In front of the guards' barracks, another formation had assembled. This one was composed of men who were ostensibly fighting against the prisoners who formed the first set of formations. Despite this, the muted light still glinted off polished buttons and carefully hung decorations. These men too were dressed in their best, groomed as if for inspection.
Trousers had been crisply pressed and carefully bloused. Jackboots had been buffed to a high sheen. The more customary helmets had been exchanged for the formal cloth caps. Conspicuously absent were the officers' side arms and soldiers's rifles; the guards were unarmed.
Dawn had broken, but it was nearly impossible to tell through the thick cloud cover. The diffuse quality of light had hardly changed; the clouds were too dense to allow it to change.
The assembled guards had marched over to fall in alongside the men they guarded. With the addition of the group of guards, the double lines were extended so they stretched the full length of the compound, forming a lane through which the eventual procession would have to pass.
The honour guard stood sharply at attention, their eyes fixed on the steps leading up to the kommandant's quarters.
For a moment, the only sound in the compound was the muffled tattoo of a covered drum. Any other morning, the compound would have been full of voices, but this morning, nearly all was silent.
The drummer rested his sticks and for a moment, complete silence reigned. Then the bright notes of a bugle called the men to colours. The ropes used to raise the flag rattled against the flagpole, announcing to all within hearing distance that the flag was being hoisted. There was another second of silence, then the ropes rattled again; the flag was being lowered to half-mast.