The Traitors of Camp 133

by Wayne Arthurson

  The Traitors of Camp 133

  A Sergeant Neumann Mystery

  Wayne Arthurson

  The Traitors of Camp 133

  © Wayne Arthurson 2016

  Published by Ravenstone an imprint of Turnstone Press

  Artspace Building

  206-100 Arthur Street

  Winnipeg, MB

  R3B 1H3 Canada

  www.ravenstonebooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or ­transmitted in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or ­mechanical—without the prior ­written permission of the ­publisher. Any request to photocopy any part of this book shall be directed in writing to Access Copyright, Toronto.

  Turnstone Press gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Manitoba Arts Council, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, and the Province of Manitoba through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Book Publisher ­Marketing Assistance Program.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens for Turnstone Press.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Arthurson, Wayne, 1962–, author

  The traitors of Camp 133 / Wayne Arthurson.

  (The Sergeant Neumann mysteries ; 1)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-0-88801-587-7 (paperback).--ISBN 978-0-88801-588-4 (epub).--

  ISBN 978-0-88801-589-1 (mobipocket).--ISBN 978-0-88801-590-7 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8551.R888T73 2016 C813’.6 C2016-902598-5

  C2016-902599-3

  To Auni and Vianne.

  The Traitors of Camp 133

  Lethbridge, Canada

  June, 1944

  1.

  Mueller looked to be kneeling in the corner, praying. But the truth was his knees were inches off the floor. A rope hung from a coat hook and was wrapped around his neck.

  Sergeant August Neumann stared at the body for several minutes. He watched it, looking to see if it would twist as some hanged bodies did, but it was wedged so tightly into the corner and the rope was so taut that there was no leeway for movement.

  The body was in the northwest corner of a small classroom. Neumann stood near the teacher’s desk, about three metres from the body. Without moving his feet, he leaned to the left and then the right, trying to see the face. He could not.

  “Pretty impressive,” he finally said, speaking German.

  “Impressive, Sergeant?” asked Corporal Klaus Aachen, the young soldier standing next to Neumann. “It’s horrid, if you ask me.”

  Neumann turned. Aachen was a head shorter than the sergeant who stood at least six-and-a-half feet and weighed 200 pounds. However, due to his stocky, muscular frame, one would never call Aachen small.

  “You consider this horrid, Corporal?” asked the sergeant. “Weren’t you in Stalingrad?” Neumann stepped closer to the body and inspected the rope.

  “Just for a few months. Then I got wounded. When I recovered, they felt I had been a good enough patriot so I didn’t have to go back,” Aachen said, furrowing his eyebrows.

  “This place is better than Stalingrad, I’m guessing.”

  “Stalingrad was a hell-hole. But in this camp I feel like I’m wasting away, unable to fight.” Aachen stared down at the ground.

  “It may not be pleasant here, but the Canadians are decent hosts. Better than the Russians, I suppose,” Neumann said. “If you’d stayed in Stalingrad you’d be dead and Russian children would be using your frozen body as a sledge. Or you’d be surviving on snow and grass while the Russians worked you to death in a Siberian camp.”

  Aachen nodded. “Don’t get me wrong, Sergeant, I’m pleased to be alive. And I don’t wish to go back to Stalingrad or even into battle again. But many of my friends and family are still back there, fighting and dying, and I just feel … I don’t know … empty and angry that I’m stuck here, unable to help them.”

  Neumann placed a hand on Aachen’s shoulder. “You’re a good German, Corporal Aachen. I feel the same way every hour of every day.”

  The two men went silent for several seconds, looking at the body.

  “Stalingrad, eh?” Neumann said, breaking the silence. “Is that where you got your…” Neumann trailed off, tapping at the upper part of his chest, just below the neck.

  Aachen looked where Neumann was pointing and then down at the same spot on his body. There was nothing there. His face reddened slightly. “My Cross. Yes, I got it in Stalingrad.” His voice became almost a whisper. “It was … nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Neumann’s voice was loud, but pleasant. “One of the highest honours the Fatherland can bestow on our soldiers and you call it nothing.”

  “I didn’t mean nothing,” Aachen sputtered. “I just, well, it was an honour, but I don’t believe I deserved it.”

  “Of course you deserved it, Corporal Aachen,” Neumann said, slapping the younger man on the back, his big and meaty hand creating a loud thwack. “The Führer would not bestow an honour on a young man such as yourself if you did nothing. You must have done something.”

  Aachen opened his mouth to speak, but was at a loss for words.

  Neumann again grabbed Aachen’s shoulder and gave it a quick shake. Not many people could move Aachen in such a way, but the sergeant was one of the biggest men in the camp. “That’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Some things we just don’t like to talk about. I understand completely, I can tell you that. But never again dismiss your actions as nothing or I will kick your ass, you hear me? You did something and the Führer and your country rewarded you for honour and bravery. You don’t have to explain it, but you have to accept it, understand?”

  The young soldier nodded, his freckled and pimpled face again turning red. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” said Neumann with a clap of his hands. “So tell me, Corporal Aachen, why do you, a veteran not only of Stalingrad but also of Tunisia, a winner of the Iron Cross First Class for bravery under fire, find this scene horrid? You no doubt have seen worse things than this. Probably worse things than I have seen. I’ve heard many things of Stalingrad, most of it horrible.”

  “Stalingrad.” Aachen sighed. A faraway look came over his face. While Aachen was barely twenty-two and had a face like a school boy, he did not look young at this moment. He seemed almost ageless, his eyes dark as if they had witnessed the Wild Hunt, that mythological group of ghostly huntsmen that foretold of death and catastrophe.

  “Nothing can describe the horror of that place,” Aachen said softly. “The Russians were animals; the terrible things they did, not only to us, but to many of their own citizens, were incomprehensible. Did you know, Sergeant, that they only had enough weapons for one in five Russian soldiers to have a rifle?”

  Neumann nodded. “I’ve heard that. I’ve also heard it was one in ten.”

  “Whatever the number, they would send every single one of them into a charge and those who didn’t have a weapon would have to wait for one of their comrades to get shot and then fight with the other Russians to get his weapon. Or somehow make it all the way across to our lines without getting killed, find some way to kill one of us with their bare hands, and then steal our weapon. It was a bloodbath.”

  “The Ivans are crazy.”

  “Completely,” Aachen said with a nod. His voice became a whis
per as he continued. “But we Germans, and forgive me for saying so, Sergeant, but there were things we did in Stalingrad that made me wonder if we Germans were any better than the Russians we were fighting. It just seemed so senseless.”

  “War can seem that way. Especially in the heat of battle. But you still haven’t answered my question: why do you consider this a horrid scene when you’ve seen much worse?”

  Aachen shrugged like a little boy who had been caught doing something mischievous by an adult. “You expect terrible things to happen in battle. You expect death and blood and horror, expect seeing your friends shot or blown to bits as all hell rains down on you. So while Stalingrad was terrible and so was Tunisia, as you know as well, Sergeant, you expect it and very quickly aren’t surprised by it. You don’t like it, nobody likes it, not even the Russians, but it’s just part of the landscape of war.

  “But this,” Aachen pointed at the body, “this is just waste. Captain Mueller was a well-respected person in the camp. A lot of people looked up to him and to find him like this, hanged by his own hand, is pathetic.”

  “So you believe this is a suicide, Corporal Aachen?” Neumann asked, a flat tone in his voice. “You believe that Mueller has taken his own life?”

  “What else could it be?”

  Neumann shrugged. “I don’t know. You could be right; it could be suicide. Mueller was respected and well-liked, but many respectable and well-liked men have killed themselves without warning, confounding their friends and family. But during the time between the wars, I learned not to speculate too much. The facts will usually point the way in the end.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Now? We leave and go about our business.”

  “We just leave Captain Mueller here?”

  “For the moment, yes. Mueller is dead; he won’t mind,” Neumann said, turning and walking away from the body towards the exit.

  Aachen stayed back looking at Mueller. “But shouldn’t we inform the Canadians? They would probably like to know about something like this.”

  “If we tell the Canadians directly, people will suspect that we are informers and we’ll never be able to do our jobs,” Neumann said, standing at the door looking back at Aachen. “Maybe we’ll find some way to get the word out through more indirect means.”

  Aachen stood there for another moment and then walked to the door. Before they left the room, Neumann grabbed Aachen’s shoulder and stopped him. He turned him so they faced each other.

  “Let me give you another piece of advice, Klaus, as one soldier to another. As one veteran of the African campaign to another. And as your former squad commander,” Neumann said, placing a hand on each of Aachen’s shoulders and squeezing hard. “Forget Mueller for a moment and think about what you said about Stalingrad. I understand what you said about the senselessness of it; I’ve seen my share of battle, in this war and the previous one. We all do things we aren’t proud of and wonder what the point of it all is. At least those of us who still retain our humanity.

  “But let me caution you. Not all soldiers are as open as me, especially officers. And especially officers who have feelings of inadequacy because they were captured by the enemy and placed in a prisoner-of-war camp. So be careful when you talk about Stalingrad. Be careful not to mention certain things about it because to some, that could be interpreted as a traitorous action. And even though we’re in a prisoner-of-war camp, not able to fight for the Fatherland, we are still at war and you know what they do to traitors during the time of war. Do you understand?”

  Aachen nodded slowly, eyes wide with fear.

  Neumann nodded back and then relaxed. He let go of Aachen’s shoulders and dropped his hands. He smiled brightly as if there was nothing wrong in the world.

  Good,” he said, giving the body one last glance. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  2.

  Neumann and Aachen stepped out of the classroom building. There were no clouds in the wide open sky and the sun shone almost directly above, reflecting off the pale prairie and creating an intense glare that made them squint. Aachen brought a hand up to shade his eyes, but still couldn’t stop squinting. Neumann climbed down the steps and Aachen quickly followed behind. They walked along the well-trodden path between the classrooms and the group of large barracks about 100 metres to the southeast.

  The camp itself was no more than one square mile in area, filled with buildings of varying sizes, including barracks, messes, classrooms, workshops, and two of the largest recreational halls in Canada, each of them able to hold up to 5,000 people at once.Surrounding the entire camp were three types of fencing. First, an inner perimeter similar to fencing around a ranch—three lines of barbed wire, about three feet high—surrounded the camp. Twenty metres outside of this fence was the main camp fence, a five-metre-high fence of criss-crossing barbed wire topped by another three-foot-wide barbed wire that extended into the camp like a ledge. Another five metres outward was an identical fifteen-metre-high fence with the same extension at the top, but at every five metres along this fence was a high pole from which hung a light that was kept on. Farther out, spaced 200 metres apart, were the watch towers, each one continually manned by at least four Veterans Guards armed with a Enfield, as well as a fifty calibre machine gun.

  In the five-metre space between the two high fences, many of the guards and their dogs patrolled the camp day and night. The twenty-metre space between the smaller inner perimeter fence and the larger fence was no man’s land. No prisoner, no scout, no guard, no civilian, no dog was allowed on that strip of land, except when it was cut with a large tractor once a week in the summer. If a prisoner climbed over the inner fence and stepped into that strip, they could be immediately shot, no questions asked. That, however, had never happened since the camp opened. Prisoners had crossed the line but the Canadians preferred to order them to go back. Most times that was enough, but a few times, warning shots were required.

  The only time a prisoner was permitted to cross the line was to retrieve a football accidentally kicked into the no-man’s area. Yet before they chased down the errant ball and risked getting shot, they had to wave a handkerchief to get the attention of one of the watch tower guards. Only when the guard waved back with their handkerchief could the prisoner climb the fence. And even then, there were always a couple of rifles trained on the prisoner retrieving the ball.

  And because the camp was set out in the open prairies of southern Alberta, there was a constant wind that flared into buffeting gusts, blowing dust all around. Aachen grunted with disgust.

  “Is that a remark about my decision concerning Mueller’s body, Corporal?” the sergeant asked without breaking stride. “Or is there something else on your mind?”

  “It’s just this wind. I hate it.”

  “Is the Rhineland a windless place?” Neumann asked with a chuckle.

  “Of course not. We have plenty of wind back home. But usually just refreshing breezes on a hot day. Or warm gusts to blow and melt the snow way. The wind here is …” he paused “…relentless is the only word I can think of. It just never seems to stop. I believe I’m starting to develop a lean in my step because of it.”

  Neumann chuckled again. “We had plenty of wind like this in North Africa—hot and dry, full of dust and grit—but you never complained about it then.”

  “That’s because when the wind blew in North Africa, it grounded any planes that could strafe us and prevented artillery from targeting our position. The wind here just seems pointless. It only makes everything feel hotter and I have no idea how these people can plant anything because most of the earth seems to blow away.”

  “You’re just going to have to get used to it, Corporal, because there’s a good possibility we’re going to be here a long time.”

  “You really think so? Even after the invasion in France?” Aachen said the final word quietly, even though there was no o
ne remotely nearby.

  “I’ve learned never to make predictions about the end of a war. When I was in the last war, not much younger than you, every year we all thought we’d be home by Christmas. But I spent a lot of Christmases in a trench hoping it would get a bit colder because that might kill the rats. Of course, the cold only made the rats hungrier and bolder. You learned pretty quickly to not fall asleep with your boots and gloves off, even if you were in a warm location.”

  “But begging your pardon, Sergeant, that was a different kind of war—more of a battle of attrition.”

  “War is war, take it from me, Corporal.”

  “Yes, Sergeant, I understand … but only to a point. In your war the enemy never landed over a million soldiers and almost 150,000 vehicles in less than a month.”

  “You really have to stop reading the magazines the Canadians give us, Klaus. They are designed to diminish our morale.”

  “Still, this is no small matter, the invasion.”

  “Of course it’s no small matter. It’s a major invasion of the continent, a bold move by the Allies. But they’ve been in France for a month and they haven’t even taken Caen yet. That’s a long way from defeating us. A very long way. And you shouldn’t be hoping for such a thing.”

  “I’m not hoping for defeat, I would just like to finally go home for good.”

  “You have something against taking my orders, Corporal?” the sergeant asked, smiling.

  “Of course not, Sergeant. I would take your orders all the time. You can come home with me and continue to give me orders after the war if you like.”

  “Be careful what you wish for—I might take you up on that.”

  “You would be very welcome in my home. Very welcome. My mother would cook you a great meal and my father would offer toast after toast, forcing you to drink every time. He makes his own brew out of potatoes. It’s the worse thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”