Before The Brightest Dawn (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 3)

by Jana Petken

  Under Günter’s shirt, swelling and bright-red patches spread across his abdomen to his ribs, and his right hand looked like a red balloon.

  “You will pay for this, Weiner!” Wilmot yelled into the main room.

  Wilmot’s men entered the shower room, their faces cut and battered from fighting.

  “Help me get him to the hospital,” Wilmot uttered, “and if anyone out there tries to stop us, kick the shit out of them again, and that includes Stabfeldwebel Weiner.”

  Ten minutes later, Wilmot left the shower room. He was followed by nine men, six of whom were carrying Günter on a blanket used as a makeshift stretcher. Aware that Günter may have broken bones or have internal injuries, the men were careful not to jostle him about. Two held the head of the blanket, two the middle, and the other two took the weight of Günter’s legs. And behind them, another three men protected their rear.

  Jürgen sat on the end of his bed holding court with his men who were already getting into the two crates of beer, which was not nearly enough for all the men in the hut. Their boisterous laughter sickened Wilmot, and he glared at Jürgen as he passed him.

  “Remember the code, Willie,” Jürgen called out, then he tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. “It will be very bad for you if you don’t.” He returned to his beer and laughed with the twenty or so men he had under his thumb.

  Wilmot threw a filthy look at the men who had remained neutral. Although they had replaced their bunks to their original positions and were sitting or lying on their beds shamefaced, they had done nothing to stop the assault or to rebuke Jürgen. He wouldn’t forget their faces.

  “We won’t get far before the guards stop us, and when they do, I’ll do the talking,” Wilmot told the men he was leading to the door.

  “Egon, you say nothing, understand? You got us into this mess in the first place,” one of the men hissed.

  Wilmot’s outstretched hand gripped the door handle, but then he yanked back his arm as the door was flung open to admit American soldiers.

  “Line up at your bunks – now!” an American sergeant ordered.

  Wilmot eyed the sergeant and the three soldiers with rifles coming in behind him. Then a furious-looking American officer entered, shouting, “Stand where you are!”

  “We have an injured man here, Sergeant,” Wilmot said in perfect English to his American counterpart.

  The American sergeant pushed his way past the crowded doorway, took one look at Günter and was quick to react. “Telephone for an ambulance, immediately. Tell the hospital staff they have someone coming in,” he ordered one of the soldiers.

  Wilmot ordered his men to lay Günter on the nearest bottom bunk as gently as they could. “Line up, as the lieutenant said,” the sergeant ordered the Germans.

  “What happened here?” the officer asked Wilmot.

  “He…”

  “Es war ein Versehen – accident!” Jürgen shouted, hurrying to Wilmot’s side. “I am the senior staff sergeant of this hut, and I will tell you what happened. Günter was sitting on another man’s shoulders trying to fix a light bulb, and he fell off. He hit his face against the corner of a bunk. Isn’t that right, Feldwebel Vogel?” Jürgen didn’t speak a word of English, and his German words came out with abnormal rapidity.

  He’s panicking, Wilmot thought, throwing him a look of disgust. No one in their right mind was going to believe this was an accident. Most of the men involved had taken blows and bore the visible signs of a fight, as did he with his own bloodied nose.

  After the American sergeant had translated Jürgen’s feeble lie, the American lieutenant spoke to Wilmot, “Well? Are you going to insult me with the same lie?”

  Wilmot measured his words carefully. He suspected that regardless of what he said, no action would be taken anytime soon. The Americans seemed to want to take a non-interference posture. There were very few American soldiers on the base who spoke German – he presumed the men who did were away fighting, codebreaking, or interpreting – because of this, the guards focused on the supervising German officers and NCOs who were tasked with maintaining strict discipline. It worked well, to a point. He and Jürgen woke their own men, marched them to and from meals, and made sure they were prepared for work on time. Their routines successfully recreated the feel of military discipline – most if the time – on this occasion, however, that discipline had disintegrated into anarchy.

  “I wasn’t here when it happened, sir. When I arrived ten minutes ago, Günter was already on the floor,” Wilmot lied smoothly.

  “An accident? Well, we’ll see about that,” Lieutenant Grafton scoffed, as he stared at Wilmot’s swollen nose. Then he looked at Jürgen who was standing to attention, apparently unaware that his knuckles were cut and reddened.

  The lieutenant went to the door and spoke quietly with his sergeant. Wilmot, overhearing the hurried discussion, got ready for a hut inspection during which, he knew from experience, every drawer and locker would be emptied and every bunk space disturbed.

  Grafton addressed Wilmot and Jürgen, shifting his blazing eyes from one to the other, as he said, “You two get your men ready for inspection. I will –”

  Grafton was cut off as one of his men reported the ambulance arriving at the main gates. A few minutes later the vehicle pulled up outside the hut and, a minute after that, two stretcher bearers entered the hut.

  Günter was now semi-conscious and moaning through his swollen lips.

  “Please be careful with him. I think his ribs and a hand are broken,” Wilmot said, showing the American medics to the bunk where Günter lay.

  “That’s enough from you. See to your men and let mine do their job,” Lieutenant Grafton warned Wilmot.

  After Günter had been removed to the ambulance, Grafton called Wilmot back. Jürgen followed Wilmot, looking flustered, as if he were afraid of not being on top of the situation.

  “My translator is off duty in ten minutes. Will you work with me, Staff Sergeant Vogel?”

  “Yes, sir, whatever you need.”

  “What did he say?” Jürgen asked Wilmot.

  “He said you’re a fucking arsehole who needs to be shagged by a goat,” Wilmot replied in rapid German.

  Grafton walked down the first line of men on the left-hand side, turned at the top, then began to walk slowly down the other row. The men, holding their heads high and refusing to look at the American, were tight-lipped. Wilmot followed behind Grafton, who seemed to be in more of a hurry as he got closer to the end. The man is out of his depth, Wilmot thought. He would either hand over this incident to a higher rank or get down to the crux of it by starting to interrogate prisoners in a long, drawn-out procedure that would last throughout the night and halfway into the following morning. He didn’t appear to want to question anyone; at least, not at this juncture.

  “Make an unholy mess in here,” Grafton ordered his men.

  The American soldiers who had remained at the hut’s door, opened it and then stood aside as Grafton prepared to leave, but when he reached it, he turned again to Jürgen and Wilmot.

  “Staff Sergeant Vogel, you will come with me. I know how this will play out. If I question these men, they will all deny knowing how one of their own has been damn near killed. I suspect most of the men in here were involved in one way or another, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste my time listening to the lies your men will throw at me.”

  Grafton paused to study Jürgen, who was standing next to Wilmot with innocent round eyes. He grunted, shifting his eyes back to Wilmot. “Tell Staff Sergeant Weiner to assist my men and maintain order here. This hut is on lockdown until further notice.” Then he addressed two of his own men. “Make sure you find the beer. Take it all.”

  Wilmot, a lousy liar at the best of times, sucked in his breath.

  “You think this is the first hut we’ve been called to tonight?” Grafton asked. “We know all about your celebrations for your Führer. You can also translate that to Staff Sergeant Weine
r.”

  After Wilmot had translated word for word to Jürgen, he was marched out of the hut.

  Behind him, he heard rattling crates of beer bottles being uncovered.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Wilmot sat outside the camp’s administration offices, dismayed to see that the camp’s commander, Colonel Jacobs, had been called in because of numerous disturbances throughout the camp that evening.

  Apart from Wilmot, fifteen other staff sergeants from various huts and a Hauptmann he’d never seen before had also been ordered to the administration building. The men were silent, looking like schoolchildren reporting to the headmaster’s office for punishment, and even the Hauptmann kept his mouth clamped shut.

  To calm himself, Wilmot turned his thoughts to Dottie. He was hoping she was not on duty at the hospital tonight after all. When they had become close enough to have heart-to-heart conversations, she’d told him that she had been afraid of the German prisoners during her first weeks at the camp’s hospital. She’d explained that there were around nine hundred American soldiers based at Concordia and over four thousand German prisoners. She didn’t know how many civilians worked there but estimated the number to be around two hundred. Her brothers and their friends had warned her that Germans were evil and because they far outnumbered the guards, could easily overpower the Americans, take the place as their own, and kill all the civilians living near the camp.

  Wilmot had assured her that the German inmates wouldn’t do such a thing. ‘We have nowhere to run to, and most of us are happy to be out of the war,’ he’d said, wildly exaggerating his fellow inmates’ positive feelings about their incarcerations. What would she think when she found out that there had been celebrations for Adolf Hitler’s birthday and that Günter had been beaten because he refused to join the party?

  Grafton called the Hauptmann into the office and shut the door behind them. Ten minutes later, the lieutenant peeked his head out the commander’s door and snapped, “Get in here, all of you.”

  Colonel Jacobs sat behind his desk with a furious scowl on his usually pleasant face. He had offered a seat to the Hauptmann but ordered the Stabfeldwebels and Feldwebels to line up before him.

  The colonel is a decent man, Wilmot thought, standing to attention in the front row. He was not an authoritarian, and he kept a low profile compared to the Russian commanders who made a point of holding prisoner inspections every day so they could spit in the faces of their starving, dejected captives. Jacobs, a man in his fifties, often rode into the camp on his horse whilst leading another, which he would hand over to the German commander, General von Aust. Then off they’d go together on their daily ride into the countryside. It was all extremely civilised.

  The colonel’s appearance was as colourless as his character. He was of medium build and height with a weather-beaten face that sported a heavy white moustache, which evidently tickled his nostrils as his nose twitched when he spoke. His mop of grey hair painted a sharp contrast to the spikey razor cuts that the German officers preferred, and his uniform shirt was creased and sporting a coffee stain next to its fourth button. Tonight, he looked as openly hostile as Lieutenant Grafton, who was sitting at a typewriter that took up most of his desk.

  The lieutenant raised his eyes and asked, “How many of you understand English?”

  “Who speaks English here?” the Hauptmann translated to the Feldwebels.

  “I do, and I read and write equally as well in both languages, sir,” Wilmot got out first.

  “I also … a small piece,” another man said in stilted English.

  “That’s it? No one else?”

  Colonel Jacobs, observing from his desk’s black leather armchair, studied Wilmot, who looked like a clown with a red bubble nose and a swollen eyelid turning purple.

  “Staff Sergeant Vogel, you will translate for the colonel, you hear?” Grafton said. “But do not speak until you are told to. Do not interrupt him, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir, I hear,” Wilmot said, amused at how frequently Americans asked the question, you hear?

  Colonel Jacobs let out a heavy sigh. “I’m at a loss here, gentlemen, and by that, I mean I have lost my faith in you,” Jacobs lamented, as he eyed the staff sergeants and captain. “Now, I don’t know how many of you men organised or encouraged your little celebration tonight, but I damn well know you and the other sergeants in your huts did nothing to stop it.”

  Jacobs shook his head, tutting as he went down the list of hut numbers whose occupants had held the illicit parties. “I have given you men and others of similar rank an almost-free rein to maintain discipline in this camp, and you’ve spat in my face. You’re treated well. You get a damn sight more food to eat than our American soldiers serving in Europe. You have jobs outside the camp that are neither tough nor stressful on the body or mind, and your wages are the same as those of an American private in our armed forces. In other words, you get the same money as American boys who are away fighting and dying for this great country.”

  The Hauptmann uttered, “If I may say, Colonel…”

  “No. You damn well may say nothin’ about nothin’, Captain. I didn’t say this was a discussion.”

  A couple of staff sergeants sniggered. Even if they didn’t understand a word that was being said, it was apparent their Hauptmann had just been rebuked.

  Jacobs glared at the men who had laughed. “What more do you want? We’ve given you a library with thousands of books to read. We let you have our American newspapers. Hell, we even allow you to publish your own, mostly uncensored paper. You have theatrical and musical groups and can watch movies three times a week, not to mention the honour system that allows you men to go outside the camp, to the restaurant in town. Your living conditions are comfortable, and we take real good care of your medical concerns. Damn it, you’re all having a better war here than the people in your own damn country!”

  Wilmot agreed with most of Jacob’s litany. He’d heard men in his hut remark that unlike here, they didn’t have hot water in their tenement buildings in Germany, nor had they eaten meat with such frequency. But he supposed none of that mattered when men were hell-bent on keeping Adolf Hitler on his pedestal and viewing the Americans as the enemy.

  “Trust goes both ways,” Jacobs continued, “and you’ve lost mine. There will be consequences, men.”

  Jacobs swivelled his chair around to face Grafton who’d been continuously taking notes. “I want these staff sergeants to be transferred out of the huts they’re in. I don’t care which barrack house you move them to, just make sure they’re in their new accommodation by tomorrow night.”

  Wilmot was worried, but he was not stupid enough to protest in front of his fellow Germans. Men in his hut needed him, even those who were yet to realise it.

  Jacobs stood, walked around to the front of his desk and rose to full height. “Because of your blatant disregard for the rules, every German prisoner in the camp will lose privileges for the next three weeks. Apart from those, you will also cook your own food and perform all kitchen duties. No town passes will be issued for the foreseeable future, and beer coupons will be rescinded – and I’m just gettin’ started.”

  The Hauptmann rose and joined Jacobs.

  “Salute the colonel,” the Hauptman ordered.

  Wilmot saluted, as did his peers, apart from two men at the end who taunted Jacobs with their outstretched arms and straightened hands.

  “Heil, mein Führer!” one man said, while the other shouted, “Sieg Heil!”

  Colonel Jacobs studied both men for a long, disquieting moment. “Lieutenant, make a note that these two gentlemen be transferred to Camp Alva at Major Scott’s earliest convenience.”

  Wilmot, who had not translated the colonel’s words, watched in fascinated horror as the two soldiers swaggered out of the colonel’s office, congratulating each other on their cleverness.

  ******

  Using Lieutenant Grafton’s typed notes, Wilmot translated the colonel’s lecture to
the Germans. Most of the men had been furious to learn they’d been ordered to change their living situations. Each of them had built their power base over time and were not open to starting anew in a hut where another staff sergeant might have solidified his position.

  Wilmot had quickly deduced that the men he was speaking to were hardliners, as were many of his peers in the camp. As he spoke, their eyes had sparkled with resentment, as though they thought his words were coming directly from his own mind. He became anxious they might paint him as being anti-Hitler, and when he was heckled by one of the men, he’d blurted, “Don’t shoot the messenger. I don’t like this any more than you do.” Watched by Lieutenant Grafton and the Hauptmann whose name he still didn’t know, he let out a sigh of relief when he finished speaking, and the men were dismissed to pass on the message to the soldiers of their respective huts.

  “Everything the colonel said tonight will be written in German by tomorrow morning, so don’t you guys even think about changing the story to one more to your liking,” Grafton warned the men via Wilmot as they were leaving.

  The Hauptmann left first, looking disgusted. He’d been a spectator after the colonel had told him it wouldn’t be right to use an officer to translate to his men. Officers were above that, in Jacob’s opinion, which was also a face-saving gesture for the captain, since Wilmot’s English was significantly more articulate. When the Feldwebels left, they looked unrepentant and angry, not at the loss of privileges, but for being told that it was wrong to celebrate the German dictator – the colonel’s title for Hitler – and to remember him in speeches … period.

  “Well, Sergeant Vogel, were you for the party or against?” Grafton asked Wilmot when they were alone.