The Traitors of Camp 133

by Wayne Arthurson

  These guards were all old, the youngest probably just over forty, but they were large men, hard men. They walked with ease and confidence through the camp of 12,000 Germans, even though they carried no guns. Instead, each of them carried some kind of truncheon. Some of the truncheons were simple bats, either cricket or American baseball bats, but customized in some way with nails or barbed wire to create maximum damage. Some were police-type clubs that the Canadians tapped against the palms of their hands or twirled about using the strap wrapped around their wrists. The remaining few were army-issued batons from the Great War, heavy cudgels made of wood and iron, their heads either filled with lead or spotted with extruded knobs of steel. And as they walked along the truck, they did not watch the vehicle; they kept their gaze on the prisoners who were nearby.

  Some of the prisoners shouted at the guards, insulting them, making lewd comments about their mothers, their wives, their daughters. Many of these insults were in English, but when they weren’t, gestures with hands and hips translated them clearly. Still, the Canadians ignored them completely.

  The four prisoners peeling potatoes watched the truck and the squad of Canadian guards. It stopped at the first mess and a group of kitchen helpers slowly came out, hands in the air, showing they were harmless. The Canadian squad commander, a hefty grey-haired man with a handlebar moustache, pointed his cudgel at the kitchen helpers indicating that they should stop. The cudgel was almost four feet long with a head about six inches in diameter wrapped by a two-inch-wide ring of worn metal. The weapon probably weighed almost ten kilograms, but the Veterans Guard brandished it like it was a small riding crop.

  He didn’t say a single word, in English or German, but he didn’t have to. After several seconds of looking over the kitchen helpers, the commander slowly lowered his truncheon and nodded to the helpers. They immediately jumped into action and started unloading. The commander and some other Canadians held batons at the ready, pointing them in the direction of the helpers. The other ten scanned their areas, dutiful sentries on the watch.

  “I don’t know why we never rush them,” Tenfelde said. “They are only twelve while we are thousands.”

  “Go ahead, you start,” said Wissman. “They’ll knock you down in an instant.”

  “And that’s not some simple swagger stick that old soldier is carrying,” Olster added. “That’s a German trench club from the last war. He probably took it from some poor sap after gutting him with his bayonet. So if you want to join that poor sap in hell, you go ahead and take on that old fucker. He’ll knock your fucking head off and then go home and have tea in your skull.”

  “Sure, they could cut some of us down, but we outnumber them more than a thousand to one. If we have a coordinated action, maybe with a few of the kitchen helpers, we could take these Canadians with only a bit of German blood lost.”

  “And what would happen then if we take them?” Olster demanded. “These aren’t Italians, you know. These are the fucking Canadians. My brother faced a battalion of these fuckers in Dieppe.”

  “Ha, we beat them in Dieppe,” Tenfelde said. “Stupid idiots.”

  “Yeah, we beat them, but my brother said those Canadians were the toughest motherfuckers he ever faced, even when losing. A perfect mix of the big Americans with the fucking stubborn toughness of the Tommies. And like the Ivans, they’re cold fuckers. Probably starve us out if we tried anything like rushing the delivery truck and the squad, let us live in our own filth for a few weeks and then come in, take back the camp when we’re weak from no food, and hang a hundred of us just because.”

  “And you’ve forgotten the towers, you idiot,” Wissman said to Tenfelde. “No doubt there are two snipers or more in each one, aiming at us right now as the truck moves through, ready to blow our heads off as soon as we make any kind of move.”

  “Yeah, maybe one of them has your head in his sights right now, eh Tenfelde?” Olster said with a cruel laugh. “You blink or make any false move with your potato peeler and boom, your mama gets a telegram from the Führer.”

  Tenfelde looked around as if he was being watched, making the other two laugh. Aachen only smirked, watching as the delivery to Mess 1 was completed and the truck crawled to the next stop. A group of kitchen helpers came out, did the deal with the squad commander, and then started unloading.

  Instead of watching the helpers, the squad commander stared at the potato peelers, his face impassive. The ex-butcher tried to stare back but the old Canadian guard didn’t blink, and ever so slightly raised his truncheon. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Olster to get the message and look away. He turned and continued peeling. “Fucker,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Go ahead, Tenfelde,” Wissman said, nudging his friend. “Make your move. That son of a bitch will cut you down in half a second, then go home and fuck his wife tonight as if nothing happened.” He looked over at Olster. “After he has tea in your skull, of course.”

  Tenfelde ignored the ribbing and quietly peeled his potatoes. The squad commander only turned his gaze away from the group when the delivery for Mess 2 ended. Even so, as he walked away with the truck to the next stop, he turned back once, looking at Aachen. The corporal made brief eye contact then went back to peeling.

  When the truck stopped at Mess 3, the group turned to watch, peeling potatoes slowly as a trio of kitchen helpers came out of the kitchen. They all leaned their heads up, looking for the chef, but Splichal didn’t come. It was only the kitchen helpers, unloading the goods from the truck and carrying them into the kitchen, just like the other helpers did in the previous messes.

  After several minutes, the delivery was done and the Canadian commander gave the signal for the truck to continue on its way.

  “Guess you guys were wrong about Splichal, Aachen,” Wissman said, back to peeling his potatoes. “Maybe we’ll see you again tomorrow.”

  “You’d be welcome, too,” added Tenfelde. “We can use a few new faces. I’m sick of staring at these two.”

  Aachen put his peeler down. He was ready to find the sergeant to tell him the bad news. But suddenly there was a commotion from Mess 3. Splichal came running out, waving a piece of paper, and yelling at the truck.

  In an instant, every one of the Canadian soldiers whirled towards the chef, lifting their batons up, ready to strike. A second later, half of them broke away, covering the area around them, looking for any other threats coming their way.

  Splichal froze at this sight, his hands thrown in the air in appeasement. “Please, please,” he shouted in English, waving the sheet of paper in his hand. “Don’t hit me, don’t hit me.”

  The Canadian commander broke from his stance a moment later, and with a jerk of his massive baton, bade Splichal to step forward. The chef did, taking each step slowly, shaking the paper in the air. The other Canadians kept their sticks ready for action.

  “A mistake,” he said in English, pointing at the paper. “There’s been a mistake.”

  When Splichal got closer, the commander grabbed the paper from the chef’s hand. He then brought up his club and pressed it into Splichal’s chest, pushing the fat chef back. Splichal almost fell back on his ass, but he caught himself, waving his arms.

  The Canadian squad commander looked at the paper, looked at Splichal, and looked at the sheet again, not once lowering his hefty club. Gathering his balance, Splichal tried to get closer, to point at the paper, but the old Canadian waved the club at him as if he was swinging at a pesky insect.

  After a long minute, the commander dropped the club, gave Splichal back the paper, and then gestured the chef towards the driver. Splichal nodded, bowed his thanks, and slowly walked over to the driver.

  Tenfelde whistled while Wissman nudged Aachen.

  “Son of a bitch,” Olster said. “He is a fucking informant. Fucker.”

  The chef tapped on the window and the driver rolled down the glass. Because
of the distance, no one could hear what the two were saying, but they talked for a couple of minutes.

  Olster was fuming, peeling potatoes with a vengeance. “Son of a bitch. He served with us North Africa and here he is, informing on us to the enemy. He’s a fucking traitor and he’s going to get what a traitor deserves.” He threw a potato into the pot with disgust.

  “Don’t worry about that, Sergeant Olster. There is a process for how to deal with these things,” said Aachen.

  “Fuck the process. If you were so worried about process then why did you tell us he may be an informant, huh? I’m not the greatest wrestler out there, you showed me that last week, but I’m not an idiot. You told us about him for a reason—not because you wanted us to wait for the process, but because you wanted us to know and maybe do something about it. But don’t you worry, Corporal Aachen, we’ll make sure to keep him alive for your process although I don’t think he’ll be in good shape.”

  Aachen said nothing. He just stared at Olster for a second and then nodded. He turned his gaze to the chef who was now backing away from the driver, bowing to the commander, and moving to the back of the truck to get a package of something.

  He picked it up and backed into the kitchen, bowing like some kind of toady. After a moment the truck continued on to Mess 4.

  Tenfelde whistled again while Wissman shook his head in disgust. Olster worked to finish his potatoes, the anger still flushing his face.

  Aachen moved his bucket of potatoes next to Wissman’s.

  “Off already, Corporal? You’re not done yet,” Tenfelde said with a smile.

  “Leave him be,” Olster growled. “He’s got to report his findings to his superior.”

  Aachen walked over to the ex-butcher and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Do what you have to do, but leave some for us, okay?”

  Olster nodded, then jerked his body to get away from Aachen’s touch.

  8.

  While Corporal Aachen was peeling potatoes, Sergeant Neumann arrived at the Rhine Hall, one of the two recreation halls located in the camp. The buildings were identical in design and size, located about 100 metres north of the barracks area. They were just simple clapboard rectangles, sixty by fifteen metres, with a set of double doors and four high windows on each edge. There were also high windows, ten for every side wall and each about three metres long and one-and-a-half metres wide, situated two-and-a-half metres above the ground.

  When Neumann walked up to the south door, he heard some shouting coming from the inside. He immediately realized it was coming from a group doing some close order drilling, so he decided to walk around the hall and enter through the north doors.

  The path around the building was well-defined. Neumann could see a large number of prisoners also walking along the well-trodden path just along the inside of the barbed wire fence. Since it was a good four-kilometre walk around the inside perimeter of the camp, many prisoners passed their days continually walking this route.

  As Neumann arrived at the north end of the Rhine Hall, the sound of short order drilling faded and was replaced by music. Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3. Neumann stood outside the door listening to the piece as it moved through the horn calls from the lively scherzo of the third movement.

  He waited until the end of the movement and then entered the hall. As the door opened, the metal plating on the lower edge scraped against the wooden flooring, creating a loud screeching noise. The dissonant sound distracted some members of the orchestra and soon the whole piece fell apart.

  Neumann was confronted with the scowling faces of the conductor and some other members of the full orchestra. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  The conductor, a former platoon commander with the unfortunate name of Liszt, looked back at his orchestra with anger. He gave his baton three hard taps on the podium.”What is wrong with you fools? It was only a small noise, less than a cough at a concert hall, and you lose your place in the music!?” he shouted at them. “Pathetic! This kind of mistake is unworthy of musicians of your age and calibre. I’ve conducted small children as young as five, children whose parents have fed them sweets and chocolates before the performance, and they have had better concentration skills than you. If you can’t keep going because of a simple noise, then you should leave and go walk the path with all the other good-for-nothing layabouts in this camp.”

  Liszt threw his baton into the orchestra, the wind instruments ducking as it flew past them, and waved his hands in the air. “Bah. Never mind, you useless children. Take a break,” he shouted. The musicians smiled, nodded at each other. “Go smoke your cigarettes, but only for ten minutes and then we start again. And we better get this right with no lapses in concentration or I’ll keep you playing until your lips and fingers start to bleed.”

  He roughly closed the arrangement on the podium and cradled his head in his hands for a few seconds. By this time, most of the musicians were standing up, stretching, pulling out their cigarettes, and heading to the door.

  While Liszt was shouting at his charges, there was another man shouting in the recreational hall. But his words weren’t angry, just the typical barking noises a parade leader makes during close order drill.

  Neumann turned his back on the conductor and his orchestra, leaning against the edge of the stage to watch a group of about 250 prisoners clad in black naval uniforms march about the main area of the recreation hall. There was also a third group of prisoners in the hall, a group of about thirty gymnasts dressed in their white sporting outfits tumbling, flipping, and building human pyramids in the far southeast corner, but it was the precise movement of the prisoners in black that kept his attention. They moved seamlessly as one, reacting instantly to the commands made by their parade leader, a short, thin naval captain, also dressed in black and sporting a salt and pepper moustache with a goatee. He stood along the east wall of the building rocking side to side on his feet, as if he was on the deck of a ship, snapping out his commands cleanly and clearly, the way a parade marshal should.

  Neumann watched the man for several minutes until the conductor gathered himself, stepped away from his podium, and jumped off the stage. He walked over and stood next to Neumann, watching the naval soldiers march about.

  “Ahh, submariners,” the conductor said with a tone of disdain in his voice. “Who does close order drill inside during the summer? Or, in fact, in the middle of a prisoner-of-war camp?”

  “They’re submariners. They spend most of their time stuck in a metal tube underneath the ocean. Not a lot of space to walk around down there,” Neumann said. “So once they get up on solid ground with all this fresh air around, they have to move about.”

  “Then why can’t they just walk like regular soldiers do? Why do they have to walk in formation all the time?”

  “Different breed of soldier, these submariners. Tough, disciplined, have to know their place in the world since theirs is usually pretty small.”

  Liszt cleared his throat. “Ahh, they’re just morons without an original thought in their head. No imagination, no spontaneity. Following orders is fine, but if you want to win the war, you have to allow people on the ground to think on their feet.”

  “They are never on the ground, that’s the problem,” Neumann said. “What about you, though? Yelling at your charges like that, controlling their playing. Is there any imagination and spontaneity in that?”

  “Of course there is. My boys may have to follow the notes of the music and my conducting, but you of all people should know that there is more to it than that. Each musician has his own essence, his own temperament that he brings to his playing. A good conductor allows that originality in every musician to come through.”

  “I could hear that. The third was sounding very good.” Neumann turned to face the conductor. “Sorry about the distraction though. They should fix these doors.”

  Liszt waved him away. “My boys shouldn’t be
bothered by a little noise like you. But I’ll make them pay for their lack of concentration.”

  Neumann chuckled. “Hearing that makes me glad I didn’t take you up on your offer to join your little musical group.”

  “Offer is always open, my friend. The violas are one of the weakest parts of the orchestra.”

  “Weak? You have Gottfried Pfeiffel in the first position. He used to play with the Philharmonic in Hamburg.”

  “Pfeiffel is a joy but he’s got no backup. The second isn’t too bad but the third and fourth are very weak amateurs. No skill, no timing. And obviously no original essence to bring forward. If I had you backing up Pfeiffel, we’d have one of the strongest string sections in the German empire. But you have your little police job and you must—how do the Amis say it in their movies—’walk your beat’, and I have a weak viola section.”

  “Better than a foxhole in the desert.”

  “Sometimes yes, but when you hear those two play, sometimes not.”

  Neumann laughed. “The crosses we have to bear.” He turned to watch the submariners drill.

  “So what brings you here then, Sergeant Neumann?” asked Liszt. “You didn’t just come here to rub my nose in the viola section, did you?”

  “No, I actually didn’t know you’d be here.” He pointed at the rocking submariner commander. “I’m following a hunch.”

  “With him? Good luck. I might be an asshole on the podium but at least it’s only on the podium. He’s an asshole all the time. Strutting around with his medals like some kind of god.”

  “Well to his men, he is a bit of a god. Sinking 500,000 tonnes of enemy ships makes him almost as big as Baron von Richthofen in the naval world.”

  “Captain Hans Koenig would still be an asshole even if he was a barber or a policeman like you. Sinking those ships only helped enhance that part of his personality. In a way, he reminds me of you, though. Stubborn, set in his ways, sure of himself.”