The Traitors of Camp 133

by Wayne Arthurson

  “Speak up, Neumann, or I’ll get more. And now that he’s dead, it’s not going to hurt him for you to tell me.”

  “You knew him? How is that possible?”

  “It’s a small camp,” Ehrhoff said with a shrug.

  “Yes, but he was like me: Wehrmacht. And you are Foreign Legion.”

  “Some of us did fight alongside you desert rats in Africa. Why do you think Rommel did so well? We were the ones who had the most experience fighting in sand and dust. Many legionnaires gave up the Legion when they transferred into the Wehrmacht.”

  “So is that how you knew Captain Mueller?”

  Ehrhoff dismissed that conjecture with a quick wave of his hand and slight spitting from his lips. “I would have never given up the Legion,” he said, insulted.

  “But you are German. Didn’t you want to serve your country and fight along your fellow countrymen?”

  “I already did that in the First War, Sergeant, just as you did. However, once the war ended, I didn’t like civilian life. Didn’t like living in a country full of cowed people. I wanted to continue to fight. But we Germans weren’t allowed to fight. So I did what many of us displaced veterans from the First War did: joined the French Foreign Legion. And not just Germans, either. There were English, American, Canadian fellows who were trying to kill me one year becoming my brother soldiers the next year.”

  “But why didn’t you come back when Germany needed veteran soldiers again?”

  “Joining the Legion isn’t something one does on a lark, Sergeant Neumann. When you make a pledge to serve in the Legion, it’s pretty much a lifetime commitment. You can do your five years and get out, but that’s why the French give legionnaires citizenship after those five years, to further deepen that commitment. Most legionnaires don’t go back to their regular lives or transfer to another army just because their home country needs them. Legion patria nostra is one of our most important mottos which means that the Legion is our new Fatherland.”

  “But you fought on behalf of Germany in the Wehrmacht?”

  “Officially, we were fighting on behalf of Vichy France, alongside the Wehrmacht, even though we were wearing similar uniforms. That’s how Rommel got us to fight for him.”

  “But that doesn’t explain how you met Captain Mueller.”

  “We met on the transport over from Africa,” he said with a Gallic shrug. “We weren’t Foreign Legion or Wehrmacht in the hellish hold of that ship, we were only Germans working together, doing our best to survive. I could tell you more, Sergeant, but if your trip over was anything like ours, it’s probably something you don’t wish to remember. Just get on with it and tell me how Mueller died.”

  “He was hanged,” Neumann said.

  “By his own hand? That can’t be possible.”

  Neumann shook his head.

  “Murdered?” Ehrhoff said in a stage whisper a moment later.

  “We are investigating a variety of possibilities and leads, which is why I need to talk to the legionnaire that fled into this barracks.”

  “There is no way Legionnaire Pohlmann is mixed up in any of this unpleasantness. He doesn’t have it in him.”

  “He’s a legionnaire. According to legend, you are some of the best fighters in the world.”

  “That’s overstating things, Sergeant. We are men of war, but we are also men of honour. We do not murder.”

  “But many so-called honourable men have murdered. Why is Pohlmann any different?”

  Ehrhoff laughed. “If you knew Pohlmann you would understand. He is a decent soldier, loyal to his comrades, holds his own in battle, but only fulfills his required duties, never exceeds expectations.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he fits the legend of great fighters.”

  “As I said, the stories about legionnaires being great soldiers are overstated. We are only soldiers, just like you in the Wehrmacht. We might have more experience in battle than most, but we are just average soldiers. Pohlmann is simply a solid workhorse. Strong and durable, follows orders very well. This got him into the Legion and allowed him to stay. But there’s no way he would murder someone. He doesn’t have it in him.”

  “I never claimed he was the murderer,” Neumann said. “But he was seen leaving the building in which Mueller was found. I was pursuing him, hoping to talk to him, ask him why he was there.”

  “There are plenty of reasons. He could have been working there, he could have been studying.”

  “Then why did he run?”

  “You are a very intimidating man, Sergeant Neumann. Don’t you know that? Especially with your history. It’s possible that Pohlmann was working in that building and came upon you and a dead body and got frightened.”

  “Yes, those are fine theories. But since there is a dead body involved, it would be best if I talked to him to see what his reasons were. If he is, as you say, not the kind of person who would murder and is not involved in this, then there should be no problem.”

  Ehrhoff rubbed his beard. After a moment, he nodded. “Okay, Sergeant Neumann. I will instruct Pohlmann to talk to you.”

  “With all due respect, Colonel, I would prefer to talk to Pohlmann now.”

  “Neumann, that’s as far as I’m willing to compromise.”

  “But, sir…”

  “However, I will ensure that Pohlmann will discuss the situation very soon. Hopefully tonight. Probably tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow will be too late.

  “That’s it. Take it or leave it. As I said, we are not under your or anyone else’s command in this camp. We may be Germans, but we serve a different command. And that will never change. No matter what they do to us.”

  Neumann looked closely at the colonel for a second. He tilted his head. “Did something happen, Colonel?”

  “Besides one of my men getting beat up last night by a bunch of thugs on your payroll, then no, nothing happened.”

  “I don’t have any thugs on a payroll. It’s only me and Corporal Aachen. However, if you fill me in on this situation, I can do my best to investigate it.”

  “Don’t waste your time because I know what will happen,” Colonel Ehrhoff said. “You will say you will look into the matter, but in the end find nothing and we will be accused of anti-German sentiments.”

  “I will look into the matter. I take such actions very seriously.”

  “I’m sure you do, but there are some things you can’t change, even at this point in the war.”

  “Regardless, we can’t let anarchy reign in this camp. You have your pledge to the Legion, Colonel, and I have my pledge to the camp. My duty is to protect residents of this camp from harm, the same way I protected the people of my village before the war. And if someone harms one of these residents, it’s up to me to bring justice to the situation. I don’t care if you’re Foreign Legion, Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe, or SS. It’s my job to protect you.”

  “I can see why people look up to you, Sergeant Neumann. You have some very admirable qualities. You would make a great legionnaire.”

  “Thank you, Colonel, but at the moment, I have other responsibilities.”

  “Then maybe when the war ends and you find yourself unable to return to normal life in Germany, you should think about it.”

  Neumann looked at the colonel for a second, who smiled at him. “You don’t have to say anything, Sergeant. I know the walls can hear things and report them to superiors. Even here it happens, so maybe it would just be best if you left. Someone will contact you when Pohlmann is ready to talk.”

  Neumann snapped to attention and saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

  The colonel hesitated and then saluted back. Without another word, Neumann turned and walked out of the legionnaire’s barracks.

  As he moved away from the building, he walked straight and proud, as if nothing was amiss, but as soon as he rounded the corner he fou
nd a quiet spot on the wall behind some bushes and sat down hard. He stayed there for more than ten minutes, groaning, catching his breath, and rubbing the side of his torso.

  13.

  When Neumann arrived at the classroom building where he had left Doctor Kleinjeld, Corporal Aachen, and the dead Captain Mueller, there was a crowd of about 300 prisoners gathered around the front door. A couple of Canadian scouts stood at the top of the stairs. The crowd was boisterous, hurling insults and obscenities at the Canadians, but not yet out of hand. However, the crowd was growing exponentially as more and more prisoners made their way towards the buildings.

  Though the Canadians gave the appearance of being tough and in control, they eyed the crowd warily, stealing glances towards the gate into the camp, seemingly hopeful that reinforcements would soon come. But even if they did, there were over 12,000 German prisoners in the camp and only about 500 guards. If the crowd turned violent, shots could be fired, which no one really wanted.

  Neumann pushed his way through the crowd. At first, the prisoners complained and rebelled against him, but when they realized who was pushing them aside, they backed away. Soon, the crowd parted enough for him to make his way to the front.

  It was there that he ran into Corporal Aachen.

  The young corporal’s eyes went wide when he saw Neumann. He pulled him aside, near the corner of the building and away from the crowd.

  “Sergeant! What happened?” he asked, his eyes darting back and forth as he looked at Neumann’s injuries. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Aachen reached a consoling hand, but Neumann gently batted it away. “I’m fine, Corporal Aachen. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “But your face, your lip—you’re bleeding.”

  “Let’s just say I ran into a couple of legionnaires that didn’t like the questions I was asking and we had a spirited discussion.”

  “Looks like the discussion went into knock-out time. Are you sure you are okay?”

  Neumann raised a hand. “I’m fine, Corporal. A little tender in spots, but fine. I appreciate your concern.”

  “If I may say so, Sergeant, you look like shit. Like you were run over by a tank.”

  “Two tanks, actually.” Neumann smiled but then grimaced in pain, quickly touching his split lip.

  “You got into a brawl with two legionnaires? I told you not to go in that hut alone.”

  “It wasn’t a brawl, Corporal Aachen. It was a quick skirmish. However, it is not the time and place to discuss such things. At the moment I think we should deal with this situation before it gets out of hand.”

  Aachen nodded and looked about, eyeing the crowd. “Quite right, Sergeant.”

  The throng of German prisoners had grown much larger and more belligerent. Several prisoners were throwing dirty pieces of laundry at the Canadians, but soon the projectiles of socks and underwear could become rocks.

  Neumann walked up to the steps, looked at the Canadians who were visibly fearful, and stood on the first step. He held his hands in the air, causing a good part of the crowd to pay attention.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he called out, attracting the attention of the rest of the prisoners. The angry clamour of the group died down somewhat. They looked on in expectation, interested to hear what the legendary Sergeant Neumann had to say to them.

  “I know why you are all here and I’m here to confirm the rumours.” He paused and the whole group hushed to hear. “Captain Mueller is dead.”

  The effect on the crowd was instantaneous. Men screamed and shouted, fists were raised, and a few people wailed in grief. Bits of paper, garbage, and fruit peels were thrown at the steps, hitting the sergeant, Corporal Aachen, and the two Canadian scouts, who raised their hands to protect themselves.

  The sergeant moved up to a higher step, just below the Canadians and raised his arms again. He shouted again at the crowd, imploring them to stop, but to no avail. The crowd kept pelting them with refuse, building up their anger to the point of becoming riotous. Neumann attempted to calm and quiet the crowd from the steps for several more seconds, but frustrated by the lack of response, he stormed down the steps and waded into the crowd. He pushed against some of the prisoners, slapping a couple who were preparing to fling objects towards the front of the building. Corporal Aachen quickly followed after the sergeant, but did not strike anyone.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Neumann shouted at them, his voice taking on the tone of a military training officer. “Are you German soldiers or are you football thugs?”

  There was a soldier standing next to Neumann, an older soldier, over forty, thin and short, with a moustache, a balding scalp, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. In his hand, the prisoner held a rock the size of a field hockey ball. Neumann shook the soldier, knocking the rock out of his hand.

  “Is this how you show that you are an honoured veteran of the First War, Sergeant Holm?” Neumann shouted. “Is this how you expect your men to act, like a bunch of hoodlums, drunk on a Saturday night, looking for windows to break or good girls to harass?”

  Holm shook his head feverishly. He opened his mouth to speak, to defend his actions, but Neumann released him, shoving him aside. The sergeant whirled on the rest of the crowd, waving his hands. “Is this how proud German soldiers react? Is this how you were trained to be in a military camp? To act like buffoons, to act like morons?”

  “But Captain Mueller is dead,” shouted a soldier from the back. A series of mutterings in response rippled through the crowd.

  “Yes, Captain Mueller is dead. That is true. And for those of us who knew him, it is very sad. He was a good man.” Neumann raised his hand in the air, pointing in the direction of the voice that made the comment. “But Captain Mueller is not the first man, the first German, to die in this war, and he won’t be the last. He is also not the first person to die in this camp. We had that young boy from Dortmund who drowned last summer, and the crazy Sudetenlander who froze to death trying to escape in January. And Major Frank, the Luftwaffe pilot who fell off the back of a farm truck less than a month ago. Not to mention those other unmentionable few who decided to take their own lives because they were too weak to spend several months in a prisoner-of-war camp. All of those men died and we never gathered like a unruly mob. Even with the suicides, we treated those men with honour, buried them like German soldiers. What makes the death of Captain Mueller so different from those?”

  Holm, the older soldier that Neumann had jostled, stepped forward. “They said the Canadians killed Captain Mueller. That’s why they’re acting this way. With guards on the door and more Canadians inside the classroom.”

  Neumann laughed a hearty laugh. He reached out to put his hand on Holm’s shoulder, but the smaller veteran flinched. Neumann paused to show that he meant no harm and then grabbed Holm’s shoulder. “Who told you that?” he barked. “Who told you that the Canadians killed Mueller?”

  “I don’t know,” Holm said with a shrug. “I heard someone from the mess talking about it.”

  “From the mess,” Neumann said with a smile. “How long have you been in the Wehrmacht, Holm? 1915?”

  “1914. I was in Mons when an English sniper almost took off my head,” the old veteran said, pointing to his left ear, which was missing a chunk of its lobe. “I turned my head at the last second to respond to a command and he clipped my ear instead.”

  “So you’ve been in service longer than me,” Neumann said. “So you know that rumours are rampant in the Wehrmacht. You’ve probably heard hundreds of things that some have said was the honest truth, especially talk in the mess.”

  “More than hundreds,” Holm said.

  “And this is just the same. Mueller was no more killed by the Canadians than he was killed by me. Or Corporal Aachen. Or even you.”

  “Then how did he die?” someone shouted from the back. “Who killed him, then?”
/>
  Neumann stepped away from Holm. He started walking towards the steps, talking loudly as he did. “At the moment, the only thing I can tell you is that he was found hanging in his classroom.”

  A shocked gasp rippled through the crowd. The mutterings that followed got louder until they reach the level of indignation they had been at when Neumann originally arrived.

  “This is no way for us to behave,” he said, waving his hands at them.

  “But we want answers,” someone shouted.

  “Yeah, we want to know what happened,” added another.

  The crowd echoed these sentiments.

  “We must be patient, we must wait. Because at the moment, even I don’t know what happened. But I promise you, I will find answers for you.”

  Some members of the crowd nodded and murmured positively, but the majority of the men weren’t appeased. They began jostling each other, and moved towards the sergeant aggressively.

  Aachen stepped in front of the sergeant to protect him. He was supported by a few others. They pushed back and forth at each other like opposing teams in a rugby match.

  Neumann put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The sound got the attention of some and the jockeying between various soldiers stopped for a moment.

  “So you want to behave like baboons, then,” he shouted. “You want to forget your discipline, forget you are German soldiers and become anarchists.” When Neumann pointed at them, they shrank back, fear in their eyes. “And is this how you wish to act in front of our enemy? Is this how we wish our captors to see us? Because if we continue in this matter, then they will look down on us as undisciplined soldiers, soldiers who deserved to be captured.” He paused, turning away from the Canadians who had no idea what he was saying, and addressed the crowd.

  “They will consider us Germans to be no different than the Italians. Is that what you want? For soldiers of the Fatherland to be looked on as Italians?”

  There were a few mutterings of “No!” from part of the crowd. But there were still some who didn’t want to listen. They started to turn on one another again.