Upon arrival at Camp Stark, the SS prisoners and their Lt. Col. were brought to the stockades. A small, wooden structure across the road and outside the main fence of the camp, the stockades held four small cells. The men refused to don the camp clothing. They had done the same successfully at the camp before this, and the one before this, and the one before wherever the hell they were before they were captured in the City of the Dead at Ur.  Their tunics stank. The men were rank and filthy, their eyes rheumy and ringed with dirt. Their heads were shaved quickly by the other inmates in order to distinguish them from the other prisoners. As they did so, they fought back the stench of the men. Next to the stockades, in the general offices, the Captain and Sgt. Tripp were in deep discussion. Among them was Sgt. Creighton Steckel, the camp’s Viennese-born interpreter.

“We can’t keep them in there, in that damned stockade. The god-damned Red Cross’ll be breathing down my neck waving the damned Geneva Convention.”

“Not to mention the Fist Service Command HQ,” Steckel Chimed in.

“And Brown,”

“And…”

“OK. I get it. Sargent Steckel. See what you can get from the other men. Not Zimmer. Don’t talk to the Lieutenant Colonel. Now excuse me, men. You’re dismissed” The two men saluted the Captain and walked out of the room. Once alone, Captain Loren leaned his hands on the small table behind which sat his loyal civilian secretary.

“Darling, I have a teletype message that needs to be sent to Special Training School No. 3 in Oshawa. Captain Loren, Commander, Camp Stark, wishes to see Captain Eugene Pierce, Liaison Officer, Rear HQ, in Cairo. They’ll know to forward the message.” The secretary was hammering on the teletype as he spoke.

Pierce opened the door to a surprised Captain Loren. “Eugene! Eugene Pierce? Jesus, Eugene, you look amazing. I mean, it’s been six years since we,”

“Yes, Nick, I know. Six long years…” He approached the Captain, and they shook hands and embraced each other.

“Cairo.”

For a moment, Pierce thought about Cairo. A pout formed on his lips as he dismissed it.

“Nonsense. We all know it was just heat exhaustion.”

“Exhaustion my foot, Pierce.” Capt. Loren turned towards a cabinet and opened it, pulling a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from the shelf. They toasted each other’s tenacity to hold against the spreading tide of evil that held the world in a death grip. They bantered about their brief time together and resulting time apart. The drank to the hot desert sand, but not once did either man talk of Pu-Abi.

“…and the dancers,” Loren beamed.