The Traitors of Camp 133

by Wayne Arthurson

  Neumann smiled, slowing down his walk, imagining the scene. “That would be quite wonderful, Aachen. I can picture it now. Getting drunk with your old man. Would he allow you to join in the drunken debauchery?”

  “Of course. Now that I’m a decorated veteran, he couldn’t refuse me. But it wouldn’t be that kind of debauchery. My father is a surgeon so it would be more of a slow decline.”

  “Ha! Slow decline, yes. Sounds like my kind of fun. Aachen, I do believe I will come visit you when this war is over.”

  Aachen sighed. “It just would be nice to decide for myself when and what I would eat, what time I would go to bed, and have the freedom to walk anywhere I damn well please.”

  Neumann put his hand on the corporal’s shoulder as they walked. “We share the same sentiments, Klaus. Although returning home after a war can be very challenging to say the least. Germany has changed since we left. A lot of people have killed, civilians included. And I think some may not like how we handled the Jews. I didn’t mind the ghettos but those camps we’ve heard about … not something I’d have ordered.”

  Aachen looked about quickly. “I’m not sure it’s wise to talk about such things, Sergeant,” he said with a whisper.

  Neumann grunted. “You’re probably right. But the Germany we return to may not be the same Germany that you remember.”

  “Well, I’m not the same person that I was before I left, either.”

  The two men stopped talking once they arrived at the barracks, a group of thirty-six clapboard two-storey buildings that looked like they were built in a month or less, and probably were. These buildings were arranged in six rows of six running north to south and in the middle of each row was a slightly smaller building, the mess where the prisoners who lived in that row ate.

  Neumann and Aachen continued walking along a two-metre-wide lane between the barracks, the wind lessening. Although the buildings were just long boxes with a series of regularly-spaced single-paned windows on each of the two floors, there were a myriad of murals painted on the outside walls. The murals were of varied quality, some primitive, others beautiful and imaginative, with many levels in between. The subject matter also varied from depictions of various German landscapes, rivers, hills, and mountains to streetscapes of major cities like Berlin to images of German village life. They also included scenes or replicas of posters from popular movies and portraits of people who were probably friends, family members, or comrades of the artists. Some weren’t even murals at all, just walls painted in a seemingly haphazard rainbow of colours. There were not, however, any overt murals of military or Nazi symbolism; the Canadians had banned such displays, except for on flags at funerals or special occasions.

  To improve on the lack of beauty of the structures, the pathways between the barracks were lined with gardens, some designed to provide sustenance and filled with strict rows of vegetables, most only green shoots at this time of year, while others were merely decorative, the colours of budding flowers randomly distributed.

  There were also prisoners everywhere, and almost every single person, save for a few like Neumann and Aachen, wore a uniform of blue, each one with a large red dot, almost half a metre wide, on the back. The official explanation was that the red dot made it easier to spot a prisoner in case he escaped, and any escapee who tried to rip out the dot would be left with a large hole in the back of their shirt, rendering them unable to blend in with the civilian population. The unofficial version was that the giant red dot on the back of the uniform provided a good target for the Veterans Guards to shoot at. All the guards had shoot to kill orders for anyone trying to escape.

  There were prisoners strolling along the paths in large and small groups, couples, or just walking alone. Other prisoners were leaning against the walls, chatting amongst themselves and quietly enjoying the sun and a cigarette. Every barrack entrance had a cluster of prisoners around it, like a group of adolescents near a schoolyard. Most of these prisoners were smoking, some joking amongst themselves, a few playing a game of cards, and others just standing about.

  German prisoners weren’t the only ones around the camp. Small groups of unarmed Canadians soldiers called scouts patrolled the inside of the camp, interacting with the prisoners on a friendly basis but also keeping an eye out for any problems such as radios or signs that someone was digging a tunnel. Scouts were also tasked with spreading Allied propaganda which is why the majority of prisoners didn’t spend much time talking to them unless they were forced to. The scouts were unarmed because weapons of any kind were not allowed in the camp.

  In many ways for Aachen and Neumann, it was like walking through a small German village, except that all the buildings were recently constructed, the village was surrounded by fences topped with barbed wire and search towers, and every search tower had a squadron of enemy soldiers with orders to shoot to kill anyone who got within three metres of the fence. All of these guards had served in the First World War and had volunteered to fight in this one, but were deemed too old for the front lines. Instead, they were assigned to guard the growing number of German prisoners coming over from the European theatre. And even though the Veterans Guards were much older than most of the Germans they were guarding, the prisoners didn’t take them lightly because Canadians had a reputation for being tough soldiers, even amongst the Germans. And these Veterans Guards had been hardened by the horrific battles of the previous war.

  Also unlike a real German village, a good number of the residents were indolent, content just to while their time away. There were plenty of opportunities for work—every non-commissioned prisoner was required to do a stint of mess duty every day as well as military parade drills a couple of times a week—and there was no lack of recreational and educational diversions. But there was always a large number of prisoners who preferred doing absolutely nothing productive once they had been captured and placed in a camp. There were, of course, others who tried to keep themselves occupied and in this part of the camp, at the barracks, they included prisoners washing the windows of the barracks, hanging wet laundry, sweeping dust from the well-worn paths, or working in the gardens, their backs bent over so that the red dot on the back of their uniform was pointing to the sky.

  As Aachen and Neumann weaved their way through the series of laneways between the barracks, the sergeant glanced at all the gardeners. After several minutes, he came upon a grey-haired prisoner who was kneeling in a flower garden. He was placing what looked to be a small sandbag along the edge of the garden, using a spoon to pile earth onto the sandbag in order to create a little mound that acted like a barrier between the garden and the prairie. Neumann stopped behind this soldier, stood at attention, and cleared his throat. Corporal Aachen also snapped to attention as the older soldier looked over his shoulder. He glanced up at the two men standing in front of him, shading his eyes from the glare, trying to recognize who was summoning him. After a moment, he smiled and set down his spoon near a pile of more sandbags.

  “Sergeant Neumann, what a pleasant surprise,” the older prisoner said, slowly pushing himself to his feet. He grunted painfully as he did so. Though he was probably the same age as Neumann, he looked at least a decade older. His hair was grey and thinning, except in his ears, and his skin was mottled with liver spots. His eyes were alert, but sunken in his head, and he had a slight paunch hanging over his belt, which made his stoop seem more prominent.

  Neumann saluted the gardener in the Wehrmacht way, right hand to forehead. A second later, Aachen repeated the gesture. Both of them stared straight ahead, making no eye contact. The gardener casually returned the salutes and then reached out a hand. Neumann relaxed slightly, looked him in the eye, and stuck out his right hand. The gardener grabbed it and shook it vigorously.

  “It is very good to see you again, Neumann. It’s been a few weeks. You’re looking very well.”

  “You as well, General Horcoff.”

  Horcoff released Neu
mann and waved the comment away. “Bah, you’re just saying that because I’m a superior officer. I’m old and in this place I’m getting older. The Canadians have provided us with many things to make our lives comfortable, but a well-furnished cage is still a cage. There’s nothing for me to do except dig the dirt. It’s giving me a sore back and I’m getting fat.”

  “We’re all getting fat, General. It’s all the food these Canadians keep feeding us. The only one not getting fat is Corporal Aachen. Something in his metabolism keeps him the same size he was in North Africa.”

  Aachen didn’t respond at all to the sergeant’s statement but when the general turned to him and slapped a hand on his shoulder, he blushed. “Corporal Aachen,” the general said with a bright smile. “Always great to see you, as well. You ready for your match? Ready to show those submariners what the Wehrmacht is made of?”

  “Aachen was born ready for this kind of thing,” Neumann said, responding for his subordinate. “When he’s not following me around the camp, he’s training. Lifting his sandbags, throwing medicine balls around, running around the camp like he’s late for dinner.”

  “Ha. I hope you don’t mind me borrowing some of your weightlifting sandbags, Corporal. I know you need them to build your strength, but they’re very good for keeping weeds out of my garden.” The general pointed at his little barriers. “The weeds are relentless here, but I hope to defeat them, much like the way I hope you’ll defeat that Neuer fellow. He may be big, but he’s no match for our Corporal Aachen. No match.”

  Aachen blushed more deeply but said nothing and did not move from being at attention. General Horcoff slapped the corporal on the shoulder again. He then turned to Neumann. “While it’s good to see you, Sergeant, I’m assuming that your presence here is not a random meeting.”

  “The general is as astute as ever.”

  “So what is the real reason behind you coming to my garden?”

  “It’s Captain Mueller,” Neumann said in a quieter voice. “He’s dead.”

  “Mueller? Which one is Mueller?”

  “Captain Mueller was a tank commander in the 501st Panzer Division. Used to be a mathematician as a civilian so he became a teacher here in the camp.”

  “Ahh, the Bolshevik.”

  Aachen flinched at the statement, but recovered before the general could notice. Neumann, however, did notice, and he stepped between the general and the corporal. “I wouldn’t technically call him that, sir. He was more interested in helping the younger and less-educated soldiers improve themselves so they could find better positions when the conflict ends.”

  “While I understand and support the idea of young soldiers bettering themselves, it still sounds like Bolshevism to me. There is an order to things, Sergeant. An order to humanity. And to encourage people to rise above their station can be unwise, which is what I heard Mueller was known to champion.”

  “Be that as it may, General, the important fact is that Mueller is dead.”

  The general rubbed his chin with his hand. “Yes, yes. And despite his political leanings, he was known as a strong commander and strategist. He fought well. It’s a shame to hear of the death of such a comrade.” The general paused and pursed his lips. “Any idea of the cause of his death?”

  “Hanging. Aachen and I have just come from viewing his body. We came upon it during our morning rounds.”

  “Suicide then?” Horcoff asked with wide eyes.

  “At first glance, yes, but with further examination, I’m saying no.”

  “What!?” Horcoff hissed. He looked about and whispered, “Are you saying Mueller was murdered?”

  Aachen’s response was also one of surprise although more restrained. He broke from his pose to turn and look at the sergeant.

  “That is what I am saying,” Neumann said with a nod. “And that is why I first came to you.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Horcoff asked, squinting.

  Neumann nodded. “First off, his hands were tied.”

  “Yes, that would give it away. No one can hang themselves with their hands tied.”

  “Well, they can and they have, sir. I have seen it myself many times in my years between the conflicts. There are a few techniques in which the hands can be self-tied before the hanging.”

  “Why on earth would anybody wish to do that?”

  “People are very complicated, sir. Especially those who wish to kill themselves. Those who self-tie are wishing to prevent themselves from backing out of the task at the last minute.”

  “Plenty stupid if you ask me,” the general said with a scoff. “Nevertheless, your experience tells you that Mueller did not tie his hands himself?”

  “Correct. And the way he was hanged, with so many knots, I’m saying there was probably more than one person involved, at least two, no more than four, in the actual hanging. I’m not accounting for if there was anybody else in the room, either as a witness or directing the task.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Quite sure,” Neumann said with a nod. He gestured toward Aachen. “The corporal here is the strongest person I know in this camp. He is also quick for someone of his weight, but even with those two qualities, there is no way even for him to be able to tie the rope in the way it was tied around Mueller and pull on the rope so that he could be hanged in the way it was done. Unless he was unconscious. This was a either a coordinated action by a group of people or by a very determined person who caught the captain off guard, subdued him somehow, and then had plenty of time to hang him.”

  “Any idea which people?” the general asked.

  Neumann shook his head, but then looked about to see if anybody was listening. He stepped closer to Horcoff and spoke quietly. “To be completely honest, General, I believe Mueller was killed because there are others who believe the same that you do about him.”

  The general waved his hand and did not lower his voice to Neumann’s volume. “I may have not agreed with some of his political leanings, but Captain Mueller showed many times that he was a loyal German, loyal to the country, loyal to the Führer. He was a strong commander and an excellent strategist. And for me, that’s enough.”

  “For me too, and no doubt for Corporal Aachen as well. However, there are those in the camp who would not see things that way.”

  The general stepped back, another look of surprise on his face. “Are you saying what I think you are saying?”

  Neumann nodded.

  “Then this is something other than just murder, Sergeant,” the general said, striking his fist into his hand. “This could be an affront to the leadership of the camp. We cannot allow things to go back to the ways of the SA and their Brownshirt thuggery. We cannot intimidate and assault people willy-nilly because we don’t like the way they talk or what they read. There must be a process in place. We are not anarchists.”

  “But the question is what shall we do about it? If things are resorting to the ways of the SA, we cannot confront them head on. That would only create more chaos and violence.”

  The general paused and glanced at his garden. He reached down and pinched off the head of a flower. “I see your point, Sergeant,” he said quietly, bringing the flower to his nose and smelling it. “We must be subtle in our approach. Very subtle.”

  “Which is another reason I came to you first. I needed to know if I should pursue an investigation into Mueller’s death or allow people to believe he killed himself.”

  The general smelled the flower once again, then he crushed the petals in his hand and tossed it to the ground. “Considering the situation, I believe an investigation is warranted, although it would have to be a very careful investigation. If there is a group operating using the tactics of the SA and they discover what you are doing, they could come after you.”

  “I can take care of myself, General, you know that.”

  “Yes we
all know how you can take care of things,” the general said, but didn’t elaborate. He stepped away from the sergeant and focused his gaze on Aachen. “However, you remember how the SA operates; if they can’t get at you, they’ll try to get at someone close to you. We are well past our prime, but it would be a shame if something happened to our young corporal here.”

  For the first time since they found the general in his garden, Aachen broke protocol and spoke. “It is my duty as a loyal German soldier to give my life in support of my superiors.”

  The men paused but then the general laughed and slapped Aachen on the shoulder. “Well said, Aachen, well said. If I had had more soldiers like you in North Africa, we would not be here in this camp.”

  “Begging your pardon, General,” Aachen said with steel in his voice. “You had thousands of soldiers like me in North Africa. We did not lose that battle because of them.”

  The two older soldiers froze in surprise, and this time it was Neumann who responded first. He turned on the corporal, the anger seething in his face and posture. His hands curled into tight fists and he stood over the much shorter corporal.

  “Corporal Aachen! How dare you speak to the general in such a way!” Neumann shouted, spittle flying from his mouth across the corporal’s stoic face. “You have committed a gross act of insubordination and if you think that our experience in North Africa will allow me—”

  “—Sergeant Neumann!” shouted General Horcoff, instantly stopping the tirade. Neumann slowly turned to look at Horcoff. “Leave the corporal be,” the general said in a quiet voice.

  “But sir, he was disrespectful. He spoke out of turn.”

  “I said leave the corporal be,” the general snapped, his tone quiet but commanding.

  Sergeant Neumann moved to attention. “Yes, General.”

  Horcoff moved to stand in front of the corporal. “Corporal Aachen doesn’t deserve your anger; I do.” He put both hands on the young man’s shoulders and gave him a smile. “This bright young man is correct. There were thousands of strong and loyal German soldiers fighting in North Africa. Brave men, wonderful men, men who gave their lives in our fight or were wounded or captured, not because of the mistakes they made, but the mistakes we made, those of us in command. It was wrong of me to blame my men, when a lot of the blame hangs on me.”