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What's in a Name?
Chapter One
An Unwelcome Visitor with Unwelcome News
May, 1940
Oberst Wilhelm Klink, still uncomfortable with his new post as Kommandant of a small, out-of-the-way POW Luft Stalag, was completely stressed-out as his camp was subjected to an unexpected visit and inspection taking place in front of his still untested staff, and the few prisoners they guarded. The haughty Berlin bureaucrat, Oberst Wolfram Gratz of the Wehrmacht, sent over on orders from the high command, kept Klink and his portly Sergeant of the Guard, Hans Schultz, walking double-time in order to keep up. Gratz gave a few disinterested glances at the huts, some of which were in various stages of construction. He ignored the prisoners' mess and recreation halls, but hurried over to the empty infirmary, opened the door, poked his head in, and then quickly closed the door.
"Your office."
"Are you sure you don't wish to see our delousing station?" Klink asked with fake enthusiasm.
Gratz, a man of few words, replied. "No. Your office." He didn't wait for Klink to lead the way, but instead barreled past the Kommandant.
"Your office is my office," Klink said as he adjusted his monocle. He hurried after Gratz as Schultz followed, bringing up the rear. "Wait outside," Klink ordered the sergeant.
"Hold all calls," Gratz said as he opened Klink's door.
"Hold all calls," Klink repeated.
Schultz saluted and then took a seat. He waited for the inner office door to close, then leaned back in the chair and put his feet on the desk, sighing as he did so.
"Don't you have a secretary or aide yet, Kommandant Klink?" Gratz reached into an inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded map.
"Not yet. I'm beginning interviews next week," Klink replied, deliberately neglecting to mention he had finagled the budget in order to hire a civilian female secretary from the nearby town.
"I'll have one assigned." Gratz cleared off Klink's desk with one large sweep of this left arm, flinging the papers and office supplies on the floor.
Klink scrambled to pick up the mess. Fortunately, that was all that was on the floor, for his prized possessions - the humidor given to him by his late uncle and his pickelhaub from the Great War - were not yet in the place of honor on his desk, as they were still en route with some of his other personal belongings. As he bent down, the Wehrmacht officer hit the desk with his hand, startling the Kommandant, who dropped his monocle. As Klink began to search for the glass, Gratz barked at Klink. "Look at this and tell me what you see," he said, paying no attention to the fact that Klink was on the floor.
"Ah." Klink found his monocle, picked it up, blew off the dust and hastily put it back on his eye. Without missing a beat, he stood up. "I see a map."
"Obviously." Gratz sneered at Klink. "Look at this map."
Klink bent over, gazed at the map for a second, and then commented. "It's a map of the POW system as of last month."
"And?"
"And? Here we are?" Klink pointed to a mark located southeast of Düsseldorf. The town of Hamelburg, the closest population center, was written in small letters. "Yes, there we are!" Klink repeated. He looked at Gratz, confused as to why they were engaged in a geography lesson.
"What is wrong with this picture, Klink?" Gratz asked, realizing that Klink had no grasp of the obvious. "Look." His finger pointed to a large complex in Bavaria, and then to Klink's small camp near Düsseldorf.
"Why, that's odd." Klink then chuckled. "There are two Stalag 13's! Imagine that! Obviously, there is a typo."
"No, Dummkopf. There is no typo. You are in District 6. These are in District 13. And there are two Hamelburgs. Your stalag has been mismarked."
Klink's mouth hung open for a moment. The whole world is coming to an end, and he's worried about a clerical error. Fortunately, Klink thought before he spoke. "Oh. Well, we're clearly labeled on the map. I fail to see why this should be an issue. Besides, we are Hamelburg with one M. They are Hammelburg with two M's." Klink chuckled nervously. "I had a friend who studied in America for several years. It was before the last war. He told me there were many Springfields in America. Imagine that?"
"You fail to see why this would be an issue, Klink?" Gratz sighed in unfeigned impatience, as he ignored Klink's trivia. "Don't you see the problem? You are a Luft Stalag. Down here, these camps are run by the Wehrmacht. There will be officer camps, enlisted camps and smaller work camps located in the vicinity. What if there is a mix-up and someone sends you an officer? Where would you put him?"
"Well, that's highly unlikely. But if it happened, one of our barracks comes with another room. Like a suite." Klink chuckled.
"I fail to see how that is funny."
"You're correct, it's not funny."
"You know, we discovered the person who made the clerical error."
"Is he going to fix his mistake?" Klink asked.
"He's in prison. He's lucky he wasn't shot. Personally, I would send him east. I have a feeling that area will blow up one day, and we'll be fighting the Russians." Gratz shook his head. "But don't quote me on that," he added hastily. "Or I'll have you shot as well."
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"Never mind. You need to fix this. The other camp will be larger and is much more important. And you're in a different district. I don't care how. I don't want this going any higher. The upper echelon has other things to worry about. Like building more camps. Eventually, we'll be overflowing with prisoners."
"But…But…Gratz. I have don't have the budget…" Klink had a good head for figures, and he was beginning to hyperventilate at the thought of the massive amount of paperwork involved in renaming the camp. "You don't understand…"
"Handle it! Or you can deal with the future consequences. Don't say I didn't warn you. And now I've forgotten your name, and your pitiful camp." Gratz turned on his heels, and slammed the door as he left. Fortunately, Schultz had good hearing and got his feet off the desk with seconds to spare. He jumped up as fast as his massive frame would allow, and saluted the departing officer.
"Schuuultzzz!" came the cry from the office; this was a sound that the Sergeant feared he would be hearing for quite some time, as it was his experience, both in the Great War and now, that officers could not function on their own.
He waddled over to the office and slowly opened the door. "You called, Kommandant?"
"Schultz, come in here and clean up this mess," replied the officer.
Thank you Konarciq, ColHogan for their advice. Hugs to my daughter for coming up with the teaser.