." He turned
about and motioned for them to follow.

The boys were fed soup and fish with a slice of bread and a brown liquid
which passed as coffee. O'Malley grumbled a lot, but he ate everything
set before him.

"If this is what the Geneva treaty said captured officers were to eat,
I'm a spalpeen," O'Malley muttered as he marched away with Stan to their
quarters.

They found themselves quartered in an old stone house which had at one
time been a residence. There was a high wall around it with many guards
pacing back and forth and two searchlights located on platforms which
were also occupied by a machine gun and its crew. But there was a yard
and a few trees and shrubs.

"Not as bad as a prison camp," Stan said.

"Not very good," O'Malley said as he stood looking up at one of the
machine-gun nests.

The boys were taken to a room on the ground floor where they met several
other fellows from the Eighth. They had been located at the camp for
several months and were eager to hear news from England.

Stan and O'Malley talked with them for a while, answering their
questions. One of the boys, a bombardier from a Fort, explained the
workings of the camp.

"They change us around quite a bit. New men come and some of the old
heads go. I figure they do that to nip any escape attempts in the bud."
He laughed sourly. "I never heard of anybody getting away from one of
these camps."

Another chap drifted in and seated himself. He was a lank Britisher with
a mop of black hair.

"I hear you hail from the fighter strip near Diss."

"That was our outfit," Stan said.

"I just got a new roommate who says he's a Yank who was stationed at
Diss," the Britisher grinned. "He got shot down a while back. He just
came out of a hospital. Got a bad rap on the head."

"We'd like to meet him. He must be one of the boys we lost on our first
bombing coverage." Stan got to his feet.

He and O'Malley went upstairs and into the little room. Two men were
seated on a bed playing cards. Stan halted in the doorway. Over his
shoulder, O'Malley said:

"Sim!"

At first Stan was not sure. The man looked like Sim Jones. He was
thinner and he had a freshly healed scar on his cheek. His face was
sallow and he looked much older.

O'Malley barged past Stan and caught the man's hand. "Glad ye're alive,"
he said eagerly.

"O'Malley?" Sim stared at O'Malley as he said it. He looked up at Stan.
"Wilson, you here, too."

Stan grinned. "Yes, I'm