Chapter Six: Allies

June 2, 1940

The execution had been quick and had taken place in the town square, so that all could see. The Lieutenant, who introduced himself as Oberleutnant Roche Haussler, was in charge of the town's security under the Nazis. (1) He elaborately explained the consequences of harboring enemies of the Third Reich and then quickly let the consequences be explained in their own words. Michel, Bernard, Gregoir, and the baker were all lined up against a small statue that stood at the town's square, and then promptly shot by a firing squad. Neither of them resisted, but all refused a blindfold. Not a soul in the square said a word. The only sound was a distant battle, and the wind.

Peter and Louis were unsure if they were next. They were both prepared to take the bullets, fully knowing that as soldiers, that would be their most likely fate in any circumstances. Haussler, however, hardly touched them. He just made sure everyone in the town was aware what enemies of the Third Reich looked like, and then they were taken away as the town was ordered to go about their business as usual.

Peter and Louis were escorted to what was the largest building in the town, a bank, and kept in a vault as a cell. The bank appeared to be the Nazis' headquarters in the town. The guard locked them in, and they listened as his footsteps faded away.

"I wonder if we can suffocate in 'ere," said Peter suddenly.

Louis looked around. The vault was large, but all metal, and most likely sealed. It was really an oversized safe. It had been most likely the safe of one of the richer habitants of the town. He shrugged. "It is large enough."

Peter smirked. "Never thought I'd be locked in a bank vault."

"Something ironic," asked Louis curiously.

"Not much," said Peter. "'Cept I used to plan on 'ow to rob these things."

"You are a criminal," exclaimed Louis, shocked, and slightly disgusted.

"Not the bad sort," retorted Peter quickly. "Besides, I gave it up. It wasn't doin' me much good anyways. I was straight when I joined the RAF, and 'ave been ever since."

But Louis continued to scrutinize the Englishman suspiciously. He slid over to the opposite corner. "I should 'ave known. I 'eard that the Cockneys were all trash."

Peter glared lividly. "On'y the ones who were dumb enough—like me—to get themselves into trouble are trash. But that doesn't mean everyone."

Louis just scoffed and looked the other way, right into the vault wall. He could see his reflection on the clean metal. He could also see behind him. Across the vault, the Englishman was glowering at him, before he switched his attention to his side. Louis saw that Peter had his hand over his side. When he removed it, blood was visible.

Louis suddenly felt very guilty. Guilty for having said what he said because he knew he had said it all out of anger and frustration at their predicament. There was also sadness, at seeing his country run over, people killed, homes burned and destroyed, his friends being slain, and the unknown that was looming over their heads. Louis bowed his head, and rubbed his eyes. Emotions suddenly overcame him. He forced himself not to sniffle, but wiped some tears away before the fell into the Englishman's sight. When he was composed, he looked back at Peter.

"I am sorry," he said.

Peter looked up from performing his own ministrations. "Wot?"

"I do not mean what I said," replied Louis. "I spoke out of anger at being captured and seeing the others killed. I am sure you are a good man."

"By all rights, I'm probably not," said Peter. "It's just that, we aren't all like that."

"I know," said Louis. "I used to always go to Paris, and met all sorts of people there. I know a lot of French people who are trash. 'Ow does the saying go? There is one in every crowd?"

"That's it," said Peter. He looked back at his side. "An' we all bleed the same apparently too."

Louis winced. "Is it bad?"

"No," answered Peter. "Not really. It's just a scratch. But it stings like 'ell."

"You need to stop the bleeding," said Louis. "I do not 'ave a bandage, but maybe if you took that one off your 'ead, you could use it to put pressure on your side."

Peter looked up at Louis and smiled cautiously. "Thanks." He went on to remove the bandage from his head that the doctor had put on—something that seemed like eons ago—not just yesterday.

"What do you think they are going to do with us," asked Louis.

"I'll 'ope for anythin' that doesn't involved gettin' shot," answered Peter.

"Moi aussi," replied Louis.

Peter looked up. "Me too?"

"Oui," said Louis with a smile.

"Where'd you learn English, or Anglais, rather," asked Peter.

"Ma mère," answered Louis with a warm smile. "'Er mother taught 'er Anglais. She said we ought to know Anglais because it was good to know a second language and English was one that was all over the world."

"Thanks to we English, o' course," said Peter arrogantly.

Louis narrowed his eyes. "To take over the world just like le Boche are doing now?"

Peter glared. "Now lookit 'ere. We learned our lesson, an' sure as 'ell aren't anywhere near as bad as Jerry. Look at 'em, practically killin' off any bloke or dame who so much as looks sideways at ole Herr Hitler."

Louis raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay," he exclaimed. "Anyway, mon père, 'e did not agree.'E is not very fond of you English.'E said that learning another language was good an' all, but if 'ad 'is way, it would 'ave been Italien or Latin."

"Catholic I presume," asked Peter.

"Oui," answered Louis. "And you?"

"Make your own luck," answered Peter sarcastically. "It's a very a useful religion."

Louis smiled. "Funny. Cause you 'ave the name of the man who founded the Catholic Church."

"Good for 'im," said Peter. "But really?'Ow the can you believe in anything except for reality when we're locked up by Nazis right now, an' Europe is overrun except for me little island?"

Louis shrugged. "As long as you 'ave faith, you will be taken care of."

"Yea, but by who," asked Peter. "Your God, or the Krauts?"

Louis sighed. "Well, you do not 'ave to believe in 'Ell to go there."

Peter smiled, but was interrupted when they heard the vault being opened. They looked up to see the door open and four Wehrmacht soldiers standing there.

"Well," said Peter, looking at Louis. "Like I said, no matter who you are, we all bleed the same."

()()()()()()

"LeBeau, Louis. Corporal, French Army. Serial number: 08679983." (2)

SMACK!

"I know you are lying. Who else helped you and der Engländer?"

"LeBeau, Louis. Corp—"

SMACK!

"Herr Oberleutnant, why do we not question der Engländer too?"

"We will. But this man is more valuable because he is ein Franzose. He will know more about what lies around here, who he contacted, etc. Der Engländer cannot even speak French much less tell us who helped them. No, it was most likely this man who organized it all."

Haussler looked down at the Frenchman who was now sagging against the soldiers' hold. His face was now bruised and bloodied. He looked up with determined eyes though.

"I told you, all I was doing was making my way to the coast," said Louis. "And when I got to this town, I was helped by those four men. The Englishman was already there. I do not even know his name."

"Well," said Haussler. "Once we get his name and his story, I will let you know what his name is." He turned around. "Bring him back to the vault and bring back the Englishman."

Louis was brought back to the vault and pushed back in. He braced himself to hit the ground, but instead found his face buried in a wool fabric. He looked up and found himself in the Englishman's arms.

"Wot did they do to you," asked Peter, concerned.

"Never mind him," said one of the Nazis. "Drop him and come here. It is your turn."

Peter swallowed and slowly lowered Louis to the ground, and sat him up against the wall. He patted the Frenchman's shoulder.

"We do not know each other," whispered Louis.

Peter frowned, confused at what Louis had said, but had not time to ask because he was suddenly pulled back. He was forced from the vault and watched as they slammed it shut and locked it. Then, the two Wehrmacht soldiers took him into another room across the hall. There, he saw Haussler sitting at a desk, looking out the window. Peter was pushed against the wall by the two soldiers. Looking down, he saw drops of blood. He licked his lips nervously.

Haussler turned around and stood up. He walked around the desk and came to stand before Peter. "You know the drill Engländer."

Peter's eyes darted around the room. "Um, actually, I don't."

"Really," asked Haussler. "You mean, you do not know what to say when I ask you a question?"

"Oh, that," said Peter. "Yea. I'm supposed to give you my name, rank, and serial number."

"Very good," said Haussler. "So: where did you meet the Frenchman?"

"Newkirk, Peter. Corporal, Royal Air Force. Serial number: 01568832." Peter seemed pleased with himself. "If there's anythin' else you wanted, it's on me dog tag."

Haussler gave a weak, annoyed smile, and then turned cold. "Very well. I am glad we got that out of the way. So: where did you first meet the Frenchman?"

Peter remembered what Louis told him in the vault just before. "Oh, just right before you chaps found us actually. 'E 'ad just come down, an' said that you lot were on your way. We 'id as quick as we could. But blimey, I don't even know 'is name."

Haussler bristled, and grabbed Peter's collar. He slammed Peter's head back against the wall, and then leaned in. "Listen Engländer. I know you are lying. Three of those men do not even live in this town. No one claimed their bodies. Meaning, they came from somewhere else. Perhaps escorts taking two Allied soldiers to the coast? Now, you may be prisoners and think that you are protected by the Geneva Convention, but in matters of security, you could both be labeled as spies for having worked with partisans."

Peter was silent for a moment as he took in all of that information, which was hard to do considering that he was seeing stars at the moment. He opened his mouth, and Haussler smiled, expecting the Englishman to have cowed.

"Newkirk, Peter. Corporal, Royal Air Force. Serial number: 01568832."

Haussler backhanded Peter across the face. "You can repeat that all day and I will continue to beat you. Is that what you want?"

Peter looked back at Haussler. "Wot do you think?" Peter ducked this time, so that Haussler missed him. But instead, he was just punched in the gut, harder than he had been hit. He doubled over a he tried to catch his breath.

Then, the door opened.

"Herr Oberleutnant," said a Wehrmacht private in German. "Herr Oberst Beiden is here. He wants to see you right away."

Haussler nodded. "I will be there shortly." The private nodded and left the room. Haussler looked at his guards. "Bring der Engländer back to the vault. We will finish this later."

Peter had never felt so grateful for interruptions before. He let himself be brought back to the vault. When he was back in, he found Louis still in the position he had left him in, but he appeared asleep. Peter wondered if he had passed out. Still, he did not bother the Frenchman. Instead, he rested against the opposite wall, and fell asleep himself.

()()()()()()

Haussler stepped into the temporary office of his superior officer and saluted. The man behind the desk also came to attention as saluted as well.

"Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler," replied Haussler. He then went at ease as Oberst Beiden sat back down.

"Oberleutnant Haussler," began Beiden. "You have done good work here in the area. Your security has locked the area down superbly. So far, your men have captured one hundred and forty-five British and French soldiers. I also learned that you have captured two more?"

"Jawohl Herr Oberst," answered Haussler. "I was just interrogating them. They were helped by partisans."

"Hmm," pondered Beiden. "Very good. Were the partisans found?"

"Jawohl," replied Haussler triumphantly. "They were executed as well, to be made an example before the town."

"Sehr gut," said Beiden. "Well, first order of business, because of your satisfactory work in the battles across Belgium and France, you are being promoted." He stood up, and with a click of his heels presented Haussler with his new collar patches. "Congratulations, Hauptmann Haussler."

Haussler took the patches from Beiden. He then went to attention and gave a sharp salute. "Danke, Herr Oberst. This means a lot to me."

"I am sure it does," replied Beiden. "You have done good work and deserve it. Also, I expect you to promote some of your men into officers. They as well, deserve the extra pay."

"I will Herr Oberst," said Haussler.

Beiden sat back down, and Haussler went to ease again.

"However," said Beiden. "No matter how well you have done here, your unit is being called back into Germany. You will become security soldiers within the Third Reich."

Haussler's jaw clenched imperceptibly. "But, sir, are we not already security soldiers here, in France? And what of the Gestapo and other SS branches?"

"They are a small group," replied Beiden. "Too small to take care of all the security that needs to be dealt with now. Especially that we have POWs. So far, we have captured about 45,000 British and French troops, in this campaign to the coast. We expect to capture more as we end the siege on Dunkirk. They are trying to escape now, by boat, but as soon as we get the orders, we will crush them."

"Jawohl," replied Haussler. "But sir, what will my role be in that?"

"You, and your men," began Beiden. "Will begin transferring POWs to their rightful camps. You will take the ones you have captured plus another two hundred from other areas. You will leave tomorrow."

"So soon," asked Haussler.

"Ja," answered Beiden. "The other two hundred you will be taking are going to be brought in today. If they are not all here today, then you will wait and then begin the march as soon as you have all of them."

"The march," asked Haussler.

"We do not have enough machines to accommodate all the POWs," explained Beiden. "So, you will march the prisoners across France and to Mannheim, Germany. There you will all be put onto a train, and taken to Bielski, Poland. The prisoners are being taken to Stalag XXXA, which is not far from Bielski. Once the prisoners are there, you will report back to Berlin, and await further orders."

"How long will this take," asked Haussler.

"It is hard to say," answered Beiden. "It depends on the prisoners' ability to march across France. I would say two months at the most."

Haussler nodded, hiding his frustration behind a stoic demeanor. "Jawohl. Do these men need to be registered with the Red Cross before we go?"

"Nein," answered Beiden. "The Red Cross and the Swiss would want a location so that mail could be sent. Since they will not be in a camp yet, do not register them. It will only confuse matters."

Haussler inwardly smiled. "Is that all, Herr Oberst?"

"Ja," said Beiden. "I will be leaving this afternoon, so do you have any questions?"

"Nein, Herr Oberst," said Haussler.

"Gut," said Beiden. He stood up and saluted. "Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler," replied Haussler. He quickly left the room.

Once outside, Haussler let his emotions surface. He punched the wall irritably. Why was he being diminished to herd dogs across Europe to their pen? He was a Wehrmacht soldier, not police. More importantly, he was in fact an officer of the Wehrmacht, in charge of other men. They had done so well on this Western Front, and now they were being sent back to watch over the defeated. He would rather be storming beaches into Britain.

Still, there was one thing he liked that had come through with his new orders. None of the prisoners needed to be registered with the Red Cross. Therefore, no one would know where they were, if they were dead or alive, or really anything about them. That meant that their treatment meant nothing. He could do whatever he liked with them, because as far as anyone was concerned, they were killed the instant they were captured. With a devilish smile, Haussler proceeded to prepare his men for their next move.

()()()()()()

June 3, 1940

Louis woke up after sometime, not even remembering having fallen asleep. Still, he felt somewhat refreshed. He saw Peter lying against the opposite wall, sound asleep. The Englishman's lip looked a bit swollen, but otherwise he seemed unharmed, besides the wounds he had sustained when he was shot down. Strangely, Louis was glad for that.

He began to tend to himself, picking away some of the dry blood that had crusted along his own lips and nose. He felt that his face was swollen, but there was nothing he could do for that. His abdomen protested any stretching motion as well, so he took to moving slowly. Louis got up and paced the vault some, just to stretch his legs. He walked quietly, though, so as not to wake up Peter.

But it turned out that Peter was a light sleeper. He woke up after Louis had taken only a few turns around the vault.

"Wot's goin' on," asked Peter.

"Nothing," replied Louis. "I was just stretching my legs." He sat back down, once again on the opposite wall from Peter.

"You all right," asked Peter.

"Oui," answered Louis. "Just a bit sore. You?"

"Fine," said Peter. "They didn't get time to get too rough on me."

"When did they bring you back in," asked Louis.

"Not long after they took me," answered Peter. "I really thought I was in done in, but the good Lieutenant got called away."

"By what," asked Louis.

"Dunno," answered Peter. "They was all talkin' German."

Louis sighed. "Did 'e ask you about the partisans?"

"Yea," said Peter disgustedly. "Does 'e really think we'll spill our guts 'bout the on'y fing that'll 'ave this country goin' after we're all gone? 'E must fink we're all ruddy yellow dogs."

"I am positive that is what 'e thinks," retorted Louis. "After all, they all think that they are the superior race, right?"

"Superior race," spat Peter. "Who do they fink they're kiddin'? Why 'alf o' them prob'ly couldn't be more than sixteen an' they've got 'em fightin' on the front. Wot genius does that?"

"Hitler of course," explained Louis matter-of-factly.

"True," agreed Peter. "'Ow could I've forgotten?"

"I suppose it is easy to forget that it is really one man on top when you are fighting so many other men," said Louis thoughtfully. "It almost does not make any sense."

"I don't see any sense," declared Peter.

"Well," said Louis. "Germany 'ad it 'ard. I suppose Hitler seemed like a great guy in the beginning. It is just that now Germany 'as gone too far. Now, they really 'ave done it again."

"They've gone further than ever before, too," said Peter hopelessly. "I mean, they've got Japan an' Italy wif 'em too. An' between the three o' them they've taken North Africa, India, China, the Pacific, an' most of the West!"

"But there is still freedom out there," said Louis. "Not to mention that the Americans are still out there."

"Yanks," growled Peter. "Wot 'ave they done? In this war, an' even the last one, they were 'ard pressed to stick out their neck. They're right as rain to just stay on the other side o' the pond an' wait it all out."

"I think they will come," asserted Louis confidently. "Like you said: it is worse than before. They cannot ignore it forever. They will 'ave to act, because soon enough, it will be on their doorstep."

"Are you kiddin'," exclaimed Peter. "Who in their right mind would directly attack the Yanks? Their America is a ruddy fortress! They're surrounded by water, an' I've got to 'and it to 'em, but they can raise an army from scratch an' defend their land like it's the ruddy 'Oly Grail! Look, no matter 'ow daft Hitler, or any o' these other arses who are tryin' to take over the world are, I don't fink they'll be goin' for America anytime soon."

Louis shrugged. "Not soon, but eventually. And when they do, America will join the fight, and 'elp us rid the threat of these monsters!"

"Keep dreamin' Frenchie," muttered Peter. "I think I'll stick to reality."

Before Louis could respond, they heard the vault door being opened. Both instinctively moved away from the door. When it opened, there were four Wehrmacht soldiers ready for them.

"Kommen Sie," said one. Peter and Louis looked at one another, neither understanding. "Kommen Sie!" This time the soldier motioned with his gun for Peter and Louis to get up. They both did cautiously. The soldier snorted with impatience and sent two other soldiers inside to retrieve the misunderstanding POWs. They were pushed outside, and immediately marched outside the bank. They saw that it was actually dawn.

"We must've slept the whole night," said Peter. Louis just nodded. His head was throbbing with all this sudden motion.

The soldiers escorted them down the street and back into the town square. There, at least a hundred more POWs were sitting down in lines, with their hands on their head. Peter and Louis were shoved down at the end of one line. No one was talking because no one dared, or even seemed in the mood. Really, most of the men just sat there, with their hands on their heads, looking utterly defeated and worn down. Many were wounded, and none looked as if they had very well treated. Most looked just plain tired as well.

They sat there most of the day, their numbers growing with each hour. More soldiers were posted around them, and still no one knew what was going on. The mood became tenser. Many POWs were hurting and in need of care. There were groans every now and then, also some deep sobs tearing from the throats of scared young men.

Peter found his eyes starting to water. What if this was it? It had been one thing, yesterday, after fighting off the soldiers and finally being captured. He almost would have been proud of the bullet. But now, he was scared. What happened next? What was to become of him, Peter Newkirk? Who would tell the stories of his comrades, and bring the news of their fate to their families? Who would watch over his sister? Peter felt like he was falling down a bottomless pit, where no hope could ever be found.

Louis was fighting that sensation, trying to block out the groans and sobs with memories of his family. He kept reminding himself why he was here; what he was fighting for. He closed his eyes and saw his family's farm, and their small town. They were eating around the large table outside, everyone talking and laughing, no worries in the world. There was Jean, as they strolled through Paris looking for pretty dames to catch a date with. But with these memories, the recent visions came of the other town's church razed down and the Nazi flag being raised up. And Jean's bloody face. Still, Louis fought hopelessness, trying to take comfort in anything he could remember.

As the church bell tolled for noon, and the summer heat was becoming almost unbearable to most of the POWs, water was finally passed around by the Nazis. Everyone was able to get a good long sip, before having to pass it to the next man. Peter took a sip of the precious liquid, and then passed it to Louis. After Louis took his drink, he turned to pass it to the next man. It was an infantryman, and Louis recognized the HD sign, symbolizing him to be from the 51st Highland Division. (4) The young Scot appeared asleep, with his chin resting in his hands, and his elbows perched on his legs as he sat Indian style. Louis shook him gently.

"'Ere. Take the water."

But the Scot slumped over and hit the pavement hard, unmoving. Louis then saw the gash across his neck. It was dirty and obviously infected. The man who sat on the other side of him looked down.

"He got that a few days ago, right before we were captured. I guess the infection finally got him," he said. He took the canteen from Louis.

Louis looked back at Peter, who was also staring down at the young Scot out of shock. In fact, Peter's eyes were glued to the neck wound. Suddenly, he became very nauseated, and tried to swallow the vomit that was coming up from his gut. But he couldn't and turned and started throwing up. Fortunately, he was on the end of the line, so he needn't worry about where his vomit went. Louis just stared straight ahead. He then closed his eyes, trying to think of home again. A place that seemed so far away and a place he thought he would never look at the same again, if he ever saw it again.

It seemed as if they would be there the entire day, but finally, only about an hour after the water was handed out, the prisoners were ordered to their feet. Some remained on the ground. No one looked at them. The guards put them in two lines on both sides of the street. Peter made sure he was right behind Louis. Louis just kept his eyes straight ahead.

Haussler appeared out in front of them, drawing the prisoners' attention.

"You are now on your way to the POW camps where you will spend the rest of the war waiting for your countries' ultimate defeat," said the arrogant Captain. "Like I told many of you before: the war is over for you. Your only hope for survival now is to remained cowed and try nothing foolish." Haussler looked around challengingly. "You will be marched most of the way to the camp, because we do not have the resources to put you all in trucks and bring you there. Now, if you fall behind, because you are wounded, sick, or too weak, that is your own fault. My men will be taking up the rear. If you fall behind them, you will be shot. If you fall and do not get up, we will count you as dead, and you will be shot. Also, any attempt to run, and my men will fire at will and to kill. I hope I have made myself clear to you, because I would not want you to make an unfortunate decision."

There was no movement or sound made by any of the prisoners. More of Haussler's men came out to the street at last, finally done packing up their provisions. There were some carts that would be pulled by mules, loaded down with food and water. Some of the soldiers had steeds, no doubt borrowed from the local countryside. Haussler himself was brought out a horse for him to ride on. For a few more minutes, they were all still, Haussler's men going through some last minute details before their departure. Then, someone gave the order for the prisoners to start moving, and before anyone could do anything, they were marching out of the town.

As they left, civilians watched them leave with sad and foreboding expressions on their faces. A few children waved goodbye. As they left town, they went over a hill. At its crest, Peter looked back. In the distance, he could see a burning town, and the sea. Off the beaches, thousands of men were wading out to boats, where they would soon be taken across the Channel to safety, for then.

So close, thought Peter, and he wondered where he was off to now. Wherever it was, he knew it was not good. He knew he was on his way somewhere to a place he did not want to be.

It was about an hour later, with the sun beating down on them all, that the first shot was fired. The prisoners looked back to see one of their wounded comrades lying dead in the middle of the road. That was when they all noticed that already many of the wounded and sick were dropping to the rear. The men started to make the effort to help those that they could. Still, some of the guards pulled them a part, keeping them from talking and helping one another. Peter swallowed and looked directly ahead of him. Louis walked stoically on.

Peter quickly went to his side.

"Look, I don't give a bloody damn if you're a friggin' Frog or not," he said suddenly bringin Louis out of his silent state of shock. "The thing is, we need to forget where we're from an' think about where we're 'eaded."

Louis did not respond. He walked on stoically. Suddenly, another gunshot was heard. Another sickened man had not been able to move on. Louis had flinched when he heard it, and he saw from the corner of his eye that Peter had too. The shot proved to him that L'Anglais was right; even though he was sorry to admit it.

"Why do you care about me," Louis finally asked. "What about all of your countrymen?" He was curious as to why the Englishman was hanging around him when he was surrounded by British soldiers as well.

"Because most o' them are infantry, an' the other blokes that are airmen are mostly officers," replied Peter. It was a weak excuse. "Besides, at least I know you." He sighed and softly added. "You saved me life."

Louis looked up at Peter. He was looking down at him with thoughtful eyes, which were so different from suspicious ones he had become used to.

"I thought you saved my life," said Louis. "We will call it even, non?" He smiled.

Peter smiled back. Louis was thrown off by it. It was the first time he had seen the Englishman smile, and it lit up his face, making him seem so much younger. Louis realized that he had not seen any smiles since he had been captured; save for the filthy Boche. He also realized that he did want someone to be around without feeling incredibly awkward. And by now, oddly, he was not awkward around that Englishman. He held out his hand to Peter.

"Long live the King, eh," said Louis.

Peter shook his hand.

"Vive la France," he replied.

Louis rolled his eyes at the attempted French, but smiled good naturedly. "Merci beaucoup."

Peter nodded. "Yea; ta mate."

One of the Nazis marching between the two lines of prisoners walked over and pushed the two apart; Louis in front and Peter behind.

"No talking," spat the soldier.

"Yea, mate, will do," Louis heard Peter say.

Next was the sound of skin meeting skin. Louis willed himself to not look behind him. Wherever they stopped tonight, he would have to talk to Peter about keeping his mouth shut. It seemed to be the one thing that was getting him into more trouble today than anything else.

Louis smiled, thinking of the comfort he now had because he would have someone to talk to tonight. There was now someone to share stories and thoughts with. There was now someone he could trust. Even though they were both men of few words, he had a feeling that they had built something precious this day.

Peter rubbed his jaw where the Nazi had smacked him. Fortunately, there was no blood. He threw a nasty look at the soldier, who just walked off arrogantly. But Peter could have cared less. That soldier may have broken up their handshake, but now he and Louis had something stronger: friendship. This was the start of something; he could feel it.