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.