The gates had been swung open to allow the party free passage through it. The two officers remained at the head of the small procession, each marching in their own style; one the straight-legged Prussian goosestep, and the other the Western manner. But they remained in step together.
Although the honour guard had had time to prepare themselves for the duty they were no fulfilling, they were not ready. Their faces showed starkly their grief. They had all been close to the man they now bore. That was why they had been chosen to help him make his final journey.
The muzzles of the machine guns drooped down, hanging loosely on their tripods. The guards in the towers were not watching the prisoners assembled in the compound below them. They were watching the group of twelve men as they walked out of the camp: a pair of officers at the head, the drummer and the bugler following, and the eight.
But they weren't really watching the twelve. They were watching the one man who would never return to the camp. He had sacrificed his life not only for his friends and allies, but also for them. They were his enemies.
A black-garbed priest stood waiting at the grave, dug deeply into the frozen soil. Every inch had been dug by men more used to having to brace their work, to ensure it did not collapse on those it sheltered. This time there was no need for such care. These men stood along the side of the grave, the pile of black earth beside them.
A wooden cross lay on the ground before them, waiting to be erected. Rough-hewn from scarce firewood, it was but a small monument to such an immense act of courage. But it was all they had.