The Traitors of Camp 133

by Wayne Arthurson

  “Fuck,” he said. “What a fucking waste.”

  “Are you talking about the cigarette or something else?” Aachen quietly asked.

  Neumann turned on the corporal with the intention of berating him for insolence, but quickly stopped himself. “Dammit. How could something like that happen?” he said, shaking his head. “How could a group of thugs elect one of their own as a hut leader without me knowing about it?”

  “It’s a big camp,” Aachen said softly. “One man can’t keep track of all the goings-on.”

  “I should. That’s my job.”

  “Well, did you know that a scout found Heidfield’s still and destroyed it?”

  Neumann tilted his head to the side. “No. I was unaware of that.”

  “There you go. Another thing you didn’t know.”

  “This is not helping. I should have known about that as well.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop Mueller from being killed?”

  “Because I didn’t—” Neumann started to say and then he stopped himself. He stepped back, leaned against the building, then looked at the ground for a moment. He sighed deeply.

  “Right. Thank you, Corporal Aachen.” Neumann collected himself, pulled out the packet of cigarettes again, and put another one in his mouth. This time, after putting the pack away, he found his lighter in his back pocket. He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. “Still, I believe I should have known that there was a new hut leader in Hut 14,” Neumann said, blowing the smoke out as he spoke. “That’s a big change.”

  “Like I said, it’s a big camp. You can’t know everything.”

  “But a new hut leader; I should know that.”

  “Well, Staff Sergeant Heidfield said it was only a day or so ago that this happened.”

  “But it should have been noted to camp command. Somebody on the administrative side should have been aware of it.” When Neumann spoke of camp command, he spoke of the Germans who commanded the prisoners in the camp. Since there were over 12,000 prisoners in this camp, it was almost impossible for the Canadians and their Veterans Guards to run the camp. Since the Germans already had a command structure in place, it made more sense for them to oversee many of the administrative and logistical operations of the camp, including internal security. For the most part, the place was essentially a German military camp enclosed by barbed wire.

  “Unless no one in administration knows about it,” Aachen said. “There is a possibility that because of the way they elected their new leader, they may be reluctant to inform command and the Canadians of the situation.”

  “That’s very true,” Neumann said, pointing with his cigarette. “But there is another possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone in command or administration does know about the new hut leader and they are preventing the information from being spread about.” Neumann thought for a moment, then stuck his cigarette in his mouth and clapped his hands twice.

  “Right. Okay, Aachen, let’s go.” His voice was filled with purpose as he strode away.

  It took Aachen a second to realize the sergeant was moving and a few more seconds to catch up and start walking alongside him.

  “Where are we going now?” Aachen asked as they made their way through the laneways between the barracks.

  “We’re now going to resume our duties from before we got sidetracked with Captain Mueller.”

  “The chef in Mess 3.”

  “That’s right. We’re going to talk to the chef in Mess 3 about the discrepancy in his supplies.”

  “What about the new leader in Hut 14? What about the fact that someone could be withholding information about that change?”

  “That might be important, but we should just do what we are supposed to do.”

  “What about Captain Mueller and Doctor Kleinjeld? Should we go see if he’s dealt with the body yet?”

  “In time, Aachen. In time. First we have to deal with the chef.”

  “But the chef has nothing to do with the new leader in Hut 14. Nor with Captain Mueller.”

  “Of course he doesn’t. But that’s what we’ve been ordered to do and I really think that at this moment in time, we should be seen doing what we have been ordered to do.”

  Aachen stopped for a moment while the sergeant kept walking. He looked up; a haze due to the harsh brightness of the sun almost obscured the blue of the sky.

  After several steps, Neumann stopped and looked at the corporal. He slowly walked back to stand next to Aachen.

  “General Horcoff is right,” Aachen said. “There is a power play of some sort in the camp.”

  “There’s always some sort of power play going on in the camp,” Neumann said putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “That’s how the military works. Those in command jostle for authority and influence, trying to get their plans and ideas put into practice. It’s happening in this war and it happened in the Great One.”

  “But Mueller may be dead because of it.”

  “Thousands upon thousands of soldiers are killed each day because every command decision made in every battle is the result of these struggles for power in the upper echelon. Millions upon millions of men, women, and children are dead in this war because of the same thing. Mueller is only one man and in all that, he barely even counts.”

  “It’s just that—” Aachen started to say, but couldn’t finish.

  “I know, Corporal. You want it to all make sense. You want there to be a purpose to it all, especially since you’ve given your life to it. But this is war and war never makes sense. It only kills people.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We do what we’ve always done in the trenches. Keep your head down and try not to get killed. Which is why despite what has happened with Mueller and what General Horcoff has said about investigating it, we have to go talk to the chef. No matter what is happening in the camp, those are our orders for today and it’s important that we appear to be following those orders.”

  “Right,” Aachen said with a nod. “We shouldn’t rock the boat.”

  “Correct. Rocking the boat will only cause it to tip over and we’ll all drown,” Neumann said, removing his hand from Aachen shoulder. He took one final drag of his cigarette and tossed it into the path. He ground his boot on the burning ash. “However, there’s nothing stopping us from leaning in the boat to subtly alter its direction.”

  Aachen gave a quick nod and smile to his sergeant. “Okay, let’s go talk to the chef.”

  “Good man,” Neumann said.

  They resumed their walk.

  “Is there anything I should prepare for?” Aachen asked. “Will there be any surprises in our discussions with the chef, like with General Horcoff?”

  “I don’t think so,” the sergeant said with a shrug.

  “So the typical procedure.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, although be prepared for the possibility of improvisation. So far it’s been an unusual day and I’m not sure how the chef will respond to our inquiries.”

  “Like I said, the typical procedure.”

  The sergeant paused in his steps for a moment, looking to say something to the corporal. But when he saw the feigned look of innocence on Aachen’s face, he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and continued on. The corporal fell in step beside him.

  They were several metres away from Mess 3, which was located almost directly in the centre of the barracks quarter of the camp. It was a relatively large building—an open warehouse able to seat and feed 800 soldiers at a time with an industrial kitchen at the back. However, when compared to the large housing structures in which the soldiers actually slept, it seemed much smaller.

  There were two entrances to the mess, a set of double doors on the south wall and another matching set of doors for the kitchen on the north side. Since it wa
s the end of a breakfast shift, a good number of prisoners were milling about, either standing or sitting on the steps leading to the doors, or in an area about a three metre radius from the doors. Most of them smoked and a few carried bits of fruit.

  The sergeant stopped and turned to the corporal before they got within earshot of the loitering prisoners.

  “You probably know this already, Corporal, but I must stress that we cannot make any mention of Captain Mueller when we talk to the chef or to anyone else we may meet on the way. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, Sergeant,” Aachen said with a nod. “That goes without saying.”

  “I know, but I felt I had to say it.” Neumann turned to the door and adjusted his uniform. “Okay, let’s go to work.”

  The two soldiers walked to the mess. Since all of the prisoners knew who they were, they cleared a path for them, but in a casual manner. A few of them greeted the sergeant by name or rank, treating him like he was the village policeman, which, in a sense, he was. One or two greeted Aachen, asking if he was ready for his match, and once word of the match came along, the prisoners became more interested in the pair, peppering Aachen with questions and suggestions on how to win.

  “Come on boys, let us through. Just because most of you have nothing better to do, some of us have duties we need to accomplish,” Neumann said waving his arms at the crowd. “And stop touching Corporal Aachen’s muscles to see if he’s strong enough. You don’t want to be responsible for him getting hurt before the match, do you? Your friends aren’t going to be appreciative if you’re the cause of that.”

  The crowd instantly backed away at those words, giving Aachen as much room as possible. One prisoner even opened the door for the two, escorting them in like a doorman at a fancy restaurant.

  With the crowd out of the way, the two walked into the building. Even though it was after nine and the sun had been up for more than three hours, the building was dark. There were very few windows in the mess and most were covered with a thick film from cigarette smoke plus the grease and grime from the cooking.

  The building was mostly one large room filled with long wooden tables with benches on each side. Even though the third and last breakfast shift was over, a large number of prisoners still lingered, picking at the remnants of breakfast from the big bowls in the centre of the tables in which the food was served, or smoking from their now endless supply of cigarettes courtesy of the Canadian government and the Red Cross. There were also others completing their required daily KP, picking up the debris, putting away bowls, cups, and utensils, and wiping the tables.

  A number of the prisoners inside noticed Neumann and Aachen and shouted some encouragement to the corporal but most kept their distance. There was something in the way the two walked through the mess that told the bystanders that it would probably be better for them to remain bystanders. Some prisoners even got up and left the mess; trouble was best avoided.

  Neumann and Aachen made their way through the mess, weaving in and out of the tables and a couple of times separating and taking divergent paths. But in the end, they managed to arrive together at their intended destination: a table at the back of the mess next to the door of the kitchen.

  Five prisoners sat at that table—four of them on one side, all tall and skinny. They were also all eating, scooping out scrambled eggs from a large bowl and grabbing slices of toast from a large pile on a plate next to the bowl of eggs. Two of them also held cigarettes in their mouths while they ate, dropping the ashes into another bowl, beside which sat a pack of Canadian cigarettes.

  Neumann and Aachen ignored these four and focused on the POW that sat by himself on the other side of the table. By contrast, he was shorter but almost the same width as three of the other men sharing his table. He also wore the white mess uniform, but had a brown sweater draped around his shoulders, like a male opera singer relaxing at his favourite watering hole after a performance. And though his face was fat, full of jowls, and covered with spots, he had a pencil-thin moustache above his full lips which seemed to be pursed in an expression of annoyance. His face was red and glistening, as if he had just exerted himself. Unlike the four workers across from him, he had no bowl of food in front of him, only a small, empty soup can which he used to catch the ashes from his cigarette. He calmly smoked using the French technique, puffing on the cigarette, and then allowing the smoke to leave his mouth so he could inhale it through his nose.

  The sergeant sat down on the bench next to this prisoner while Aachen remained standing at the edge of the table. “Captain Splichal. I knew I would find you here. Resting after another meal served. Quite frankly, I don’t know how you guys do it. Feeding thousands of men three times a day, seven days a week. Must be exhausting.”

  If Splichal was surprised to see Neumann and Aachen, he didn’t show it. He only leaned back slightly, took a drag from his cigarette, and blew the smoke to the ceiling.

  “It’s no different than feeding the same amount of men in North Africa, except that there are no Tommies trying to bomb the shit out of my kitchen. That’s always a good thing. And the food’s a lot better here,” Splichal said. His voice was low and slow, as if he had been a boxer in a previous life. “Especially the beef. I don’t know what they do with the cows out here, but this is the best beef I’ve ever eaten, better than the time I worked for that hotel in Frankfurt. You can’t get beef like this at home.”

  “No one’s had beef back home for years,” said the sergeant. “Most people can’t even get horse meat anymore.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Splichal said, taking another puff of his cigarette. “I got a sister living in Berlin; she keeps sending me letters. Not only are all the horses gone, but so are the pigeons, the crows, and all the other birds. Most of the cats are wisely in hiding and soon people will be looking to their dogs, if they haven’t done so already. I was just saying the beef is really good here. You can’t find beef like this anywhere in the world. If I was cooking for the Führer, I’d serve him this beef.”

  “The Führer is a vegetarian,” the sergeant said. He reached across the table, grabbed a cigarette from the pack near the bowl, and brought it to his mouth. He was about to reach into his pocket when one of the skinny kitchen workers leaned over with his lighter. The sergeant turned towards the flame, lit his smoke, and nodded to him.

  “Yeah, but he still allows meat to be served at his table for those guests who are not vegetarian so this is what I would serve them. Although it’s a long way to the Führer’s kitchen from here.”

  “A very long way,” the sergeant said. “Listen, Chef Splichal, you and I both know I didn’t come here to talk about what you would serve to the Führer.”

  The chef nodded and then waved his hand at the four prisoners on the other side of his table. Without a word, they all got up and left, going into the kitchen through the doors behind the chef. “So, tell me why you are here.”

  “There is a concern with pilfering in your kitchen.”

  The chef laughed, his whole body shaking. “You’ve got to be kidding. Pilfering? You are worried about pilfering? Do you realize that this is the Wehrmacht you are talking about? There is always pilfering in the kitchen. It’s like gravity—it’s always there and you can’t make it go away no matter how hard you try.”

  “Well, there is pilfering and then there’s what happening here at your kitchen. Every other mess in the camp pretty much has a pilfering rate around two to three percent. And that’s normal—that’s the gravity you’re talking about. But your kitchen is a lot higher than that. According to supply, your rate is around…” the sergeant turned to Corporal Aachen. “…What was that number again, Aachen?”

  “Sixteen-and-a-half percent.” Aachen was stoic, standing at a tense at-ease position, looking ahead at the wall.

  The sergeant turned back towards the chef and gave him a smile. “Sixteen-and-a-half percent.”


  “That can’t be right,” the chef sputtered. “I run a tight kitchen.”

  “Well, the corporal is never wrong about the numbers. He’s very serious about things like that. He’s very serious about many things. You’ve probably seen his matches, haven’t you.”

  The chef looked at Aachen and nodded.

  “Then you know how serious this young corporal can be. But that’s only the half of it.” The sergeant leaned in more closely. “Did you know that he was in Stalingrad for several months before he was shipped over to North Africa? He was a sniper there, one of the best. Took out ninety-three Ivans in three-and-a-half months. Almost one Ivan per day. Isn’t that right, Corporal?”

  “No, sir. That is incorrect. I did not shoot ninety-three Ivans in Stalingrad.”

  The chef raised his eyebrows at that, and Neumann slowly turned to face the corporal, giving him a questioning look. “Are you sure, Corporal?”

  “I’m quite sure, Sergeant. I did not kill ninety-three Ivans in Stalingrad,” he said, his voice monotone. He paused for a second and then blinked. “I killed eighty-seven Ivans.”

  “Ha,” Neumann blurted out with a clap of his hands. “Told you he was serious with his numbers. He doesn’t even want to take credit for an extra few Ivans. So the pilfering of sixteen-and-a-half percent is correct. And by my count and supply’s, that’s way too high.”

  The chef ignored the sergeant and turned his attention to the corporal. “Aachen, I know you have a birthday coming up, and as per our custom, we will be preparing a cake for you. Unfortunately, we only have two flavours available, chocolate or vanilla. Or maybe there is something else you would like. I’m quite sure I can get something for you to make your birthday more special.”

  “I don’t think the corporal is interested in any cake you have to offer. He’s got a big match coming soon. He can’t be eating cake.”

  “Ah yes, the match. I can’t wait for that,” the chef said, smiling only with his mouth. “There is a lot riding on that match of his and not just Wehrmacht pride. I hope he’s not denying himself too much, though. It would be a shame of he got injured somehow before the match. A terrible shame.”