by Jana Petken
He also recalled a particularly glorious day at the farm when Dottie had been home from work. It was lunchtime, and Mrs Barrett asked Dottie to fetch a bucket of water from the well. He’d volunteered to carry it for her, and on their way back to the house, she had asked him, “Have you ever been in love, Willie?”
He was honest with her in his reply, as he was whenever he spoke with her. “Love is a phenomenon I’ve never dealt with before, Dottie. I’m not charming like my twin brothers. I don’t have my sister’s knack for captivating an audience when I speak, or my father’s power of persuasion. I’m more reserved … like my mother.”
“But, Willie, I think you have all the qualities you’ve just mentioned.”
He blushed. “Ach, I suppose what I lack in social graces, I more than make up for in my enthusiasm. And I am very enthusiastic about you, Dottie. I can hardly sleep at night for thinking about you. I can’t explain this nervous fluttering and dizzy pleasure that warms me every time I see you. I think I might be in love.”
She had beamed at him, as though his declaration had pleased her…
“Where are you going, Willie?” Egon, appearing from nowhere, asked
Startled from his dreamlike state, Wilmot retorted, “Where did you come from this time, Egon? Jesus Christ, it’s like you’re deliberately lying in wait for me behind some bush or wall. Have you got nothing better to do than jump out at me every five minutes?”
Other prisoners relentlessly teased the lad. “Look, it’s Willie Vogel’s shadow,” they’d call. The loquacious Schütze with the concentration of a gnat worked in the mail sorting office for an hour or two a day and spent the rest of his time writing in his journal or wandering aimlessly around camp waiting for Wilmot to return from the farm.
The men’s catcalls were not malicious. Most of them were protective and patient with Egon’s idiosyncrasies. It was well known that the twenty-four-year-old was slow in the head. He lost track of time; sometimes, he had no memory of what he had done ten minutes earlier, yet he recalled his war in North Africa with startling clarity and spoke about it often, even when the topic was not welcomed.
The rumours said that he bore more physical scars than any other prisoner in the camp, and Wilmot believed that could be true. He’d seen Egon wounded many times over, shrugging off less-serious injuries as though they were scratches on his fingers. The man was a hero, although now he clung to Wilmot like a barnacle, reacted physically to loud noises, and often peed himself when he was scared or alone for any length of time. He was brain damaged, and for this there was no cure.
“I know I’m forgetful, Willie, but I can’t remember where I’m supposed to be going half the time,” Egon often said after he woke up in the mornings.
“Have you been for a walk?” Wilmot asked Egon now.
“No. I went to look for you in the Hobby Hut. I think we have to go to our barracks now.”
Wilmot looked longingly at the hospital hut. If Dottie was on duty, he wanted to tell her he had a present for her. He studied Egon. He never knew if the lad were giving him real messages, or if he were retelling a message from days earlier.
“Are you certain we have to report to barracks now?” Wilmot asked again.
“It’s the Führer’s birthday, Willie.”
“Oh, is that right?”
With Egon trailing behind him, Wilmot headed towards their hut, passing some of the three hundred or so other huts that made up much of Camp Concordia’s one hundred fifty-eight acres. He’d been in captivity for six months, and during that time he’d learnt not to disobey orders or be late for lectures or spur-of-the-moment meetings such as this one. Bad things happen to rebellious prisoners, he thought, waving to the American guard who usually accompanied the prisoner farm labourers to Mr Barrett’s. And the bad things are usually instigated by other Germans, not their jailors.
“Hey, Willie. Nice evening, ain’t it?” said John, one of the guards.
“It is, Corporal. You have a good night,” Willie called back.
At 2000 hours, Wilmot and Egon entered Hut 67. Wilmot looked down the length of the long dormitory where fifty men lived and slept. The prisoners had reshaped the place by moving the beds around, and they now ran in a line parallel to the walls, which gave more floor space in the centre aisle. Wilmot was fed up with this nonsense; most of the men were already dressed in their uniforms and had also pinned their medals on. It had to be Jürgen’s idea; some of the men secretly called him Staff Sergeant Himmler-Schatz, such was his admiration for the SS chief.
“Shit … don’t tell me Jürgen’s going to inspect the troops again,” Wilmot whispered to Egon. “I don’t think I could stand another of his lectures.”
With Egon following him, Wilmot crossed the room to Günter, the Schütze who never stopped moaning about something or other. Wilmot often recalled that terrible day in North Africa in which Günter was digging a gun-hole whilst complaining about not having water. The horrific air attack the Allies had launched that morning still stuck in Wilmot’s mind; not so much because of Günter, but for the dreadful sight of Uwe’s legs being blown off and himself losing his trousers. After that day, Günter’s glum disposition had worsened, but Wilmot had lost too many friends to count and now appreciated those he had. Despite the man being intolerable at times, Günter was one of Wilmot’s closest companions and loyal to a fault.
“What’s going on here, Günter?” Wilmot asked him.
“The officers have ordered us to celebrate the Führer’s birthday. They pooled their daily beer coupons and have provided us with two crates of beer. Let’s see how far they go, eh. I don’t want to, Willie. I’m tired. It’s all right for them … they don’t need to get up at the crack of dawn and work in the fields all day. I managed to get a good book from the library, and I wanted to read it before lights out. I’m sick of this parade-ground rubbish. Diese Fanatiker haben zu viel Macht – these fanatics have too much power. I’ve been saying it for a while now.”
Three or four other men with whom Wilmot had served were also complaining about the unwanted celebrations.
“We don’t want any trouble. If the guards find out we’re shouting our heads off for Adolf Hitler, we’ll be punished,” one of the men said.
“Have a word with Stabfeldwebel Weiner, will you, Willie?” another man begged.
Wilmot’s fellow staff sergeant, Jürgen Weiner, sat on the edge of his bed, bending down to tie his boot laces. Wilmot had long since acknowledged that they would never be friends. Apart from making the hut and shower room’s cleaning rota together once a week, Wilmot stayed as far away from Weiner as possible. He was an intense sort of fellow, always wound up like an alarm clock. He had an invidious character, as though he didn’t feel comfortable in his own skin. He demanded discipline and loyalty to the Reich, and he hated Wilmot’s relaxed relationship with the lower ranks.
It had become apparent in the first couple of weeks at the camp that radical and aggressive Hitler supporters stalked every hut. The pro-Nazis amongst the general population were loud, demanding, and found every opportunity to remind their fellow prisoners of their duty to the Fatherland and Führer. Weiner was one of those men.
“What’s going on, Jürgen?” Wilmot asked pleasantly enough.
Jürgen looked up and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you mean, what’s going on, Willie?”
“I mean why was I not informed about this? And why are you not giving the men the choice to attend or not?”
“Unlike you, I still follow orders,” Jürgen retorted. “Look at you … you’ve become soft-bellied like that fool, Egon, who follows you everywhere. Are you telling me you don’t want to celebrate the Führer’s birthday? Is that what you’re saying?”
Wilmot measured his words carefully before saying something he would regret later. Jürgen was a rat who reported prisoners’ indiscretions and disobediences directly to the officers who were known to live by the Third Reich’s rulebook. Upon their arrival at Camp Conc
ordia, the American commander had separated enlisted men from officers to break the chains of command. Those deemed to be hard-core Nazis were also separated from the general prison population; however, that hadn’t stopped communication lines from being set up and spies from being born in every barrack house.
The officers were kept in separate barracks with four men to an apartment, and apart from when they were on parade, they had little to do with the rank and file. They also were able to issue orders to their rats and conduct bullying campaigns that went on daily behind closed doors. It was a fine balancing act for those who only wanted to serve their time and then go home when the war ended.
Wilmot despaired at times, for he was more afraid of his fellow German prisoners, especially those in the Afrika Korps who had been captured early in the war during Germany’s greatest military successes, than he was of his American guards. Since his arrival, he’d seen these men lead work stoppages and intimidate other prisoners who didn’t toe the line. He despised the troublemakers who made life as a prisoner even more intolerable than the word suggested.
“I’m looking forward to the celebration,” Wilmot lied, “but I’m not going to ask the men to stay up half the night when they have work to go to early in the morning, and you shouldn’t either.”
“We’re doing this, Willie, whether you want to or not, so wipe your higher-than-mighty face away and put some enthusiasm in it.”
Wilmot shrugged. “Very well, I’ll drink the beer and sing songs of the Fatherland, but you can lead the prayers and make the speeches, and then at 2300, I’m calling for lights out.”
Half an hour later, Wilmot stood next to Jürgen and faced the men, who were in formational lines of three and standing to attention. Jürgen inspected the men. Wilmot declined to join him, instead he thought about all the reasons why he should give the pompous prick a good talking to in private.
Jürgen returned to his spot beside Wilmot. This time he towered over the men by standing on a wooden crate. He called for them to stand easy, and then began with a prayer for victory and for the defeat of all enemy countries, especially America.
“We find ourselves prisoners, men,” he began, with what was going to be another long, senseless diatribe against the Allies, “but we should never forget our brothers in arms who are still fighting for the Fatherland and our Führer. We must not be friendly towards our guards or fail to make escape plans in our every waking moment. I don’t care how much food they give us, or beer, for that matter, and neither should you. The Americans are our enemy. They are our enemy! We are the Afrika Korps, and we serve Germany, not these slavers who are using us to build up their economy. Do not listen to their lies, men. Do not read their propaganda. We are winning the war, not losing it, as they would lead us to believe. Are we stupid? No, we are not! We are duty-bound to make our captors’ lives as miserable as possible and I will come down hard on any man who sees it differently…”
And he carried on and on with a boring, repetitive speech that sounded as though it were coming from an SS officer’s parrot rather than someone with a mind of his own. To his irritation, Jürgen failed to uplift many of the men who were barely listening and instead looking longingly at the bottles of beer.
He finally finished with, “… and a happy birthday to our glorious leader, Adolf Hitler – Heil Hitler – Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!” the men echoed Jürgen, and on they went … until somewhere in the main body of men, a voice shouted, “Fuck Hitler!”
Jürgen raised his arm in the air and silenced the men with his fisted hand.
Wilmot braced himself for what was to come. Thinking, mouthing, or whispering expletives against the Führer was not uncommon, but shouting them for all to hear was unforgivable; at least, according to some quarters.
“Who said that?” Jürgen demanded, now walking toward the men. “Who said it?”
“Leave it, Jürgen. It was a joke. Whoever said it won’t do it again. Isn’t that right?” Wilmot prompted the men.
“A joke? Who jokes about fucking the Führer, eh?”
“It was Günter. He said it,” Egon giggled, clearly having no idea the shit storm his words would incur.
Jürgen spun around to Wilmot. “See that? Günter’s one of your men. This is what happens when you don’t keep them in line. You’re useless, Vogel.”
The men, still standing in formation, parted to make a clear aisle for Jürgen to get through. When he reached Günter, he said, “This is treason.”
Günter, standing with his hands on his hips and his chin tilted upwards in defiance, eyeballed Jürgen and said, “And this is ridiculous. It’s bad enough we’re thousands of kilometres from home, never mind having to remind ourselves about the idiot who put us here. Do you think he’s worrying about us lot? No, Stabfeldwebel Weiner, he’s not giving us a second thought. He’s getting on with his war … taking over countries, losing others, and getting more and more men killed every day. I’m sick of hearing about him. Our war is over, and I say we should be glad we’re here, drink the damn beer, and forget about it…”
“That’s enough, Günter,” Wilmot said, joining the men.
“I’m only saying what many of us are thinking, Willie,” Günter retorted.
“Take him,” Jürgen ordered.
Wilmot was pushed aside as one of Jürgen’s goons pinned Günter’s arms behind his back.
“Get your hands off me,” Günter spat at another man who was pulling him along by his shirt collar.
“Unhand him,” Wilmot barked.
“Take him to the showers. I think we need to wash his mouth out with soap,” Jürgen shouted.
Wilmot followed Jürgen, pushing his way through men who sought to block his path, but as he reached his fellow staff sergeant, two men grabbed him and twisted his arms behind his back, rendering him immobile.
Furious, Wilmot searched the faces of the men he had fought with in North Africa. Their eyes, frozen with fear, stared back at him, and not one made a move to help Günter.
“This is wrong. Don’t stand for this. Come on, you know this isn’t right,” Wilmot appealed to them whilst still being restrained.
Egon, who looked confused by the whole affair, ran after Günter but was blocked before he got anywhere near him.
“Don’t you touch a hair on his head, Jürgen!” Wilmot shouted when Günter’s men lifted their hands to Egon.
“Anyone else who tries to defend this traitor will be punished,” Jürgen shouted back to the men from the shower room door. Then, he went inside and shut the door behind him.
Wilmot, panting with rage, shrugged off the two men holding him. He glared at them, then looked at the door and made his move.
Chapter Forty-Six
Three of Jürgen’s men blocked the entrance to the shower room door, but Wilmot was too incensed to back down and blazed, “Get away from the door. That’s an order!”
The two men who had been restraining Wilmot earlier also joined those who backed Jürgen. They stood in front of the door, their arms folded across their chests and their eyes threatening Wilmot and the men who gathered with him. Wilmot panicked. This was now a face-off. He was either going into an almighty fistfight or leaving Günter in the hands of fanatics, and if he allowed the latter to happen, he would lose any respect and power he had left with the men in the hut.
He turned to the men he had fought and bled with, and seeing his anger reflected in their faces, he said, “I wouldn’t leave any one of you with Jürgen and his thugs. We must help him, or this will not end with Günter.”
“We’re with you, Willie,” Egon said, having already forgotten that he had started the altercation by naming Günter.
“I’m ready when you are, Willie,” said a man with his fists already in a strike position.
“We’re with you, Willie,” a few more men echoed.
At first, Jürgen and his faithful followers had shouted and cursed at Günter, but the noises now seeping under the s
hower room door were much more sinister. Günter’s groans and muffled screams, coupled with the sound of men’s exertions as they kicked and punched and smashed something against the mirror, were clearly part of a frenzied physical attack that might not stop until Günter was dead.
“Get out of my way,” Wilmot ordered the men at the door one last time.
“Fuck off,” came the reply.
When the massive fight began, Jürgen and Wilmot’s men came out of their previously neutral stance to support their respective staff sergeants. Ten men retreated to the other end of the room, shaking their heads in disgust, but the other thirty-five or so let out their pent-up frustrations in a violent, unforgiving hand to hand battle.
A fist smashed into Wilmot’s nose. Blood poured from both nostrils, but his rage drove him onwards towards the door where Egon and three others were tackling Jürgen’s guards to the ground. On his way through, he caught more fists to his face. Someone pulled his hair while another crazy bugger jumped on his back and straddled his hips as though he wanted a piggy-back ride. Livid, Wilmot lashed out at Germany, Hitler, and for all his lost comrades until eventually he was blinded by fury and kicked the shower room door in.
“Enough!” he screamed.
Jürgen and his four henchmen stood over an unconscious Günter curled into a ball at their feet.
“We were finished here anyway,” Jürgen sniggered at Wilmot, then casually washed his bloody hands in a sink.
In the main room, the men had calmed down. While a few were still exchanging blows, most saw that the fight was over and were now more interested to see what their two staff sergeants were going to do to each other.
Jürgen stepped over Günter’s body as though it were trash on the floor and walked out of the shower room with his lapdogs following behind him.
Wilmot got on his knees, rolled Günter onto his back, and gasped at the almost unrecognisable bloodied face. The areas around both his cheekbones were already swollen to twice their normal size and jutted like hills beneath his eyes with pink, puffy eyelids almost the size of table tennis balls. His jaw was disfigured, broken, and a narrow bone protruded through the thin layer of skin on the bridge of his nose.