The Traitors of Camp 133

by Wayne Arthurson

  Neumann stopped talking. He picked up the book again, but just held it loosely in his hands before setting it down. He sat up in his chair and leaned his elbows on Aachen’s bed, next to the corporal’s shoulder, and leaned his chin on his hands. He stared at Aachen’s bandaged face.

  “Heidfield didn’t kill Mueller, you know. He told me and since I was choking him, I believed him. I should have known that, too, but since he had you attacked in a similar way, I assumed that he had Mueller attacked as well. But that really didn’t make sense. Heidfield had no reason to kill Mueller. The man meant nothing to him; he wasn’t part of his enterprise and didn’t threaten it in any way. He barely knew the man, except by reputation. So, of course, Heidfield didn’t kill Mueller. It just doesn’t make sense. But who did?”

  Neumann took his elbows off Aachen’s bed and then rested his head on the mattress next to Aachen’s shoulder. He shut his eyes. “It’s got me perplexed, Klaus. It’s obvious that Mueller didn’t kill himself. And many men liked him. Sure, he may have said some things against the war, but would that be enough for him to be branded a traitor and killed? And if it was, why didn’t the boys in black make a point of bringing it to our attention? When they catch traitors, they publicize their actions quite openly, don’t leave any room for interpretation. And Mueller’s death is quite confusing. While there is some indication that he was killed for his attitude, it’s still all vague. It’s not like them to act this way. If they did kill Mueller, then their message has been clouded. There’s something missing here, Klaus. Maybe it’s something about Mueller. But what? He’s no different from the rest of us in the Afrika Korps. He drove a tank, commanded some men, did an excellent job by all counts. He was captured and shipped here like the rest of us in the hell holes of those ships. And then he settled into the camp, teaching boys like you to become better, so there’s nothing—”

  Neumann stopped, opened his eyes, and stared at the wall for several seconds. Then he slowly lifted his head and turned to look at Aachen. “There was a difference, Klaus. With Mueller. He wasn’t…”

  Neumann stood up quickly, almost knocking the chair over. He tapped the end of Aachen’s bed. “Don’t go away, Corporal. I’ll be right back.”

  32.

  Neumann threw open the door of the legionnaire hut and shoved past Hans, Philip, and all the other guards. He didn’t really have to push that hard because he had been there before and he had the respect of Colonel Ehrhoff. Neumann walked past the bunks all the way to the area where Ehrhoff had his tent.

  He pushed his way through the opening. Ehrhoff was sitting there with two older legionnaires, drinking tea and smoking tobacco from a hookah that looked to be made from a French horn or some other similar brass instrument.

  Colonel Ehrhoff and the other legionnaires were surprised by Neumann bursting into the tent, but they did not get up.

  “According to Bedouin tradition, Sergeant Neumann, a person must have an invitation to someone’s tent,” Ehrhoff said sipping his glass of tea. “Bursting into someone’s tent in this manner is considered extremely impolite. It could even be seen as an act of violence.”

  “Good thing I’m a German and not a Bedouin. In the past few years, we’ve become quite known for bursting into places uninvited. And it’s obvious that it’s an act of violence because we’ve brought soldiers, guns, tanks, and planes that drop bombs.” He pointed at Ehrhoff. “And no matter how you like to dress up, underneath all those robes is a fucking German. A little different, like one of those Indian hobbyists who like to read Karl May and dress up and live in teepees on the weekends, but you’re still a fucking obnoxious German. If you weren’t a German, you wouldn’t have agreed to fight for Rommel. You would have gone over to the Free French side and fought for those bastards. But you didn’t and here you are, right where you belong, in a prisoner-of-war camp for Germans.”

  Ehrhoff gave each of the other legionnaires in the tent an apologetic look, as if Neumann was an uncouth peasant interrupting a group of aristocrats having afternoon tea. He slowly stood up, adjusting his outfit as he did so. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said to the two men and then walked over to Neumann. “Is it possible for us to discuss this outside?”

  “No, this is fine. I won’t be long so you can go back to your pretend Bedouin lifestyle—”

  “—Please, Sergeant Neumann, there is no need to be insulting,” Ehrhoff said, cutting him off. “I am quite aware of the difficulties you’ve had in the last few days, especially the horrible incident with Corporal Aachen, but there is no need—”

  “—Mueller was a legionnaire, wasn’t he? That’s why he was on your ship during transport. The Afrika Corps were in their own ships, except the Italians, some leftover Vichy diehards, and you legionnaires who fought for Rommel. That’s why you were on the same ship as Mueller. It wasn’t random, he was a fucking legionnaire.”

  At the mention of Mueller, the other two men in the tent quickly set down their tea glasses, stood up, and left without a word.

  Neumann watched them leave and then turned to Ehrhoff. “Looks like I hit a sensitive subject. Am I right? Mueller was a legionnaire, wasn’t he?”

  Ehrhoff nodded.

  “And because your precious Legion has some fucked up code about honour and loyalty, the fact that he didn’t identify with you, that he turned his back on all that honour, wasn’t acceptable to you and you had to do something, didn’t you?”

  “Are you intimating that we killed Captain Mueller?” Ehrhoff asked. His face was one of incredulity.

  “Once a legionnaire, always a legionnaire, isn’t it? If you turn your back on the Legion you’re a traitor, a disgrace, and must be dealt with harshly.”

  Ehrhoff shook his head and backed away from Neumann. He returned to his spot in the tent and sat down. He picked up his cup of tea and sipped. “Please, Sergeant, sit down. Take some of that anger about Corporal Aachen and put it away.”

  “I prefer to stand, Colonel. Especially when I’m pretty much surrounded by people who could be my enemy.”

  “We are not your enemy, Sergeant Neumann,” Ehrhoff said with a sigh. “You have no reason to fear being harmed by me and my men.”

  “But others do, like Mueller, who turned his back on the Legion. Traitors must be made an example of.”

  “We didn’t kill Captain Mueller.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I sort of understand. If anybody deserted my squad during combat, I’d shoot them. It’s one of the difficulties of being in charge. Then again, none of my men would have done so during combat. One or two may go AWOL afterwards, but I’d punish them with extra work, not kill them. Much of my squad is still here in the camp, but I don’t expect them to hang around with me like we did in North Africa. For the most part, no one’s out to kill us here so there’s no need for us to remain a squad. I’m not going to punish them for going their own way in the camp. That would be stupid.”

  “You’re not listening to me, Sergeant. We didn’t kill Captain Mueller. We had no reason to.”

  “But he was a legionnaire, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was. But a long time ago. Mueller, like many of us, was lost after the First War. We just couldn’t settle in. Civilian life seemed too simple after all those years of combat. And the mood of Germany was so downtrodden. We wanted to feel strong again, to go back into a fight. So that’s why many of us joined the Legion. Surely you understand that?”

  “Actually I don’t. After losing my youth and almost all my friends in those trenches, the last thing I wanted to do was to find another fight. I just wanted to go home and live my simple life as a village policeman. Life was hard in those early years, but it was almost paradise when compared to the horror of the war. Hopefully it will be the same after this one.”

  “I surely doubt that, Sergeant. Germany and the rest of Europe’s going to be in a terrible mess after this war.”

  “
Germany and the rest of Europe have been in similar messes. We’ll come out of it. But fuck the politics, tell me more about Mueller. He was a legionnaire after the First War?”

  “Was a legionnaire. That’s the operative phrase. After a time, Mueller realized that the Legion wasn’t what he wanted. He, like you it seems, didn’t want to return military life. So he left.”

  “Just like that, he left the Foreign Legion.”

  “People are allowed to leave the Legion, Sergeant, but only a few do. There’s a bond that’s created so people stay. But if you want to leave, all you have to do is put in your required five years and leave. That’s what Captain Mueller did—he left after his first tour of duty, got his French citizenship, and left to teach. Which is why he was on the boat with us. Because of his dual citizenship, which he had plainly forgotten about, the Allies classified him as some sort of Vichy-German.”

  Ehrhoff set down his tea cup, picked up the pot, and poured himself another glass. “So you see, we had no reason to kill Captain Mueller. No reason at all.”

  Neumann looked at the colonel and saw the truth in his eyes. He rubbed his eyelids sighing deeply. Ehrhoff poured an extra cup of tea and reached over to hand it to Neumann. “Here, Sergeant, have some tea. It’s very good. The Canadians have access to some fine leaves.”

  Neumann slowly sat down. He took the cup in his hands and sipped. He closed his eyes, the tension leaving his body. He took another sip and looked at the cup.

  “This is good,” he said, looking up at Ehrhoff. “Very good.”

  “Some Bedouin traditions are very good, Sergeant Neumann, despite what you say.”

  “I would say this is more of an English tradition, considering what time it is. Apart from the crumpets and those silly sandwiches, we Germans could probably adapt it to our lifestyle. Add a few sausages to the menu.”

  “That’s actually a great idea. I’ll have to consider it.”

  “See, you can dress up all you want, but you’re still a German.” Neumann flushed slightly and set down his teacup. He stood up, adjusted his uniform, and saluted the colonel. “Thank you for your time, Colonel Ehrhoff. I’m sorry I burst in on you like this and accused you falsely.”

  Ehrhoff stood up and returned the salute.

  “Don’t apologize for doing your job to the best of your ability. I’m quite sure that Captain Mueller would be quite grateful for all the work you’ve gone through to find his killer. Hopefully it’s not politically related so you can bring someone to justice.”

  “It’s looking more and more like that may be the case, Colonel.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure you’ll find the solution. If you can’t do it, then no one can.”

  “Thank you, sir. And again, thank you for the tea and your time.” Neumann saluted again and Ehrhoff, smiling, returned it.

  The sergeant left the legionnaires’ barracks and made his way back to his own, winding through all the gardens between them. There were more gardeners now, their backs hunched over, picking weeds, digging up the dirt. During his walk, he saw General Horcoff harvesting a few early berries and digging out some weeds with his trowel. Neumann thought of going over to report on his findings to the general and then thought the better of it. The general seemed happy in his garden, away from the stress of command.

  Neumann also thought about going back to visit Corporal Aachen at the hospital, but couldn’t imagine walking all that distance just to sit next to the bed helplessly. So he went to his bunk, undressed to his underwear, and climbed into bed. He fell asleep an instant later.

  It was dark and all the other prisoners were in bed when Neumann’s bladder woke him up. He tossed and turned, trying to fall back asleep, but the need to piss was too insistent. He got up, slipped on Aachen’s special slippers, and padded to the toilet. He sat down on the toilet, but soon noticed that the toilet next to him was plugged, brown, disgusting water almost spilling over the edge. He would have gotten up but the pressure was too much and his bladder gave out. Neumann held his breath, but the stench coming from the toilet was overpowering, reminding him of those two weeks crossing the Atlantic from North Africa after being captured. He pushed as hard as he could without hurting himself so the piss would leave his body as fast as possible. Finally he finished and escaped, barely pulling up his underwear. When he managed to reach the sinks, he quickly washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face to get rid of the smell. It still lingered. So he quickly walked to a door and stood outside.

  There was no one out there and the sky was clear, the stars sparkling. From where he stood, he couldn’t see any towers so it was almost like he was back home. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a deep drag. He let the smoke leave his lungs, inhaling the smoke that left his mouth through his nose. A few more French inhales and the scent from the stuck toilet left his nose.

  A second later, the scent triggered something in his brain, reminding him of his trip across the Atlantic, and then of someone who said they were on the same ship as some Italian prisoners.

  “Fuck,” he said as the cigarette fell from his mouth. His legs gave out from under him and he sat down hard on the steps. He didn’t move for a long time.

  33.

  Neumann watched the sun rise, watched the sky turn from black to dark blue, then mixed with reds, pinks, and oranges before becoming the daily bright blue that stretched from horizon to horizon. As the sun rose and the day came to light, the camp also changed. The bright spotlights that covered the area soon faded. The prisoners who baked bread through the night trudged back to their bunks while the morning cooks and their helpers took their places. Even though Neumann’s hut was not next to the mess, he could pick up the scent of baked bread and frying bacon and sausages.

  The scent woke some of the prisoners, but then the Rouse, the Commonwealth bugle used to wake their troops, sounded and the entire camp was awake, prisoners dashing about here and there, and those scheduled for the first mess rushing to get a good seat before all the best bits of food were gone. Even though Neumann sat on the steps at the entrance of his hut and was partially blocking the way, no one complained. They just moved around him like he was a large rock that had always been there and always had to be navigated around in order to leave the building.

  Neumann let the prisoners move around him, let the camp come alive as he smoked cigarette after cigarette, adding to the pile of discarded butts that he had started so many hours ago.

  Only when he ran out of cigarettes, when he finished his daily ration of two packs, did he finally stand up. He reached his arms into the air, stretching his body like a man waking up from an afternoon nap. He adjusted his uniform, wiped his mouth, and stepped away from the hut.

  Neumann strolled through the camp and found General Horcoff where he expected to find him, on his knees, working in his garden. He greeted the general the way he always did, with a quick clearing of his throat. This time, though, he did not stand at attention.

  The general spotted him. “Sergeant Neumann, good to see you again,” Horcoff said with a smile.

  Neumann didn’t smile back. “We need to have a talk, General.”

  Horcoff’s smile immediately faded, and when he saw the serious look on the sergeant’s face, he frowned. He slowly stood up, using a piece of the fencing as leverage to push himself to a standing position. Every movement the general made coincided with a grunt of effort.

  “Is there something troubling you, Sergeant? You seem quite reticent at the moment, even more so than you did following that ugliness with that submariner the other day. Is everything okay with Corporal Aachen? His condition hasn’t worsened, has it?”

  Neumann shook his head. “Corporal Aachen’s condition is unchanged.”

  “That’s good to hear, although we’re all hoping he can recover from these injuries. Terrible thing to get trampled by a crowd but he’s a strong boy,” Horcoff said wiping hi
s brow. “So what is the reason for this visit?”

  Neumann looked about. “It would be best, General, if we talk about this privately,” he said softly. “The camp is very crowded.”

  The general stared at Neumann for a few seconds and then nodded. “Yes, okay, I know the perfect place.” He gestured for Neumann to follow him and the sergeant did. They weaved their way through the barracks, ignoring all the salutes and nods of greeting from the other prisoners they passed. Horcoff took Neumann to an open space near the western edge of the workshops. There stood a small shed about five metres squared, surrounded by piles of sand, soil, manure, discarded vegetables peelings, and other foodstuffs—all materials the gardeners would use in their work.

  As he walked up to the shed, Horcoff pulled out a key. He used it to open a lock that hung off the door. “One of the Luftwaffe navigators built this after they erected the camp and he started gardening. He needed a safe and secure place to store all his gardening tools to ensure they wouldn’t be stolen and used to dig tunnels for escapes,” the general said, as he worked the lock. “The Canadians are very strict with us. They check with us every day, making us sign our tools in and out so that each and every one is accounted for.”

  He continued talking as he opened the door and stepped in, gesturing for Neumann to follow. “If we lose a tool, we must have a good explanation and find it very quickly or they close us down, which is why none of us has ever lost a tool. Our gardens are too important to us and to the camp.”