The Traitors of Camp 133

by Wayne Arthurson

  “What about the one who did report? He’ll know I’m lying.”

  “Not if you say you knew he was going to report it so that’s why you didn’t talk to him. In this way, everyone’s covered.”

  “Everyone except you, Sergeant. They are going to ask why you didn’t report it.”

  “I’ll just say I took the matter into consideration, but considering all the work I’ve had to do in the past couple weeks, I didn’t have time to file an official report.”

  “You could be in trouble too. They could use the same traitor argument on you that you said they could use on me.”

  “True, but you aren’t the great Sergeant August Neumann, a hero of the First World War.”

  Aachen laughed. “No, I’m not. Thank you, Sergeant, that’s very decent of you. Not just because of me, but for all the other men in the class.”

  “Bah, you’re only boys, despite the fact that you’ve been in battle for the past few years. You all survived this far—I would hate for something stupid like this to cause difficulties for you.”

  Neumann spat on the ground and threw his cigarette away. He hitched up his pants and rubbed the dust from his face.

  “And now that we have that out of the way, I need you to do something else for me,” Neumann said.

  “Anything for you, Sergeant,” Aachen said seriously.

  “I need you to do your KP duty now.”

  “Why now? I always do it following the evening meal.”

  “Yeah, but, as you noted, Chef Splichal now knows that the Captain Mueller is dead so if you do your KP now—”

  “—I can keep an eye on him so when he tells his informant, we will know when to expect a response from the Canadians,” Aachen said, his eyes bright.

  The sergeant gave the corporal an exasperated look. “You know Aachen, once in awhile it would be nice if you let me finish my orders before you jump and tell me what I’m thinking.”

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” Aachen said, sheepishly dropping his head. “Please forgive my intrusion and tell me what you wish me to do.”

  “There’s no point in my doing that now because you’ve already figured that out. So go. Go keep an eye on Splichal and try to notice when he passes on the information about Mueller.” Neumann lit another cigarette.

  “It will probably be a Canadian, won’t it?”

  “Of course it’s a Canadian. Who else would it be?” the sergeant said, waving his hand in annoyance. “It’s probably a civilian making the deliveries, taking his cut even before it’s delivered. No way would one of the Veterans Guards be involved in something like this. Those old bastards are too tough and honourable to be mixed up in this.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for the chef talking to a civilian.”

  “And don’t let him see you hanging about. If he does, then he won’t say anything and Mueller will be hanging there for days.”

  “I’ll do my KP at one of the neighbouring messes,” Aachen said with a snap of his fingers. “Probably Mess 2 because they deliver there before Splichal’s mess. And when the deliveries come, I’ll help out. And pretend to take a break and have a smoke at the back so I can watch for the chef.”

  “Good plan. But what if people ask why you are doing your KP now instead of at your regular time?”

  “I’ll just tell them I have to do some training tonight to get ready for the match,” Aachen said with a shrug. “Everyone will believe that.”

  “Good plan. Okay, Aachen, off with you. Do your job and don’t get seen. Be quiet like—”

  “—like the time with the Tommies and their tanks.” When he realized what he had done, once again, he stepped back and flushed. “Sorry, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant waved him away. “Just go, just go.”

  Aachen nodded, turned, and started to walk away. After a few steps, he turned back. “But what should I do once I see Splichal make contact with his informant?”

  “Come tell me,” the sergeant shouted back.

  “Where will I find you?”

  “I’ll be at the Rhine Hall.”

  “What will you be doing there?” Aachen asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Don’t worry about it,” the sergeant said waving his hand. “You have your orders.”

  “But Sergeant—”

  “—You have your orders, Corporal Aachen. Go carry them out.”

  Aachen paused, but then stiffened and nodded. Without a word, he turned and walked away.

  Sergeant Neumann watched him for a moment. Then he finished his cigarette, dropped it onto the ground, and pressed it into the dust with his boot. He turned and slowly headed north.

  7.

  Fifteen minutes later, Aachen was out behind Mess 2 sitting on a stool near a large stainless pot, peeling potatoes. The pot was massive, almost a metre high and a metre round, and when it was full of potatoes and water, it required two prisoners to carry it and lift it onto the stove. There were three other soldiers sitting on stools around the pot with Aachen, each one with three buckets of potatoes that they needed to peel.

  Two of the soldiers Aachen knew from North Africa; both were corporals, serving in different squads than him, but in the same battalion, and both were from the same area, some village around the Ruhr Valley.

  The one directly on Aachen’s right was named Karl Wissman. The son of a coal miner, he was short and stocky, similar in stature to Aachen, but just a bit shorter and with less muscle. He was missing a few teeth and his nose bent to the side as if it had been broken when he was younger. Even though he only had a year or two on Aachen, he looked a decade older.

  The other, Christian Tenfelde, had been an industrial worker, making appliances before joining to fight. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, but always seemed to be squinting when he looked at something. He had been skinny in Africa but now, like many of the prisoners, he had gained weight, developing a paunch that didn’t sit well on his frame.

  Wissman and Tenfelde talked constantly as they peeled potatoes, remembering skirmishes they had been in, women they had slept with, superiors they had hated, and good times they had enjoyed after battles—the typical stories that soldiers have talked about since the beginning of time. It was all small talk, though. Nothing about the war, or whether the invasion of France meant Germany was failing and would, in time, lose the war.

  Aachen didn’t join in much, only contributing when something came up that involved him, but he laughed at all the jokes the two Ruhr boys told.

  The other soldier with them, a former butcher called Olster, had also been in North Africa but in a different division. He was older than the others and had been in Poland, France, Belgium, and many other battles—almost everywhere Germans had fought since the mid-1930s, except for the Eastern Front. He was a humourless sort, with thick arms, meaty hands, and a scowl that never left his face.

  He glowered constantly at Aachen, and when Tenfelde laughed about a skirmish near Tunis which resulted in someone calling an air strike on a goat, Olster gave an indecipherable growl of contempt.

  “What’s wrong with you, Olster?” Wissman asked. Nobody called Olster by his first name because most people didn’t know his first name. “You have a liking for goats?”

  “Ha, everybody in the Fourth Division has a liking for goats,” Tenfelde said, punching his friend on the shoulder. Wissman laughed.

  Aachen smiled, but didn’t laugh. He was trying to watch the ex-butcher closely, but discreetly.

  “Bah, you morons talk too much,” Olster said, waving an arm in their direction. “Always chatting like old women. Chat, chat, chat.”

  “I think he likes old women too, along with the goats,” Wissman said. And the two Ruhr mates laughed aloud again.

  “Shaddup,” Olster said, but the two ignored him. “You think you are so funny, but you aren’t. Nothing is funny about this stupid place and thi
s stupid KP. Especially today with him here with us as if everything is fine.” Olster nodded his head in Aachen’s direction. The corporal noticed the contempt in Olster’s voice but he ignored it.

  “You just don’t like Klaus because he beat you last week,” Tenfelde said.

  “He didn’t beat me. I fell.”

  “Ha. You fell a lot of times, then,” said Wissman, laughing. “Because when it was all over, Klaus had ten points and you had two.”

  “Little fucker got lucky. And he’s a slippery bugger, moving all over the place. No respect for the traditions.”

  “Tradition didn’t help you in the match did it, Olster?” Wissman said.

  “He’s gonna need all those traditions when he faces that U-boat monster, Neuer. He’s bigger than me but he’s not slow like me, Aachen. You try to run around him and he’ll have you on your back.”

  Aachen peeled a potato and dropped it into the pot, a loud clang sounding as it hit the side. “I’ll take your advice, Olster. You’ve faced Neuer before and I haven’t, so any words of wisdom will be appreciated.”

  “Fuck you, Aachen. I know I’m supposed to be on your side because we’re both in the Wehrmacht but I really hope the submariner breaks your back.”

  “Hey, come on,” Wissman said. “You can’t support the submariners in this, Olster, even though Klaus beat you. We infantry types have to stick together on the battlefield.”

  “We’re not on the battlefield, you pissed up idiot. We’re in a fucking prisoner-of-war camp peeling fucking potatoes. And when we get back home, it’s not gonna be all roses and champagne. It’s gonna be fucking hard because there won’t be any fucking Americans, Tommies, or fucking French to shoot. And there’ll be no fucking work for me cause there’ll be no fucking meat left. And you know for sure there won’t be any fucking potatoes.”

  “Jesus Christ, Olster, if you miss fucking killing things, you could always join the French Foreign Legion after the war and go kill the Indochinese,” Wissman said. “Loads of Germans became legionnaires after the other war. Or joined when we weren’t allowed a real army. An older cousin of mine did that. He wanted to be a soldier so much, he joined the Legion.”

  “Fuck legionnaires,” Olster said. “Bunch of criminals and traitors if you ask me.”

  “I’ve talked to a couple legionnaires in the camp; they seem like decent fellows,” Tenfelde said. “They mostly keep to themselves in that hut of theirs but they’re decent enough.”

  “You step in that legionnaire hut of decent fellows, Tenfelde, and they’ll slit your throat just for walking in that door.”

  “I don’t think it would be that bad—” Tenfelde started but Olster cut him off.

  “—Don’t fucking tell me about legionnaires. When I was in Turkey, I had to fight fucking legionnaires. Even German legionnaires on the other side, shooting at us. Germans shooting at Germans. And what made it worse, we also had a group of German legionnaires on our side fighting against the German legionnaires on the other side. Every one of those fuckers should be lined up and shot.”

  Tenfelde and Wissman looked at each other and smiled. “Holy Jesus, this is the most I’ve heard this fucker ever say,” said Tenfelde. “And we’ve been peeling potatoes for six months together.”

  “Yeah, come on, Olster, keep it coming,” Wissman added. “Let it all out.”

  “Fuck off,” Olster said, but he didn’t stop talking. He pointed his vegetable peeler at Aachen. “Tell me something, if you can, you two. What the fuck is he doing with us, peeling potatoes? We’ve been doing this pissy job for so long, and it’s always been us three. Why is he here doing this now? What’s his game about?”

  Wissman and Tenfelde looked at each other for a second and then at Aachen. “Holy fuck, Olster has a point. What the fuck are you doing here, Aachen?” asked Wissman.

  “Yeah, normally you and Neumann are walking around, looking for troublemakers, that sort of shit,” said Tenfelde. “You normally do your KP after the evening meal, don’t ya?”

  Aachen shrugged as if there was nothing wrong. “Olster said so himself. I have to face Neuer in a few days. And like he said, the submariner will be tough. I have to train at night more, so I decided to do my KP now.”

  Tenfelde shrugged, but Olster and Wissman shook their heads. “Fuck that. There’s something else going on,” Olster said. “You’re here for a reason. And it better not be to watch out for us, because I’ve done nothing wrong. Kept myself clean, did my work, and didn’t cause trouble. These two as well, although they won’t stop talking.”

  Aachen didn’t say anything for a bit. But with the three men staring at him with concern and distrust, he put down his peeler and leaned towards the pot. The other three leaned in with him. “Okay, I’ll let you in on why I’m here. And you’ve got to promise that you won’t tell anyone, okay? If Neumann finds out, he’ll have my ass.”

  “Promise,” said Wissman, holding his hand to his heart. Tenfelde shrugged and Olster grunted.

  “Okay, you know Chef Splichal? Runs the kitchen next door?” Aachen said.

  The two Ruhr men nodded, but Olster spat. “Fucking criminal. I know he’s fucking pilfering from his kitchen, selling it in the camp for favours, booze and what not. Hangs out with Staff Sergeant Heidfield and a bunch of small-time ex-gangsters from Frankfurt, acting like tough guys because they can make booze and sell you extra supplies on the side. He asked me if I could get him some meat from our kitchen here. I told him to fuck off.”

  Aachen waved that away. “Ahh, we already know that. And take it from me, the sergeant dealt with that so there’s no way Splichal will be continuing that business any longer.”

  “His partners won’t like it,” said Olster.

  “Fuck his partners,” Aachen said. “This is our camp, not theirs. No way me and the sergeant are going to let a bunch of small-timers steal from good soldiers like you.”

  “So then what? What else is up with Splichal?” Wissman asked.

  “The sergeant thinks he’s an informer for the Canadians.”

  Wissman and Tenfelde gasped, while Olster threw a potato to the ground in disgust.

  “Fuck him. Fucker. I know what I said about the fucking legionnaires, but at least they have some sort of military honour. Nothing’s worse than a fucking traitor. Drawn and quartered, like they used to do in the old days. Take out his fucking intestines and show it to him while he’s still alive and then slowly hang him so he can feel the fucking pain for hours,” Olster said, his face beet red.

  “Well, we’re not entirely sure about that so please keep your butcher fantasies to yourself, Olster. And if he is an informant, you better keep your hands off him and let us officials take care of it,” said Aachen, sounding much like Sergeant Neumann.

  “You better do a good job—no mamby-pamby isolation for him,” Olster said with a sneer.

  “You don’t have to worry about that. I agree that there’s nothing worse than an informant and so does the sergeant. You can be sure things will be handled in the proper manner,” said Aachen.

  “So you’re watching him from here to see if he does something wrong?” Wissman asked, turning around to look at the back door of Mess 3.

  “But you can’t see him from here,” said Tenfelde. “He’s always inside his kitchen. How can you tell if he’s an informant from here?”

  Olster slapped Tenfelde on the back of his shoulder. “You idiot. There’s no one in the kitchen for Splichal to inform to now. Everyone’s a German. He’s got to wait for a Canadian to come.”

  Wissman snapped his fingers. “The delivery! You’re waiting for the Canadians and their daily delivery of food to the messes and then you’ll see if Splichal makes contact with one of them.”

  “Jesus, it’s like a spy novel, isn’t it?” Tenfelde said. “We’re standing here watching to see if the double agent makes contact with the pers
on on the other side.”

  “What if he doesn’t do it today?” Wissman asked. “Are you going to peel potatoes with us every day from now on? Because if you do, people are going to notice.”

  “Don’t worry,” Aachen said. “It will be today, you can be sure about that.”

  As soon as Aachen spoke, a klaxon sounded to the south. All the prisoners in the area looked up from their work, but when there was only one sound, they went back to whatever they were doing.

  “The delivery, it’s coming,” said Tenfelde, a bit of excitement in his voice. “What do we do?”

  “Shut up,” Olster said, throwing a potato at Tenfelde. It bounced off his shoulder. He grimaced and rubbed the spot where the potato hit him. “Aachen is on a reconnaissance mission. He is, in a sense, sneaking into enemy territory to find information on a traitor. It is our job to cover him while he does so. But if we make too much noise or do anything that attracts the attention of the enemy, his mission is dead. Got that?”

  Wissman and Tenfelde looked at each other and then back at Olster. They gave him a nod. Aachen also gave the ex-butcher a nod as thanks. And then the group went back to peeling potatoes, as if nothing had changed.

  A few minutes later, the truck carrying the goods to be delivered made its way to the back of the messes. It was a large two-and-a-half ton truck, the kind used to ferry soldiers, but this one had the tarpaulin and the benches removed to allow the goods to be loaded. The entire back was filled with boxes and bags of varying types of food. The driver of the truck, a civilian, had the windows closed and did not look or make any connection with any of the prisoners.

  Almost all the prisoners in the area watched the truck as it crawled to the first mess—this kind of movement was a form of entertainment. Yet no one approached it. An entire squad of Canadian soldiers, twelve of them, walked beside the truck, the way guards walk beside a vehicle carrying VIPs during parades.