The Traitors of Camp 133

by Wayne Arthurson

  Aachen kept all the strawberries, eating some of them at the table and taking the rest to his bunk. Taking food out of the mess was strictly forbidden, but no one prevented him from leaving with the strawberries. And as he walked the short path from the mess to his barracks, eating the strawberries like some kind of decadent Prussian aristocrat, not a single soldier came up to him to share in the booty.

  The camp of 12,000 captured German soldiers surrounded by barbed wire and enemy soldiers with orders to shoot to kill was essentially a small town. And everyone in a small town knows when it is best to leave someone alone and how to treat someone who has become a pariah, even if that person had been a friend, someone trusted just months ago. So the prisoners left Aachen alone for most of the day. Until a group of them came to find him in the shower.

  19.

  Even though Aachen had already taken a shower after his run, he decided to take another one later in the evening. Even with all the windows open in his barracks, the heat was stifling. For some reason or another, the wind that blew during the day seemed to stop at night so no air moved. With over 500 men housed in the building, the place was a furnace.

  The heat had been no different in North Africa: dry, stifling, relentless. However, the exhaustion from trying to stay alive, the falling artillery shells exploding, the strafing runs from enemy planes all made it much easier to sleep in the desert. It was worse at Stalingrad when the enemy deemed it necessary to also attack at night.

  But in the Canadian prairie, thousands of kilometres from the battlefields of North Africa and Stalingrad, there was little for the men to do. Sure, they were no longer being shot, bombed, and strafed so they could relax, but for some, this only made sleep more difficult, especially in the heat.

  When Aachen climbed down from his bunk, slid on the slippers that he bought from one of the camp’s leather-making shops, and padded to the showers, he was not the only one who was restless.

  At least one-fifth of the men in his barracks were awake. It was probably the same in all the other barracks. There were men reading, writing, sewing, knitting, polishing, grooming, staring off into space—all the things bored soldiers did to pass the time at night. There were scattered groups of three to six men playing cards, tossing dice, or sharing food or drink. Some men stood alone by open windows, smoking or just looking at the stars. There were also others gathered around open doors of the barracks, like friends at a pub, some inside, others out, smoking and joking among themselves. Technically, the ones standing just outside the doors were breaking the rules—no prisoner was allowed out of their barracks after 9 pm—but the Canadians were fine with some prisoners having a smoke just outside the doors at night. Better that than in their bunks where they could fall asleep and burn down the clapboard building and all the men in it in less than thirty seconds.

  Aachen knew that somewhere in the camp, maybe even below his own barracks, there were soldiers digging tunnels to escape. Some of these tunnels were sanctioned by the camp’s Escape Committee, the group that planned, coordinated, and approved escape attempts. Of course, because they were several thousands of miles away from the Atlantic, no one expected a German prisoner to make it all the way home following an escape. The point of escapes was to force the Canadians to waste resources that could be used in Europe or Canada.

  Even the latrine area wasn’t empty. The bathrooms were communal with no walls or dividers, and all the spaces—the toilets, the sinks, the showers—were filled with soldiers. In the actual latrine area, in which twelve toilets were lined up along the wall, sat four soldiers doing their business. They sat as far away from one another as possible, each of them doing their best to ignore the others, all of them reading something in order to feel as if they were alone.

  In the washing area, in which metal sinks were also lined up along the walls, one soldier, an older sergeant by the name of Olson, was using a desk from one of the classrooms to set up a makeshift barbershop. He was using a straight razor, classified as an illegal weapon within the wire, to remove the lather from the neck of another soldier. The man in the chair was a large burly man, his face unrecognizable because of the shaving cream and the face cloth over his eyes.

  A few seconds later, the barber finished his razor pass and looked up. He gave Aachen a friendly wave with his blade. “Corporal, hope you don’t mind if I set up shop over here. I won’t cause any trouble, you know.” Olson spoke through the cigarette in his mouth. “I’ll even give you the next one, no charge. It will cool you down. Make you feel so much better.”

  Aachen waved back but did not move closer. “You know we have an actual barber shop in Workshop 9, Sergeant Olson. You could easily set up shop over there, and make a better wage than here in the bathroom.”

  Olson waved his razor angrily. “Bah, those pretentious assholes told me since I didn’t go to barber college and don’t have any real papers from the Fatherland that I couldn’t join their precious group. Even though my father was a barber and before that my grandfather and his grandfathers, one of whom, can’t remember which one, gave the Kaiser a shave during a town visit. And those bastards call me unqualified.” Olson shook his head. “So, I’m relegated to setting up in the barracks at night. Tonight it’s in your barracks.”

  Olson expertly shaved a section of the seated man’s neck, wiping the foam off on his apron and moved to do another pass. He looked up at Aachen. “You sure you don’t want one? A shave? Or maybe a cut? I could trim you up well so you look good for your next match, no charge as I said.”

  Aachen waved a refusal. “Thank you, Sergeant, but no. I see you are a bit busy so maybe another time. I will just take a shower.” Aachen turned and walked to the shower area.

  “Another time,” Olson shouted at him. “Same deal, no charge for you, Corporal Aachen.”

  Aachen offered a wave over his shoulder and entered the showering area. Like every other space in the bathroom, the shower room was communal. It was a large area, about 1000 square metres, separated by dividing seven-foot-high walls of concrete—walls not tall enough to touch the ceiling. Every metre or so, two pipes, one for hot, the other for cold, extended out from the concrete and converged into one which ran upward about another metre so that it extended above and then out from the wall, ending in a shower head about ten centimetres across.

  Like every other space in the building, in every single building in the camp, the floor was concrete. But these floors were sloped slightly towards strategically placed drains. Long wooden pallets about a metre wide were in rows in the floor for the prisoners to stand on while they showered in an effort to prevent the spread of diseases of the foot. Even so, Aachen never removed his slippers from his feet when he showered and replaced his slippers every couple of months. The private that made his slippers had been a cobbler in his previous life and softened the leather on the bottom of the soles so Aachen could wear them in the shower and not slip on the wet floors.

  Aachen slid off his boxer shorts and hung them on one of the hooks that was spaced between the water pipes just off to the side of a shower head.

  He turned on the water, first the cold to cool off his overheated body, and slowly adding hot until the temperature was almost exactly at body temperature. Having any kind of shower, especially one with seemingly unlimited hot water, was a luxury for any soldier. It was also a luxury for civilians, at least those in Europe where the war had created shortages of gas and coal which were used to heat simple things like water.

  Aachen lingered in this water for at least five minutes. He used to feel guilty about such things when he first arrived in the camp and would restrict himself, taking only cold showers and eating only minimal amounts of food. He’d felt disloyal, not only to Germany but to his family, if he reveled in such things. But then he realized that his mother would have insisted that he not suffer on her account, that she would want him to come back home strong and alive, no matter what she had gone through.
So he put the guilt behind him and determined that if he was still going to be a strong and contributing member of German society after he was released, he would have to take advantage of all the things the Canadians were giving him. Especially if he were to be called on to fight after his release, following the defeat of the Allies. Despite the recent invasion of the continent in France, Aachen still felt victory was possible and that there would come a time when he would have to fight for his country again.

  He finished his shower, shook the water from his hair, and grabbed his shorts from the hook. He did not put them on because he was planning to walk back to his bunk naked and let the heat of the prairie night air dry his body.

  But when he turned away from the shower, a fist came flying towards his face. He managed to turn his head so the blow was only a glancing one, but a second later, another fist connected with his stomach. He had tensed his body for this hit, his muscles preventing the air from being knocked out of him, but it still knocked him slightly off balance, causing him to fall back a few steps. His footwear, designed to prevent him from slipping, although probably not in this scenario, helped Aachen keep his balance.

  He brought his fists up, quickly made note of the number of men around him—seven, though none identifiable because even though they were stripped to the waist, they were all wearing handkerchiefs on their faces—and started swinging.

  Aachen’s punches were calculated short jabs, designed to hit back while keeping his arms in a defensive position. Both of his initial punches connected, two of his assailants grunting in pain after each hit, and he managed to block several punches with his forearms.

  Not to be thwarted that easily, the group expertly encircled Aachen, their attacks coordinated in order to take advantage of their numbers and any short openings he offered them. Aachen fought back as best he could, getting some good hits in with his fists as well as with his feet, his elbows, and once his forehead. Yet for each one, he got two or three in return.

  They worked his body over, punches first coming in a flurry, but then targeted to specific areas like his ribs, kidneys, biceps, thighs, and lower back. His assailants were like a well-organized enemy mortar platoon. Their first shots seemed random, but were actually a means of determining their angles of attack. And once they got a bead on where Aachen was, they just kept pounding him, throwing mortar after mortar. These men were experts in this, well-versed in the kind of violence that causes as much damage with as little effort as possible.

  Aachen decided that enough was enough. The only way he could survive this without too much serious injury was to collapse on the ground and fold himself into a ball. He tucked his head tightly into his arms, hoping his assailants would tire of their attack and only work him over to the point where he was near death rather than past it. When he did fall, he landed on a small object that dug into his skin. When he shifted slightly, the object fell between the slates of wood.

  They kicked at his back, legs, and arms, the blows hard and painful, but unable to connect with his head. After a few moments of this, they stopped the attack. Aachen did not relax and did not unroll from his protective ball in case their pause was a ploy to put him at ease so they could attack again.

  But there was no more attack. Instead there was a shuffling of feet and a rustling, as if someone was pulling something out of a bag.

  “Get him up,” said a voice Aachen didn’t recognize. Hands roughly grabbed at him. Though he struggled to maintain his position, there were too many of them and he was too weakened from the beating to resist for long. Still, it took four men to pull him to his feet and to hold him upright, his arms held out from him, like he was placed on a cross, his head and body open to anything they might do. Though his head was spinning with pain, he managed to note many distinguishing marks on the bodies of these men: scars, birthmarks, and a few tattoos in telling places. He also noticed that only one person seemed to have not taken part in the beating—which meant he was the one in command of this group.

  The leader stepped forward and looked at Aachen. He too was masked and stripped to the waist. And though his body looked plump in places, Aachen could see that there was hard muscle underneath the fat.

  “I’m sorry we had to meet like this, Corporal Aachen. I have heard much about you and your skills on the mat. And I see that these stories about your strengths and abilities have not been exaggerated. You put up a good fight, a strong fight, one of the best. A much better fight than the French, even better than the Poles. You acted more like that British battalion who stopped our advance at Dunkirk, tough and hardened bastards, getting their potshots in, keeping us at bay. Although in the end, they all ran away and we took over the continent.”

  “But then they came back and invaded the continent with over a million men, and with more on the way,” Aachen said, spitting blood out of his mouth and onto the floor. “So I’d be careful who you compare me to because you never know what will happen.”

  “You should be careful of the things you say, Corporal Aachen. Some could consider your words traitorous.”

  “I’m only stating the facts. The Allies came back and invaded Normandy after we defeated them at Dunkirk. Everyone knows that.”

  “Bah, things would have been different in Dunkirk if they hadn’t issued the Halt Order. We would have captured all those Brits and the course of the war would have been very different. I’m quite sure we wouldn’t be in this godforsaken camp talking about the invasion while you get the shit beat out of you, eh Aachen?”

  Aachen chuckled, a sound that caught his assailants by surprise. “Criticizing the man who gave the Halt Order, the Führer, is also traitorous, don’t you think, Sergeant Konrad?”

  The leader of the group froze, and as he turned his head back and forth, Aachen could tell there was confusion and surprise at the mention of his name. “How did you…? Who told…” Konrad stammered.

  “It’s easy. Neumann and I heard talk of a new sergeant transferred from Medicine Hat, someone who, for some reason or another, became the new leader of Hut 14. You were called fat and ugly, a hairy obnoxious hobgoblin in a German uniform, which I first thought was unfair, but it seems they were very accurate in their description.”

  The men holding Aachen looked at each other. Without warning, Konrad punched Aachen in the face, the blow splitting his cheek as well as a couple of knuckles on Konrad’s hand. The sergeant jumped back slightly, waving his hand in pain. Aachen’s head snapped back, a flash of light exploding in his vision. He faded out for a second or two, then came back, his vision blurred.

  By this time, Konrad had reached into a bag and pulled out a length of rope about three metres long. He waved it around at Aachen and then wrapped the rope around the corporal’s neck, twisting it into a knot. Konrad yanked on the rope, pulling Aachen forward and his arms free from the hold of the other prisoners. His breath cut off. Aachen gasped for air and clutched at the rope, trying to wrench it off, or at least slip a couple of fingers between the rope and his neck.

  It was to no avail. Konrad stepped to the side and swung part of the rope over and around one of the pipes, giving him a fulcrum of sorts. He hauled on it, the fibres digging into Aachen’s neck, rubbing harsh burns into his skin.

  Aachen struggled as he was lifted off the ground, clawing at the rope and kicking his feet. He made a bit of progress but the lack of oxygen depleted his strength. Quickly his struggles became weaker and weaker and Konrad’s grip on the rope more insistent.

  Aachen’s vision blurred again as he slowly started to fade out of consciousness. Just before blacking out, Aachen heard screaming, a high-pitched wail of a sound, the sound, he thought, of death coming to take him away in its clutches.

  However, the sound caused the rope to slacken and Aachen’s feet to touch the ground. It was only a brief second, but that touch relaxed the pressure on his throat, giving Aachen a moment to suck in a short gasp of oxygen. And even that
little bit gave him strength.

  He reached his arms up and grabbed onto the pipes, pulling his body up as if he was doing a chin-up as part of his daily training regime. That movement slackened the rope farther, giving him more opportunity to breathe.

  In that moment, he realized that the screaming wasn’t just in his head. It was outside, in the camp. And it wasn’t screaming, it was a siren, a wailing like an air-raid siren from back home. Since the Canadians were not subject to bombing, the siren could only mean one thing: it was an alarm to announce to all in the camp, especially the guards who were asleep in their own barracks, that there was an escape in progress.

  The noise distracted Konrad and his henchmen, allowing Aachen to grab one of the water taps and turn on the cold water. The chilly blast caught the others by surprise, forcing them to jump back, while invigorating Aachen slightly. He pulled himself up higher and then swung his legs towards the sergeant. His feet connected with Konrad’s chest, knocking him back and forcing him to release his grip on the rope.

  Aachen dropped to the floor with a hard thud, his teeth slamming together and part of his tongue, caught between them, slicing off. He ignored the pain and the iron taste of blood, jerking the rope off his neck. He sucked in as much oxygen as he could in his first breath.

  An instant later, he struggled to his hands and knees. If he got to a more public location in the barracks, he knew he would be safe. Several of his assailants tried to grab at him, but he swung his hands at their feet, knocking a few of them off balance and into each other. The wet floor didn’t help them either. Once he got free of their circle, he jumped to his feet, and started to run, his shower slippers allowing him to grip the wet floor and stagger away. His attackers, meanwhile, struggled to gain traction, some of them falling to the ground.

  “Let him go,” Konrad shouted. “We have to get out of here. If the Canadians find us out of our hut during the count, there will be hell to pay.”