Chapter Thirteen: Stalag XXXA

"Ou il est? Oh, si seulement je pourrais obtenir mes mains autour du cou de Haussler!" (1)

"Etre calme, Louis! Vous ne devriez pas attirer l'attention à vous!" (2)

Louis stopped shifting around in line, turned around and glared at Marcel. "Il a tué Pierre!" (3)

Marcel opened his mouth to assure Louis that since they had heard no gunshot, Peter was not dead. But he was cut off by the shrill blow of a whistle. The prisoners turned to face forward in the line. They were inside the Stalag now, standing in formation in the first compound. New guards were approaching them with an officer. These men were Wehrmacht soldiers as well. Haussler saluted to him, and began to leave. They had been talking for some time now in the administrative building. Haussler and those who had also come on horse, mounted their steeds.

Louis, in a sudden rush of anger, leapt forward in front of Haussler's steed, and glared up at the Hauptmann.

"What did you do with Peter," he cried.

"I do not know of anyone with that name," replied Haussler calmly. He tried to steer the horse around Louis, but the persistent Frenchman just stepped in the way again.

"The English Corporal you picked on," specified Louis. "What did you do with 'im?"

Haussler smirked. "I left him to defend for himself. That is all you really need to know." This time, he quickly cantered the horse around Louis. He stopped and looked back at the Frenchman. With a small laugh, he added: "If he is as persistent as you, and as resilient as he has been on the entire way here, then there will be no trouble for him. However, should he be picked up by the wrong people, then I would worry for him. Now, turn around Franzose. There is work to be done."

Louis shot a confused glance at Haussler, before the man turned his horse around and galloped off. That was the last they would see of Hauptmann Haussler, their first slave driver. Suddenly, Louis was grabbed by the shoulders and shoved back into line. He got a hard smack on the back of the head. As they were organized, curious faces appeared from some of the barracks, and through the other fence.

The prisoners stared at one another. It was more British and French prisoners, airmen and infantry alike. But they were unable to study one another much longer, before another whistle was blown, and guards herded the original prisoners back into their barracks. Then, it was the new prisoners just left out on the compound, waiting for their next set of orders.

The officer who Haussler had talked to stood in front of them. He waited until his guards had formed the prisoners into two separate formations of British and French soldiers. Then when the compound was silent and organized once more, the officer spoke to them.

"I am Major Duerr, and I am your disciplinarian," he said. "This is Stalag XXXA, and it is a labor camp. You will be performing chores around the camp and in nearby communities, helping Germany's war effort. I am not the Kommandant of this camp, but you need not worry about him, because you will never deal with him. Any complaints that you have--and I am sure you will have plenty--will come to me. I will tell you now that unless it is a complaint regarding your and my guards' safety, that complaint is not worth wasting breath on. Another warning would be that my men have the orders to shoot to kill if you are found trying to escape. You will be given a warning to stop, and if you do not heed, then it is your wish to be dead. You are already divided up into your countries, so now you will be registered with the Red Cross and then assigned to your barracks."

He repeated his small welcome speech in French. The prisoners were quiet and still, just ready to lie down somewhere and go to sleep. After he was done with translations, he ordered his guards to get the prisoners divided up again. Then, he left the compound, and went into the administrative building on the other side of the fence. The French prisoners were brought through the next gate and into the other compound.

Louis made himself last in line to go through the gate and into the French side of camp. While he walked as slowly as he dared, he kept his eyes on the main gate, looking for any activity. But there was none. The guards were still, just watching the activity inside the camp. Louis swallowed as he was pushed through the gate; perhaps he had finally been separated from Peter forever.

They were put into two long lines. One line went to a table where two Wehrmacht Lieutenants gathered information for the Red Cross. Everyone simply gave their name, rank, and serial number. The second line went to a small and narrow building; the delousing station. On the other side, they were given new uniforms while their own were taken to be cleaned and inspected. Their new uniforms were just gray, thin work clothes. It was actually more comfortable in the heat than their heavier uniforms. After one gave their information for the Red Cross, they went to the showers and vice versa. It was a quick process, despite the number of men. Prisoners who had already been in the camp were watching from their windows. Louis was comforted by the fact that there were at least people there who already knew the routine. Still, he stuck close to Marcel, determined not to be separated from anyone else. They were then divided up and put into barracks. They were told that they would remain in the barracks for the remainder of the day.

The men went straight to their bunks. The mattresses appeared rather new, but were not very comfortable. On each bunk was one, thin blanket. The barracks seemed for the most part almost unfinished. There were large knotholes in the walls, and some of the bunks swayed. The bunks were three beds tall, and they were situated around the room. In the middle of the room, there were two tables and two stoves. Only one of the stoves had space above to cook, but none of the prisoners had any idea what they could possibly cook on there.

Despite hunger, they were also tired. Louis hopped up on the middle bed of one of the bunks nearest a stove. If this was going to be his spot, he knew the stove would be crucial during winter. For now, neither stove was heated, since it was the middle of the summer, and no one had any food to cook. Marcel took the bunk above Louis, and an unknown prisoner slid beneath Louis.

In short time, it was quiet in the barracks, as everyone exhaustedly lie in their bunks, some sound asleep.

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

"Raus!"

The guard pushed the Polish soldier forward. The soldier gave him a startled look and then pointed a few yards ahead on the road. He spoke in rough German back at the guard.

"Aber es gibt jemanden, der in der Mitte von der Straße liegt." (4)

The guard looked up to where the Polish POW pointed. Indeed, about ten yards ahead of them, there was someone lying in the road. It looked like someone in uniform as well. The guard called for the procession of prisoners to halt, and then he walked forward to investigate. At first, he thought it was a German soldier, because the blue uniform was so filthy it almost looked gray from ten yards away. But when he finally stood over the soldier, he saw that it was actually a British airman. He had a nasty cut at his temple, no doubt the reason for him lying in the middle of the road unconscious. The guard had no idea why the airman was lying there, but thought he must surely belong to the POW camp that lay ahead within sight. So, he called his commanding officer to him.

The Sturmbannführer came, and after studying the British airman, he called two Polish prisoners up, and then sent the rest of the line marching on. The Sturmbannführer pointed to the airman on the ground. "Holen Sie ihn ab." (5)

The two Poles picked the airman up; one at his feet, and the other at his shoulders. Then, he took the Poles to the gate, and ordered himself inside.

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

Major Duerr scowled as he came out of his office. He scowled because in the compound before him was a SS Sturmbannführer, and he hated the SS. He hated them because they were treated better than other soldiers, simply because their leader was Hitler's right hand man. Yes, it must be a privilege to be so close to the Führer, but did this division have to go down all the way to the soldiers who actually made up the army? Well, Duerr had always kept his opinions to himself, but he still kept to only cool, military protocol whenever he had to deal with the elite SS.

He quickly walked from the small porch and to the Sturmbannführer.

"Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler."

Neither saluted each other since they both had the same rank.

"Your business, Herr Sturmbannführer," asked Major Duerr.

"While taking my prisoners by, I found a British airman in the road," replied the Sturmbannführer, coolly. "Is he one of yours?"

"We just received new prisoners," answered Duerr. "He must have fallen before he got here. Ja, he is one of ours now."

"Sehr gut," said the Sturmbannführer. "I thought for a moment that perhaps he had escaped."

"Nein," assured Duerr. "Unlike your camp, Sturmbannführer, we have had no escapes."

The Sturmbannführer glared at Duerr, and then spun around to his two Polish prisoners. "Drop him," he ordered.

The two Poles, however, gently laid the airman down. He was, after all, an ally. They meant to treat him with respect. The Sturmbannführer, however, was not pleased with this display of loyalty, respect, and otherwise disobedience towards him. He barked at them to move on quickly, and leave the airman. They quickly moved out of the way. The Sturmbannführer pulled out his Luger and aimed it down at the oblivious airman.

"How about I lessen your chances," he said, looking at Duerr, waiting for a reaction. "I will kill him, and you have one less prisoner to worry about. He was hit on the head, if you did not notice. He must have been a nuisance to the last man in charge."

"Nein," said Duerr, taking a step forward. "He is protected by the Geneva Convention, something I and my men adhere to. You will not touch him."

"Geneva Convention," spat the Sturmbannführer. "He was lying out in the road. He is not even registered."

Duerr hated this. Soldiers of other countries should be treated with respect. They were only doing what he would have done to protect his soil. But some, in this new order of SS, just did not see that, did they? They were all boys, who had been raised up in this new regime, and brought up to hate. They had never seen the battle, and the bravery. Duerr had, in the last war, so he held respect for everyone. He would want to be treated respectfully as well.

Duerr quickly though of some way to persuade the Sturmbannführer that this airman was registered. Then, he remembered the scene as the Captain Haussler had left the camp. The small Frenchman had leap forward demanding to know where his friend was. The English Corporal, Haussler had said. Duerr saw that the airman lying in front of him was a corporal. Duerr smiled.

"Yes he is," said Duerr. "I remember his file now. We could not find him in the ranks. What was his name again?" Duerr went on to think…what had the Frenchman called him? "Ah yes, Peter. That was his first name at least." Duerr hoped he was right; at least for the airman's sake.

The Sturmbannführer did not seem pleased. He knelt down and yanked out the dog tags from beneath the airman's battledress jacket. His jaw clenched when he read the name: Peter Newkirk. The Sturmbannführer stood up, and holstered his Luger. "Fine. But next time I find one of your prisoners out and about without you to watch over them, consider them dead."

"They were already warned," assured Duerr, with a smile. "Auf wiedersehen, Sturmbannführer."

The Sturmbannführer gave no good bye, but stomped out of camp, pushing his Polish prisoners along. Duerr watched with pity and disgust as they left camp. Once they were gone, he walked over to the airman.

"Lucky bastard," he whispered. "Well, you won't be so lucky here. You must be worth something for work, if you've made it this far." He called his guards over. "Bring him to the infirmary, and leave him with the medic."

"Jawohl," said the guards.

Duerr watched them go off, and then calmly went back inside to his office. He pulled out another file for the Red Cross and quickly filled in the airman's name. Then, he filed it away and went to go join his commanding officer for dinner. Outside, the sun began to set below the tree line, sending the camp further into a shadow beneath the rain clouds, which suddenly opened up.

Translations:

(1) Where is he? Oh, if only I could get my hands around Haussler's neck!

(2) Calm down, Louis! You should not attract attention to yourself!

(3) He killed Peter!

(4) But someone is lying in the middle of the street.

(5) Pick him up.

**On the note of how Stalags were named: there were often a few in an area, distinguished by officers, enlisted men, or nationalities. So they had the same roman numerals, but would be more specifically named with a letter at the end. Stalag XXXA did not exist, and as far as I know, there is no Bielski, Poland either. On such a taboo matter, I did not want to base a fanfic story off a real prison camp or town. However, the reason this site was chosen was that the prisoners captured at Dunkirk were all sent to eastern Germany or Poland, because it was so far away from the coast. And, most of these camps were working camps. NOT Holocaust type slavery, nor those kind of rations, but still work. However, Polish and Russian POWs were apart of the Holocaust, so that is why in this chapter the Polish POWs were being kept by the SS. In case you didn't know, the Germans hated the Polish and Russians even more because they thought that those lands had always been Germany's. Lastly, there really was animosity between the regular army soldiers and SS, because you supposedly had to be an even better soldier to be in the SS, and yet many SS soldiers were apart of domestic security, so the regular army held little respect for them in regard to battle.

Thank you for all the reviews so far, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!