever. He was going to grant this prisoner the same freedom as everyone else, and still maintain control.

With a nod, Ludwig dismissed Arthur to the compound.

Inside the cooler, Alfred sat against the stone wall near the door and threw his baseball against the other wall, catching it in his glove each time. He was thinking about the blind-spot, trying to formulate a plan for when he got out. Despite his depressing circumstances, Alfred remained ever positive, and his blue eyes were bright and focused as he threw the baseball again and again. And again.

"Jones!" someone, it sounded like the prisoner next to him, called. Must be Peter Kirkland, the little Brit. "Jones!"

Alfred stopped throwing and glanced to the door. "What's up, man?"

"What did you do in the states?" Peter asked. He sounded curious. "Play baseball?"

Alfred laughed and rolled the baseball in his hand. "I was in college," he said easily, and resumed throwing the ball. "Hey, Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"How many escapes have you tried?"

Peter chuckled. "Oh, four over, seven under."

Alfred grinned. "Tunnel man, huh?"

"Not really," Peter said playfully.

Alfred caught the ball and held it in his glove. A thought flickered across his eyes and he stopped. "How tall are you, Peter?"

"Five feet four inches. Why?" Peter asked defensively.

Alfred shrugged his shoulders and resumed throwing. "Oh, I was just wondering."

A silence fell between them, and just the sound of the ball hitting the stone echoed in the cooler. After some time, Peter piped up again.

"What did you do in college? Study physical education?"

"Chemical engineering. But I did a lot of bike riding too."

Peter's voice sounded more excited when he replied. "Bicycles?"

Alfred laughed, and corrected him. "Motorcycles. You know, flat-tracks? Country fairs. Picked up some money here and there. Helped pay my tuition."

"Oh, I did a bit of racing myself, you know!" Peter exclaimed excitedly.

"Bikes?" Alfred asked.

"No," Peter giggled. "Horses! I was a jockey."

Alfred nodded his head and turned the baseball in his hand. "Ah, jockey. Makes sense. Makes sense." His voice trailed and he thought of the escape again. And that blind-spot. Hmm…

"Jones! Alfred!" Peter called again. "Are you there, Alfred?"

Alfred dropped his glove and ball to the floor, and scrambled to the door. He leant close to it and whispered. "Peter, you know the kind of clay and gravel we got here in the compound?"

"Yeah?" his voice was a hushed whisper too.

"How many feet do you think you could get through in say…eight hours?" Alfred was grinning, and his eyes were sparkling. This was so cool. So, so cool. Everything was falling into place.

Peter jumped up on the door and held onto the bars. He whispered back excitedly. "I could cut through this dirt like I was swimming in water." He paused. "But you know it's not the digging. It's about the shoring up with wood, and getting the duct out. That's what you have to worry about."

Alfred pressed close to the door. "No, it isn't Peter. You don't have to worry about that. I got it all worked out. Trust me."

"But how are you going to get the duct out?" Peter pressed, his voice curious and secretly eager.

Alfred grinned and closed his eyes. He loved the feeling of creating a plan. "What do they call a mole in Britain?"

"Um…a mole?"

"You got it," Alfred replied happily. Yes, he had a plan now. He and Peter could do it together. As soon as they were free again, they would try it. In twenty days.

Arthur walked through the gates with a heavy bag leaning on his shoulder. There was sweet freedom in being finally released by the hands of the Gestapo. But there was also a furious depression at being locked up once again, in yet another German camp. It was beginning to feel like a never-ending story. Or a curse. Maybe Arthur should start believing in luck, because it bloody well seemed like he had a lot of it. And none of it good.

Still, at least the Gestapo were no longer breathing down his neck. Once inside, he took a moment to relax. And as soon as he opened his eyes, he spotted a familiar face – Toris – jogging towards him. Arthur smiled and readily extended his hand for a shake.

"God, Arthur," Toris said with exhausted relief. "You have no idea how happy everyone is that you're here. We thought that…" he paused when he caught the scar near Arthur's eye. Arthur didn't look away, but his smile was beginning to turn down. Toris shook his head and plastered another smile. "It's so good to see you. I can't believe they dumped you here too."

Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and gave a cursory glance around the compound. "Yes, what's this one like?"

Toris raised a brow and looked around. He managed a weak laugh and said, "um, well it's new?"

Arthur finally smiled again, but it was more wistful. "Right," he murmured.

Toris gently pried the bag from Arthur's hands and threw it over his shoulder. "Let me take that. How about we find Matthew and get you a bunk?"

Arthur nodded and followed Toris's lead to the first hut. He noticed on his way some familiar faces—that pleased him. Arthur liked having the same crew to work with. It was a pain to work with new people.

Toris lead him through the halls. Everything was wood-paneled, crisp, but bland. At the last door, Toris stopped and turned the knob; he let Arthur walk in first while he remained at the door frame.

Inside, Arthur spotted Matthew standing by a small table. His face practically melted at the sight of Arthur, and Arthur had mixed feelings about that.

Did everyone expect him to be dead? Bloody hell, he was going to stir some surprise tonight.

"Hello Matthew," Arthur greeted kindly and extended his hand. Matthew ignored it and embraced Arthur in a hug. "Very well then," he laughed softly.

Toris poked his head in and said, "Arthur, I'm going to put your things down in your bunk. Take your time." He shut the door behind himself, giving Matthew and Arthur their privacy.

"Dear god, Arthur. We didn't know what to think when we didn't see you here," Matthew said fervently, and he pulled away. His eyes widened when he saw the scar. "Arthur, did they—?"

At once Arthur froze and he slapped Matthew's hand away. "It's nothing. Don't mention it." He stepped away and shoved his hands in his pockets. He sighed.

Fortunately, it was Matthew to change the subject first. "There are a lot of old friends here."

Arthur closed his eyes, thankful Matthew was more forgiving—he didn't want to even think about how much of a pain Francis would be. "Yes, I saw some. I'm glad to hear it. How long have you been here?" He walked to the window and looked outside.

Matthew joined him and glanced over his shoulder. "We arrived today. New camp, expert guards, the elite," he said. "You met the commandant, right?"

Arthur's eyes flicked to Matthew and back to the window. "I did, yes." He wasn't sure what to make of him, but he was a damn better sight than the Gestapo, that was for sure. Better not think too long about it.

Matthew replied a bit more tentatively. "What did the Gestapo and S.S. want with you?"

"They wanted to know who helped me get to the border," Arthur said flatly. He was going to bury the subject there. "Who else is here with us?"

"A great many…Berwald and Tino for one," Matthew began.

Arthur turned around and smiled. Smiled genuinely. "I saw Toris. So are Feliks, Raivis and Eduard here as well?"

"Yes, and the Vargas brothers."

Arthur nodded. "And Francis?"

"Him too," Matthew said. He watched Arthur dart around the room in an excited, furious pace. "He's very relieved you are here," Matthew added gently.

Oh, don't you bloody start, Arthur thought.

He turned his back to Matthew and crossed his arms. "It sounds like we have the whole X organization here."

"Almost," Matthew agreed slowly. "As the commandant put it, they cleaned out all the other camps, and put us in this one. All of the rotten eggs in one basket, he said."

Arthur rolled his eyes at the analogy, and returned to the window. He leaned outside and eyed the tall fence. "There's madness in their method, that's for bloody sure." He tapped his finger, thinking very fast. "What about Tommy Bristol?"

Matthew was putting his nerves to work with the kitchenware; he had decided to make some tea. His hands stopped on the kettle. "He's not here…but there is a Spaniard named Antonio Carriedo."

Arthur glanced over his shoulder. "Is he a scrounger? Blackmailer?"

"Feliks says he's the best," Matthew replied diplomatically. He warmed the water on the little stove.

Arthur turned away. "Good."

"I'm making the last of the tea until the Red Cross come through again. I stole this from Feliks," Matthew laughed softly. He left the stove and took a seat at the table. He had to try again. "Did the Gestapo give you a rough time?"

Arthur clenched his hands on the windowsill and his gaze was hard. He was staring at nothing. There was just fury—hot, boiling fury clouding his eyes. "Not nearly as rough a time I intend to give them."

"Arthur," Matthew sighed. It was his soft, criticizing voice. "Personal revenge should be kept out of what we have to do here, you know. Too many lives are at stake."

Arthur turned around. He gave a short, dark laugh and walked to the empty chair and held the back of it. "What my personal feelings are, are of no importance. You appointed me Big X. And it is my duty to harass and confound the enemy to the best of my ability."

Matthew looked down at his hands. "That's true."

"And that is what I intend to do, Matthew," Arthur warned. His eyes were electric. "I'm going to cause such a bloody mess in this Third Reich of theirs, that thousands of troops that would be employed at the frontlines will be tied up here looking after us."

"How?" Matthew prompted curiously. He heard the kettle whistle and rose from his chair to retrieve it.

"By getting more men out of this perfect camp of theirs than ever before," Arthur declared, and his voice was gaining long-forgotten strength the longer he spoke. "We're not breaking out two men or a dozen. But one hundred, two hundred prisoners, three hundred—scatter them all over Germany!"

Matthew almost dropped the kettle. But he remained serious and poured the hot water over two cups of tea leaves. "Do you think that's really possible, Arthur?"

Arthur whipped his head around, his trench coat spiraling around him. "The men are here to do it. They put every escape artist in Germany in this camp. You said so yourself."

Matthew gracefully lifted the teacups from the counter to the little table and set them down. He sat in his chair looking remarkably controlled. "I must point out one thing to you, Arthur. No matter how unsatisfactory this camp may be, the high command did leave us in the care of the Luftwaffe. Not the S.S. and the Gestapo."

Arthur laughed humorlessly and in disbelief. He leaned close over the table; his eyes were terrifying, but Matthew held a steady gaze. "Matthew, you're talking like the S.S., Gestapo and the Luftwaffe are different thing, but to me they are the same. There's only one way to put it—they are the common enemies of everyone who believes in freedom. The high command didn't approve of Hitler? Then why didn't they throw him out?"

Matthew pushed a teacup in Arthur's direction and grasped his own. "I'm not arguing with you, Arthur. I'm merely pointing out the facts." He took one sip and set the cup down. Then he smiled and looked to Arthur, for the first time in similar mischievous collaboration. "When are you calling the meeting, X?"

Arthur raised his head and a careful and slow smile appeared on his face. "Tonight."

Matthew nodded, and for a little while, they enjoyed a rare quiet moment, drinking their tea. It almost felt like they were in Britain. Well, maybe if they closed their eyes and ignored the barracks, the walls, the guards, the compound. But it was nice to pretend for a moment. Just to be in Britain again.

Matthew may appear soft-spoken, but he was also incredibly efficient. And in his own secret way, persuasive as well. Like a magic ghost, he managed to find all of the important prisoners of the camp and beckon them to Arthur's meeting that night. Arthur held no doubt in Matthew's abilities, but he was still pleasantly surprised to find the number of capable faces waiting for him in the recreation room of one of the huts.

Matthew appointed one man as guard by the window, while he sat with Arthur in front at a desk. Arthur stood from his chair to address the audience.

"Gentlemen," he began smoothly. "No doubt you've heard the immortal words of our commandant. Devote your energies to things other than escape and sit out the war as calmly as possible."

Feliciano giggled, Lovino rolled his eyes, and others snickered at the comment.

Arthur clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the front of the desk. "And that is exactly what we're going to do," he said, staring each of them down. "We are going to devote our energy to sports, gardening…all of the cultural pursuits. And we are going to do it so bloody well that we put the wankers to sleep." He tapped his finger on the desk and added, "meanwhile…we dig."

He put one hand in his uniform pocket—the trench coat had long been discarded in his room. "Now, even a superficial look at the compound shows us that huts 104-5 are closest to the woods." He raised one leg onto his abandoned chair and rested his arm on his knee. "First tunnel goes out form 104, directly east under the cooler and the wire."

Tino flinched in his chair and blurted, "Why that's over three hundred feet, Arthur!"

Arthur glanced to Eduard. "Can you make a survey, Eduard?"

"Already attempted it. I would say it's three hundred and thirty-five feet," he said simply, glasses flashing under the light.

Arthur nodded and removed his leg from the chair. He was standing again. Pacing. "Let me know when you have an exact number," he said. "Tino, this time we'll go straight down thirty feet before we go horizontal. That will rule out any question of sound detection, or probing."

Tino glanced to Berwald who made no movement or expression. Tino looked back a little helpless. "All right, Arthur. But did you say the first tunnel?"

Arthur grinned and he crossed his arms over his chest. "I did. There will be three." He savored the shock that flew across everyone's faces. "We'll call them Tom, Dick, and Harry. Tom goes east from hut 104. Dick goes north from the kitchen. Harry goes out parallel to Dick from hut 104. The wankers find one, we have another."

Feliciano couldn't help himself. He piped up and asked, "how many do you plan on taking out, Arthur?"

Arthur waited a moment, before saying, "two hundred and fifty."

Confusion and shell-shocked surprise chorused in the room. Everyone was chatting, looking around, asking Arthur questions. But Arthur ignored it all and pressed forward.

"There will be no half measures this time, gentleman. There will be identification papers for everyone," he declared boldly. His hand pointed in the crowd. "Feliks and Feliciano—we will need outfits for the lot."

"Two hundred and fifty?!" Feliks shouted.

"Yes, and in civilian clothes." Arthur added.

Feliks blinked and waved his hands around nervously. "Okay, I guess…but like?" he trailed off. "Okay, I guess."

Arthur pointed his chin to Matthew. "Matthew—maps, blankets, compasses for walkers. Papers for every train."

Matthew smiled and scribbled a note onto paper. "Okay, Arthur."

Arthur took a long inhale to begin another order, but was halted by the sound of the door opening. He spun around and faced the latecomer.

It was Francis Bonnefoy, the French-Canadian. He wandered in looking remarkably well-dressed and poised, wearing a shade of cool indigo. He shared a small smile with Arthur – which Arthur immediately denied – and resumed a casual walk across the room. He touched the backs of people's chairs to steady himself as he walked.

"Francis," Arthur muttered. "You're late."

"We're going to tunnel, Francis," Matthew added, more helpfully.

Francis brushed a hand through his hair and took a seat. "How wonderful."

Arthur tried his best to ignore him and reclaim his train of thought. He pressed his hand hard to his temple. Then he found it and raised his head. "Tino and Berwald, you're the tunnel kings." They nodded silently. Arthur looked to the others. "Toris, Raivis, and Eduard—you're manufacturers. Feliciano and Feliks…yes, you're the tailors. Someone needs to be diversions…Lovino, will you take care of surveillance again?" Arthur was running up and down the chairs now, shouting at every man present. "Raivis, have you thought of a way to get rid of this dirt?"

The small, almost diminutive man stared at him wide-eyed and looked away with a nervous smile. "Not yet…I hadn't realized we were working with three tunnels, but I'll get to work on it."

Arthur nodded and continued marching. He stopped at Antonio Carriedo—the Spaniard he'd heard about. He was lounging in a chair near the Vargas brothers, smoking a cigarette and smiling.

"You're Carriedo, right?" Arthur said and extended his hand without a smile. Antonio glanced at him and shook it shortly. "Scrounger?"

Antonio waved his hand dismissively. "Right."

Arthur turned on his heel and glared at Francis. "Francis, I trust you'll take your usual job."

Francis turned his attention to him and offered a meaningful smile. "Why, of course."

Arthur rolled his eyes and returned to focus. "Who's handling security again?" Lovino raised his hand slowly, and Arthur pointed at him. "Right. You. I want a system of stooges covering this compound from front to back. Checking every wanker in and out. I want a signal system so perfect," he caught his breath and noticed Lovino was shrinking back in his chair. "…That the Germans don't get within fifty feet of the tunnels before we shut down the project without a sound."

Arthur's glare slowly eased and he was able to return to the desk with more poise than before. "Well," he coughed. "I don't think there's anymore point of exercising the plan now. Paramount in the details, everyone…" He looked to his right. "Can you think of anything Matthew?"

Matthew stopped taking notes and looked up. "I don't think so, Arthur."

"Very well," Arthur said and he regarded the room once more. He didn't have to like these people, because there were a great many that were positively infuriating. But bloody hell was he thankful for all of them at this moment. All of the greatest escape artists in Germany sitting in one camp.

Arthur laughed to himself. What the hell were those Germans thinking?

He was confident. He was positive. He was hopeful. He was determined. This plan was going to work. It had to work. Arthur would make it work. The greatest escape ever attempted. And he would command it. Oh, victory would taste so sweet. Victory and revenge. The perfect last meal.

There was a soft knock on the door. The first time it was so soft, Arthur was sure he misheard it. But then there was a second knock, and he looked up fully from the notes he'd been writing to stare at the door. He pressed his lips together and sighed.

"Just get in here, Francis. I know it's you," he muttered.

Sure enough, when the door opened, Francis was the one standing. He smiled at Arthur and stepped inside. "What is this Arthur? Since when have you been able to sense my presence?" He laughed lightly and walked slowly to the empty chair across from Arthur.

"Well, Matthew's out talking to the others—doing his job," Arthur said evenly. "And no one else would bother visiting me this late."

"Hm, well maybe if you smiled more, you'd be a little more popular."

Arthur slammed his pen down. "Okay, what do you want? Why are you here?" His patience was terribly thin these days. All he could ever think about was escaping, leaving, but Francis was always the type to think about other incredibly stupid things.

At this point Arthur had leaned further over the table to glare at Francis, but when he matched eyes with him, Francis stopped smiling and leant closer as well. "Arthur, what the hell happened to your face?" His hand reached forward to touch the scar, but Arthur slapped it away.

"Don't play dumb with me, Francis. I know you saw it earlier. It's a little present from the Gestapo, all right? Drop it," he ordered, his eyes dark.

Francis slowly recoiled his hand and held it to his chest. He looked down. "This is my fault, isn't it?" he said softly.

Arthur slammed his fist on the table. "Bloody hell, I knew you were going to say that!" His shout made Francis jump, but he did not relent. "Listen here, Francis. It was in no way your fault. You were following my orders, understand? Be rational. If there's anyone to blame it's the damn Germans."

Francis was quiet as he looked at Arthur again.

Great, he looks as though he's about to cry, Arthur thought.

He had to dig down deep, but Arthur found a tiny bit of the compassion he was gradually losing. "Look, Francis," he began more gently. "It's better my face than yours, right? It doesn't matter what I look like." Not to mention, the thought of Francis being tortured by the Gestapo was one of Arthur's more horrifying nightmares. There was no feasible way Francis would make it out with his mind intact: he was too sensitive.

Francis pressed his lips together and turned the other way. His fist was clenched on the table. "Stop being so cavalier, Arthur," he said. "Do you have any idea how worried everyone was? How worried I was?" Francis looked at him again—his eyes shining in anguish.

"For god's sake," Arthur grumbled, and he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. Why was Francis always like this? He always had to make things so…mushy. Didn't he realize there was a war? There was an escape they had to plan? "Okay, Francis. I'm, um—I'm sorry, okay? I think the Gestapo may have knocked the last of the gentleman out of me," he offered as excuse. Francis was still staring at him. "Is there something I can do to make it up to you?"

Francis slammed his hands on the table, walked around the side, and without breaking eye contact, he lifted Arthur off the chair by the lapels of his uniform, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Arthur supposed he should have expected this. Well, if he was being honest, he did expect this. He was surprised it didn't happen sooner.

He resigned to Francis's advances with a stubborn sigh, and Francis gripped his hair and dipped him further back. Francis was a different person when things were sexual. Well, maybe it was just a different side to him. The more assertive side, the more demanding part. And by now, he knew Arthur all too well and everything he liked: this was very much routine for them.

When Francis had managed to push Arthur onto the bottom bunk, Arthur frowned and pushed Francis a foot away. "Hold on just a second, you horndog." His eyes flicked to the door. "I live with Matthew, you know that. What if he barges in? Having someone watch must be too much, even for you."

Francis laughed and made casual work of stripping off his shirt. "I told Matthew before I came in to stay out for an hour," he gave Arthur a wink. "Probably won't need that long though, right dear?"

"You fucking wanker," Arthur scolded. He grabbed the back of Francis's neck and pulled him back down.

After the meeting, Antonio lingered near Lovino and his brother, but they were curiously nervous and after only about thirty minutes conversation – where they shared their distaste for the newly intensified autocratic manner of "Big X" – Lovino and Feliciano stormed down the hallway, and Antonio was alone.

He shrugged his shoulders and relinquished to wandering back to his own cabin, wondering vaguely if he would finally meet his bunkmate.

Antonio walked in whistling another vague tune and gave a cursory glance to each corner. Wow, the room had changed drastically since he'd dropped his things off. Somehow, it felt as if it was more…sparkly? Prettier? Fancier? But how could that be, because the room was almost exactly the same. Yet, there were new objects strewn about. Kitchenware, and nice kitchenware, lying on the shared table; bedspreads laid out beautifully on each bed; and a leather-bound journal was placed atop the bottom bunk's pillow. Cookies laid open on the table, looking delicious and tempting.

As he prodded the mysterious new objects, the door opened and…oh! It was Francis, the French-Canadian walking in.

Francis was carrying a kettle of water and his face lit up when he say Antonio. "Oh, hello darling! You're the Spaniard, aren't you? Antonio?" Francis skipped forward placed the hot water on the table—he meticulously began pouring it over two tea cups.

Antonio smiled. "I am, yes," he said and watched Francis at work. "You're Francis, right?"

"The one and only," Francis proclaimed, and he batted his lashes.

Antonio laughed and continued prodding through Francis's many, many kitchen items. "So I assume you cook?"

"I do, yes," Francis replied happily. "I used to own a restaurant. A great restaurant. You would have loved it. Oh, I was so popular. You have no idea."

Antonio watched him curiously.

Francis was still talking. "Would you like some tea? I don't have any coffee. Couldn't seem to find any, so I made due with stealing some of Arthur's tea, which I think he stole from someone else." Francis chuckled to himself.

Antonio shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, if you have extra."

Francis poured water in both teacups before turning his attention to Antonio. His dark, blue eyes flicked across the room and the cabinet. "Where's your kit?"

Antonio blinked and turned to the empty cabinet. "Oh," he laughed, eyeing the bare collection of toothpaste and cigarettes. "This is it right now. They confiscated the rest in the last shakedown. The Germans didn't appreciate some of my…" he pulled out his coat and retrieved a Swiss-army knife from a hidden pocket in his collar. Antonio flashed a grin. "They didn't appreciate some of my more personal items."

Francis watched him openly, and an understanding dawned on his face. He smiled. "Oh, I understand. You're the scrounger!"

Antonio laughed. "Yes, I am."

Francis was at once more serious and took a delicate sip of his tea. "I need a camera."

Antonio paused and set down his knife. He raised a brow. "What kind?"

"Oh, a very good one," Francis clarified swiftly. "A thirty-five millimeter F21 take with a focal shutter plane should do all right."

Antonio scratched the back of his head in thought. Slowly, he replied, "all right."

Francis looked at him again, expectantly. "With film of course."

Antonio tilted his head and smiled. "Of course."

There was a knock at their door, and since Antonio was the one standing he went ahead and answered it. There was Berwald, tall and severe, staring Antonio down.

"Antonio," he said shortly. "I need a pick. A big heavy pick."

"Just one?" Antonio asked.

Berwald didn't even hesitate. "Two would be better." He left the same minute and Antonio closed the door after him.

"I'm afraid Arthur's tea is pathetic," Francis complained wistfully. "These leaves must have been used a dozen times. Who on earth did he steal it from?" Francis sighed into his hand. "I'm not a tea man, but even I agree that tea without milk is horribly uncivilized."

Antonio watched him with mirthful eyes. This was certainly not a companion he would have expected. Francis appeared kind, but particular. Almost nonchalant, but with a secret, hidden sharpness. How refreshing. Antonio was very glad they were roommates.

So, not wasting anytime, Antonio set to work already that night on his first task—collecting wood for Berwald and Tino's pick. He'd start with the firewood in the huts, he decided. Eventually he'd have to collect more wood for the tunnel, but for now, just a little wood would do. He wandered into a common area, still whistling, and began picking up the extra firewood into his hands. As he was doing so, he thought of what Francis had said. Hm, well perhaps he could make a detour on the way back.

Antonio had his arms full of wood when he heard the German officers shout from outside.

"Close up! Close up!"

There were others in the same room, but once again, Antonio was the only one standing and he neared the window. "What was that?"

The German repeated in the same tone of voice. "Close up! Close up!"

Antonio slowly understood and pulled the glass panes of the window closed. The Germans soon boarded up the windows in heavy wood. Antonio shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room with his hands full.

This first task was an easy one at least (no big problems to work around just yet), and in just a few hours, he returned to his room carrying quite a lot of wood and a small container of milk. Antonio was struggling to balance the wood while he walked through the door, but as soon as he was one foot inside Francis spotted the milk container and plucked it from Antonio's fingers.

"Oh, how wonderful, Antonio darling," he cooed and set back to work on his tea. He had changed into sleep clothes Antonio noticed, but was set to work on another pot of tea—probably with the same leaves he complained about earlier.

Antonio set down his wood on the floor and regarded Francis curiously again. He just couldn't figure it out.

"Francis?"

"Yes dear," he replied. A gleeful grin was spread across his lips as he poured milk into his tea.

Antonio smiled, but it was a smile of confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh me? I'm in photographic aerial reconnaissance interpretation," he said easily. "But I went for a ride to see for myself. It's my own silly fault. The aircraft was shot down. Tragic, isn't it?" Francis shook his head in playful despair.

Antonio crossed his arms over his chest, and he chuckled again. "No, no. I mean what do you do here?"

Francis glanced at him surprised—as if Antonio should have known straight off the bat. He smiled and it was almost romantic how beautiful it was. "Oh here?" he purred. Francis grasped his cup and held it near his face. "I'm the forger."

Antonio laughed. The forger? Oh, for god's sake. A forger and a scrounger in the same room. Well, there will certainly be hell to pay for someone. Antonio was so excited. What a companion to have. What an interesting companion to have. A dynamic duo, that's what they will be. But neither of them bestowing good luck. They had a bad touch to everyone but themselves.

A/N: When I'm stressed about life I write fanfiction :') Too much fanfiction...