Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Pneumonia Comes

November 15, 1940

Louis was released from the cooler as Duerr had promised. Peter was left as promised. And Luke was released a day after Louis just for good measure. Though no one had seen Peter, the assumption was made that he was back. Louis and Luke reported that they had heard noises early one morning, indicating someone was brought in the cooler. But no communication had been made, as Louis and Luke had done, because Peter not in a close cell. Still, everyone was satisfied that he had returned.

Louis was welcomed back into camp society as a hero. Duerr observed this, but only believed that this was because he had tried to escape. Though he had failed, he had made a statement; that much Duerr admitted. Privately, to only Lawrence and Géraud, Louis conveyed what he had seen on the map. This was more than they had expected. Everyone had assumed that Louis had had no success. The two junior officers were put to work on devising some sort of map from Louis told them.

The Frenchman was not sent out to work in town again. Instead, as Duerr had promised, he cleaned. His first job was to clean out the vomit in the Major's car. Berg oversaw this with pleasure. After that job, throughout the following week, Louis cleaned the administrative buildings, the guards' barracks, and the mess hall after each meal. During some days, he had the menial job of digging out latrines in the very deserted eastern side of camp. Overall, though, there was little else to do even when not working. All prisoners had lots privileges to the rec hall; the exception was on Sunday for two hours when a service was held, and then time was given to socialize. Other than that, the prisoners were back to talking to one another through the fence. Some things they had gathered from the Red Cross such as some footballs (1) and rugby balls were taken away. The board games and cards were taken out once again to pass the time they had, which was now reduced to one hour that was squeezed between coming back from work and going to dinner.

For Peter, the first week back was even more numbing. He saw people twice a day: once when the guards brought a meal at noon and the next when they took him outside in the dead of night to use the latrine. The guards barely responded when Peter attempted to make conversation. During the day, Peter entertained himself by practicing magic with a coin and his knife (miraculously still undiscovered) telling himself jokes, brainstorming to make up new ones, and writing stuff on the walls with rocks he picked up outside that made good chalk. He tallied the days on the wall, as well as wrote down names of girls back home and their addresses. He scribbled down his name on the bench, declaring that it was his since he had sat on it more than anyone else in camp. All of this he did was his pathetic excuse for passing time. Though, perhaps it wasn't really all that pathetic seeing as there was little else.

Peter always tried to distract himself from his dishonorable and cowardly decision. But when he did think about it—because there was little else to occupy him—he profoundly regretted his choice. He was endlessly nagged by it whenever his thoughts found their way back to the penetrating guilt he felt. He wished he could confess to someone what he had done. He wished he could just tell them every little felling that was torturing him. Still, the only person he could imagine talking to was over a thousand miles away to the west. He knew that Mavis would always unconditionally love him whether or not she agreed with his ways. She would always be there. On the other side of the spectrum, the last person Peter wanted to face was Louis. Even if everyone in the camp believed Peter really had turned himself in, Peter knew that guilt would eat him alive when he faced Louis. How could he tell him that he had run in the end? How could he tell him and expect anything but disapproval from his peers? And above all, Louis? Peter knew that when he finally must confront his French friend again, guilt would force him to confess what he had done. And how would someone as noble as Louis bear to be able to fraternize with someone as cowardly and conceited as Peter?

However, these thoughts became scarcer towards the end of the first week, when something else began to distract Peter. His health began to decline. He ignored the chills and occasional cough, since he was in the cooler. Then, he began to feel feverish one night. He woke up feeling like he was in an oven. His cough became more severe, and the following day he began to hack up colorful mucous from his chest, sometimes tinged with blood. His chest hurt badly with every cough, and every time he breathed in it was battle to not start coughing again. After the second day, his cough had stolen his voice and taken too much energy from him. He remained lying on the floor during the day usually leaning against the walls, deliriously thinking of home and of warmer days. Even though he could feel his fever escalating, he would still randomly get the chills, sending him into a coughing fit whenever he shuddered.

It was thus that Duerr found Peter a week following his recapture. Duerr had intended to interrogate him further. He came into the cooler, followed by Berg, both taking an authoritative stance once more. But Peter did not acknowledge that they were there. He was asleep in the corner of the cell, and his laborious breathing was easily heard. Immediately, Duerr's stern expression changed to one of intent curiosity. He ordered Berg to wake up the prisoner.

Berg shook Peter awake, and the very action startled Peter, and he immediately started coughing. Berg stepped back quickly, and looked at Duerr. They both realized that the Corporal was ill. Duerr could see the feverish look in Peter's eyes, even through his already bedraggled state. He was filthy and unshaved, having been untouched since returning. Duerr remembered how the Corporal had been wet when he came in, and wondered if that had lent a hand to his sickness.

Eager to find out what afflicted the Corporal and if it was serious, Duerr had Berg fetch the prisoners' medic. While Berg was away, Duerr studied the prisoner before him. Now, he wondered why he had saved the fool. At the time it was to spite the Sturmbannführer. Duerr stated to himself that he never really cared for any prisoner. He only cared that they were not entirely mistreated. But Corporal Newkirk, and Corporal LeBeau, had always captured his attention, even on normal days in the camp. When Duerr observed the camp from his office window at times, he often contemplated the prisoners as individuals. Normally, as a whole, they were the enemy. Impersonal beings. But Duerr, when not forced to mask himself into the disciplinarian role, often found himself wondering about the lives the prisoners had when they were not soldiers. Duerr was sure they regarded him the same way: the enemy. But he had a family, old friends, a childhood, old jobs…ultimately a history. Realizing this, Duerr wondered about the prisoners' histories. And whenever he scanned the crowd of prisoners, he always managed to find Corporals Newkirk and LeBeau. That was because when the prisoners were allowed to mingle, if you found one, you found the other. It was something Duerr had noticed from beginning; their willingness towards one another. He had noticed it on the first day when the Frenchman had demanded of Haussler to know where Corporal Newkirk was. Duerr realized that the Corporal LeBeau's actions were an underlying reason for why Duerr had saved the Englishman. He was mystified by the prisoners' pasts. He was mystified that they were here in a camp, so far away from their homes, and that he must regard them impersonally. He was simply curious as to who they were.

Duerr had always been more curious towards the inseparable corporals. They were complete opposites from what Duerr observed. And yet, they worked perfectly together. Duerr knew people like that in his own life. He even believed that the Kommandant and he worked like that. That was why Duerr felt so oddly towards them. They were so real, and not the impersonal and heartless beings propaganda made them out to be.

So, here Duerr was, with Corporal Newkirk at his feet, looking pitiful. By all rights, should Duerr be fulfilling his role, he would have left the Englishman there and reported to the Kommandant. Should anything be done about it, Duerr would hardly be involved. But there was nothing here to force him into any role except for the one he had created for himself: protector of morality and humanity. Yes, they were enemies. But no, they were not inhuman, insufferable beasts. Duerr even frowned when he realized that Corporal Newkirk had fallen back asleep.

Berg returned with Staff Sergeant Wilkerson, who quickly went to Peter. Without rousing Peter, Wilkerson felt his forehead and listened to him breathe for a moment. He looked at Duerr.

"I think he might have pneumonia," reported Wilkerson.

"How can you know for sure," asked Duerr.

"His symptoms point to it," replied Wilkerson. "Fever, congested chest, Sergeant Berg said he was coughing. It's more than a wee cold, that's for sure."

"He was very wet when we brought him back," said Duerr. "That would affect him, right?"

Wilkerson appeared furious. "He was wet?! Well, no wonder. If he never got dry and warm, then there's no doubt that he had pneumonia." Wilkerson turned back to Peter and placed two fingers on his neck, palpating his pulse. "Yes, his heartbeat is elevated as well. This has to be pneumonia."

"Pneumonia is contagious," asked Duerr.

"Yes, very," answered Wilkerson shortly. "Airborne as well."

"Can you treat him here," asked Duerr. "If he can be treated."

"The only treatment I can give him is bed rest, warm food, and anything to take care of his cough," answered Wilkerson. "And here would not be the best place to get that."

"Well, I do not want the rest of the camp to catch this," countered Duerr. "I do not need an epidemic. The guards could catch this."

"The guards would be better off at fighting it, though," retorted Wilkerson. He sighed. "With all respect, sir, Corporal Newkirk would have a better chance of survival if he was in another building. I can isolate him in the infirmary. Basically, sir, do want him to have a chance or not?"

Duerr did not respond quickly. Both Wilkerson and Berg watched him curiously though.

"Put him in the infirmary," ordered Duerr shortly. "You are the only one to see him. If he should get worse, let me know. While you treat him, you can see no one else. The other medic will take any other problems. Should anyone else get sick, I must know immediately. Understood?"

"Clearly understood, sir," answered Wilkerson. He saluted as Duerr left the cooler.

Wilkerson went back to the infirmary, and with the French medic, they returned with a stretcher. Berg oversaw them as they hauled the sickly Peter to the infirmary. The going back and forth had attracted attention from the prisoners in the compounds. By the time Peter was leaving the infirmary there was quite a crowd. And when they saw Peter, the crowd became angry quickly. It was the initial belief that Peter had been horrible mistreated. Angry murmurs rose up from all the prisoners, so that Duerr had to put everyone inside. He ordered the officers to meet with him. Lawrence and Géraud came, and Duerr told them what was really going on. Though distressed by the news, there was relief that Peter was not intentionally injured by the Germans. This news was relayed to the prisoners, where the reaction was the same.

***** ***** *****

November 20, 1940

Work on tunnels had come to a standstill since the escape. The officers realized that the blowback might set them back, but they were still intent on completing it. The non-coms backed them up, ready for whatever was next. For now, they were doing nothing more than being prisoners. The daily work routine seemed to become harsher as the weather turned worse in the mid-November days. Snow was more frequent and the nights were nearly sleepless with the temperatures dropping uncomfortably low. And inside the infirmary, Wilkerson and his patient were only somewhat warmer.

Only a day after Peter was placed in the infirmary, the worst fear came. A French prisoner was brought into the infirmary with pneumonia symptoms as well. And what worried the medics the most was that there was no way the Frenchman had caught it from Peter. No, he had gotten on his own. Pneumonia had come to Stalag XXXA.

As ordered, Duerr was immediately notified. Duerr then ordered that every prisoner be checked out by the medics. Work was cancelled for the day. Most prisoners viewed the day as an unscheduled holiday. They were able to rest and catch up on sleep in the warmer hours while the sun was out. They were not allowed outside the barracks, because of Duerr's fear of pneumonia spreading. Most of the men, though, had no idea of the severity of what was coming. Epidemic never crossed their minds. The medics voiced their concern as they visited each barracks. By the end of the day, there was tone of worry in everyone.

This was especially seen when seventeen more prisoners were diagnosed with pneumonia and another thirty-three having some serious colds.

"Are you sure none of them caught it from Corporal Newkirk," Duerr asked Wilkerson at the end of the day. Wilkerson, Lawrence, and Géraud were in Duerr's office discussing the results.

Wilkerson rubbed his nose and eyes tiredly. "Yes, sir. I just cannot see how they could have. None of these men had contact with Corporal Newkirk, even before he escaped."

Duerr nodded. "Well, how do we control it?"

"Frankly, I have no idea other than quarantine," answered Wilkerson. He sniffled. "This has outgrown the infirmary, though. I suggest we shuffle the prisoners around so that the sick are together. Pneumonia in one barracks, colds in another, and recovering in another. Everyone else would need to stay clear of it. My last worry is that we medics will not be able to handle it all by ourselves. We will need assistants, but that will mean some risk for them. They might catch it." This was emphasized when he suddenly coughed. He buried his mouth in his arm, and then looked guiltily at Duerr.

"I can see that," replied Duerr. "I will not be involved in you finding assistants." He looked at the officers. "Your men will be dealing with this. You will sort it out amongst yourselves."

"That is hardly fair," argued Lawrence. "We don't have the means to combat sickness."

"It's true, sir," replied Wilkerson looking at Duerr contemptuously.

"Well," said Duerr. "If there is anything you may need, you can tell me right now and I will do my best to get it for you."

"Antibiotics would be nice," said Wilkerson sarcastically.

Duerr's eyes narrowed. "Please be realistic. I promise that I will do what I can."

"We need practical things," voiced Géraud. "We need blankets—warmer things in general—and rags would be nice as well as more accessible water. The well with one bucket is not good enough. And firewood too. We have stoves but only get to burn our Red Cross boxes, and that hardly does anything. And if anything, could we not at least heat the buildings that the sick will be in?"

Duerr nodded. "That is better. You are dismissed."

The three Allies saluted and left the office.

Duerr sat down at his desk, feeling very overwhelmed. The back door of the room opened and the Kommandant came through.

"I just got off the phone with a Wehrmacht doctor," said the Kommandant. "He says that there is little else that we can do except what the Staff Sergeant suggested."

Duerr nodded. "That is what I feared. Well, I am letting them do it. There is no need for our men to get involved and get sick."

The Kommandant nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, well, this does mean that our camp population is going to get smaller." Duerr looked at him. "There will be deaths. Some men will fight it through, and others will not." He shook his head. "A pathetic way to die as a soldier. Locked away in a prison camp, dying of pneumonia."

"We cannot help them, though," said Duerr. "Not without risking ourselves. And we have already jeopardized our positions because the SS believe we treat them too kindly."

"I am not reprimanding anything you do," said the Kommandant. "But I have secured our positions with the General. The SS, he assures us, have no right or business with their noses in our camp. Should they cause any trouble; General Weiss is only a phone call away."

"So, you are still telling me I should do something more," stated Duerr with a roughish smile to his Kommandant.

The Kommandant responded likewise. "As I said, I am not reprimanding your actions." He turned to leave.

"You can never answer a question straight, can you," asked Duerr.

"I do not enjoy it," answered the Kommandant. Giving Duerr a smile, he left the office.

Duerr, left alone, pondered his options. Showing complete willingness to help the prisoners would surely bring about suspicion from someone, and no matter what the Kommandant said, that was a risk. If someone higher up thought they were not running this camp the right way, this position was gone, and it was off to another combat job. That was the very thing Duerr and the Kommandant were trying to avoid. However, it was not in Duerr's morals to just stand by and watch men drop dead when he did have the ability to help. There were things he could do, and if he got them done the right away, there would be little suspicion from anyone. At least, not enough to do harm.

Decision made, Duerr picked up the phone and began his search for what Wilkerson had ordered.

***** ***** *****

Géraud's plans were put into motion. Once the infirmary was filled, barracks were designated for the sick. It was good that they did, because within a week, another twenty men were sick. Everyone was at a loss of what to do. The medics were being overwhelmed, so that they really did need help from the well prisoners. To try and keep from getting sick, they wore clean strips of cloth around their mouths and noses. It seemed to work well, because less people were getting sick as fast. Still, it seemed that no one was left well. If you were not bedridden with fatigue and coughing, you were still sniffling. Even Wilkerson seemed to be getting it.

The sad thing was that after that first week, a few deaths occurred. Wilkerson had already told the officers that some deaths were imminent; the prisoners' immune systems would be weaker than normal; without antibiotics, some cases would be fatal. This was never spoke n aloud after that, but everyone just knew. It was how the graveyard of the camp was started. Five deaths in two days, and after another three the following day, the officers created a rotating list of men that had the task of burying the dead.

With the pneumonia, a bout of depression fell over the camp. People felt like it was an endless cycle. The weather would not cooperate some days, and the barracks were hardly any shelter. On the coldest days was when the most deaths would occur. Anyone who was close was taken by the cold easily. On the 1st of December, eleven men died. The deaths were hard on morale, because everyone had a close-knit group and nearly everyone was affected by the blow of deaths.

For Peter, he went very low for a few days the first week. Wilkerson warned his friends that he might not make it. They tried to remain optimistic, but it was hard as more people got sick. Still, he appeared to get better, and when he outlasted some who died within a week, Wilkerson thought he should make it. Peter was in and out of sleep, coughing and wheezing, and when he was awake, near delusional out of fatigue. He hardly ate, and lost weight quickly. Everyone went through the same symptoms, just some worse than others.

Around the time when Peter look like he was making a recovery, Luke and Marcel got sick. They were moved into the sick barracks, as Peter was moved into the recovery barracks. At the time, Louis's assignment was the recovery barracks. With the officers' help, he convinced Duerr to let him help in the kitchens to prepare semi-better meals for the sick. It was odd, but right about the time he got the job, better food began to arrive at the camp.

Louis served the food to those in the recovery barracks, and one day he finally got to sit down with Peter. It was the first time they had really seen one another since their escape. It was now December 8, 1940. The death toll in the camp was now forty-five men from an illness that had started on November 20th. Surprisingly to many, Wilkerson had said that it could have been much worse and they were doing better than he had expected.

Louis placed a bowl of warm soup in Peter's hands, and sat down at Peter's feet. Peering into the bowl cautiously, Peter was relieved to recognize the floating chunks as peas and carrots. Not bothering to ask where Louis got the food, the Englishman dove in quickly. It felt good to eat again. Another reason he gorged was that he was trying to stall a talk with Louis. He knew Louis wanted to talk, and he knew Louis would wait patiently until he was through. But Peter was not ready to talk.

"Glad to see you are well enough to eat," said Louis.

Peter took another spoonful. "Thanks," he murmured.

"Luke and Marcel seem to be getting better," said Louis. "It looks like they did not get it 'alf as bad. They must be strong."

"That's good," said Peter as he quickly took another bite. His gaze never left the soup.

"Well 'ow do you feel," asked Louis.

"Better?"

"Better enough to answer with more than one word?"

"I'm 'ungry."

"I understand. You 'ardly ate when you were sick. Fortunately, I think the Major is trying to 'elp us. I cook all the meals for the sick, and better food than usual was delivered to the camp."

"I can see that."

By now, it was obvious to Louis that something was wrong. "Are you okay, Pierre? And I do not mean physically."

Peter shrugged. "Just tired, ya know?"

"That is physical," replied Louis blatantly.

"It can be mental, too," snapped back Peter. Louis winced at the tone and stood up from the bed. Peter immediately felt remorse for his tone. He raised his hand and motioned for Louis to sit back down. He set the bowl down in his lap and looked straight at Louis. "Sorry. I didn't mean to 'urt your feelin's."

"It is okay," said Louis. "When you are tired you are grumpy."

Peter gave a shrug and a weak grin. "So, um, the Major told me you recaptured rather quickly."

"Oui,"said Louis. "Parce que j'ai été tres stupide." (2)

Peter nodded. "Wot 'appened?"

"I will not go into much detail," said Louis as images popped into his mind. "But basically I was recaptured by the SS on my first night. I was 'eld in their camp for a day. The man who runs the camp is the same officer who tried to kill you the first day 'ere. But, the plus side was that in 'is office there was a giant map of Poland, so while I was in there, I memorized a bunch of it. I was able to tell Commandant Géraud a lot, so now they are making maps. Or they were. A lot was put on 'old with this pneumonia."

Peter nodded understandingly. "Well, I 'ave a lot to tell as well. But I guess it's not the time. I was able to study a map of Poland, Germany, and Scandinavia, an' I actually picked out a nice route where anyone 'as the best chance to get out of 'ere."

"Really," asked Louis. "'Ow did you manage that?"

Peter looked around to make sure there weren't any Germans before he spoke. Even then, he spoke in a low voice. "I ran into some farmers who were willin' to 'elp. I never told them about our mission, so they thought I was just any escapin' prisoner. They showed me the map, and told me about where things were, where it was the most rural…well just about anythin' useful for an escapee."

"C'est tres magnifique," exclaimed Louis. "So when was that?"

"The following' day after I escaped. They live over the ridge line on the north side of the valley," answered Peter.

Louis whistled. "You got very far in one day."

"I didn't stop to sleep," replied Peter. "I figured it would be better to sleep during the day and travel by night."

"Wish I 'ad thought of that," commented Louis bitterly. "Sorry. Go on."

"Don't worry about it, Louis," said Peter assuredly. "If you'd kept goin' you might o' walked straight into that SS camp." He smiled. "Anyway…" he faltered, knowing what was coming up next. "…anyway, that night I decided to see 'ow far I could get in that valley…test the waters so to speak. Well, they 'ad me covered. They've got a method for recapturin' us. Still, if a lot o' us were out there, the odds would be 'igher for some to make it all the way. Leastways, that's wot I fink."

"So, when did you give it up," asked Louis. "Or did they just find you?"

Peter looked at him. "They just found me. They outmaneuvered me; 'ad all me escapes covered."

Louis nodded in understanding. "Like 'ow we got captured in the first place."

"Sure, like that," replied Peter. He sipped his soup more. Though he tried to ignore it, guilt was eating at him. He could say no more, and Louis would think nothing more. But peter felt like he at least owed Louis something. So, he put down his bowl again, and Louis looked at him curiously.

"You okay, Pierre?"

Peter sighed. "Louie…look…I…I wasn't gonna turn meself in. I was gonna go for it."

They stared at one another for a moment. Peter thought that for a split second, Louis looked shocked or hurt. But he masked his expression quickly. Peter looked away, and stirred the soup pointlessly. The silence was awkward for him, so he tried to fill it with a feeble explanation.

"It was too good out there. I felt freer than I 'ad in months, just out there travelin' by meself. An' the more I thought about it, the more I thought I could make it all the way. An' I wanted it so bad. I wanted to go 'ome. I let it get to me. I knew I should come back 'ere. I knew it was the right thing to do because me mates 'ere could benefit from wot I knew. But in the end, I was runnin' for it. If they 'adn't captured me, I would've never come back. It might've bugged me later, but I would've kept goin'. An' that's because in the end, I care more about meself than others. In the end…I guess I'll always save me own skin, an' let others worry about theirs. I…I just wanted to let you know the truth…cause I fink you're a great guy…better than I'll certainly ever be. An' you deserve a better friend. 'Cause I think that if somethin' really 'appened, I might not care to 'elp you. I might save me own skin an' leave you to…defend for yourself. I'm sorry Louis, I—"

Louis finally held up a hand, cutting Peter off.

"I understand."

"Excuse me?"

"Pierre, you do not 'ave to apologize."

"I don't understand."

"Pierre I 'ad 'oped you would runaway! Why would anyone want to come back 'ere?"

"But I 'ad a duty to come back. I'd made a deal. Wif officers, not to mention!"

Louis smiled. "So? Out there, on your own, you could make your own decisions. No one 'ere really cared what we chose to do. Marcel told me afterwards that a lot of people assumed we would escape, because coming back was stupid! Everyone thought that coming back meant you just might get killed later on in this filthy camp. And look what 'as 'appened: you nearly died from pneumonia! My point is that you 'ave nothing to be ashamed of, Pierre. Most men would 'ave made the same decision, myself included. Why, if I 'ad gotten further, I might 'ave decided that there was nothing stopping me and I would not 'ave willingly come back either. Do not be so 'ard on yourself."

"But," began Peter confusingly. "I…I still made that decision. And I feel like the ultimately right thing to do would be to come back. I 'ad all this information, and now that I'm back and I can give it to people, it will 'elp them escape."

"That is called going above and beyond the call of duty," said Louis. "It might get you medal later, but that is only if you survive, right? That kind of decisions are the one where people get themselves branded as noble and foolish. And the foolish part comes from when they are later buried because of their great deed." He smiled, but Peter did not look convinced. "Listen, Pierre. When I was at the SS camp, I saw some things. Right now is not the time or place to talk about it. But the point is, is that I 'ave realized some things. Our duty, 'ere, is to survive. But being in this camp will make that difficult. Especially if things get worse, which I fear they might one day. So, if there was a way to escape, I would take the chance. The odds might be close, but I would feel that doing nothing would only mean imminent death somewhere along the line."

Peter sighed. "I 'ear you. It's just, you—you're one o' me best mates, though I've never told you so. An' I felt like I betrayed you by runnin'. I felt like I betrayed Luke, Stephen, an' Marcel as well. We've been through a lot together, an' thinkin' that I was just leavin' you 'ere, to rot, made me feel more terrible than ever before. I felt like I was betrayin' me Mum again when I got meself in trouble back 'ome. So, to you, I say yes let's work 'ard to survive. But, I want to 'ang onto the 'umanity o' 'avin' friends that won't stab me back, an' people I can always 'ave faith in. Cause without that, I think that means that Jerry really beats us."

Louis smiled slowly. "You should never worry about your actions, again. Because what you just said there, that will make me believe that you will always be there for me."

"I sure 'ope so," said Peter. He smiled awkwardly. "Wot I mean is, I won't leave this camp without you. If you don't get to go, I'm not going. Got it?"

Louis rolled his eyes. "I will talk you out of it if that ever 'appened. But I am not leaving if you cannot go."

They stared at one another and then laughed some. It ended when Peter started coughing. Louis quickly handed him some water. Once the coughing was done, Louis picked up the bowl and stood up.

"I need to get back to work," he said. "You get some sleep."

"Okay, okay…Mum," answered Peter, sounding annoyed. He lay down with the covers pulled up. It was getting dark outside, which meant the guards would come in to count the prisoners, and then shut the barracks up for the night. "You get some rest too, Louie. I don't want to 'ear o' you gettin' sick cause you were workin' too 'ard."

Louis ignored him and walked away. Peter smiled to himself as he closed his eyes. He felt a little better now.


(1) meaning soccer balls (for any Americans)

(2)Translation: I was very stupid.