Chapter Fourteen: Barracke 14

He really didn't want to leave again. Going back after being home hurt more than leaving the first time. But, this apparently was life in the military.

"There's the train Peter."

He looked next to him, where his little sister—though she wasn't quite so little anymore—was looking up at him with her intelligent eyes. Mavis gave him an encouraging smile.

"Don't forget to write this time, Peter," she said.

"I won't pet," he promised. "Now be good, stay in school, an' don't stay up too much at work. You just tell ole Kingsley I said you were to get a good night's sleep every night durin' school."

"I will," said Mavis. "You be good too." She stretched up and gave him a peck on the cheek, and patted his back.

He took a few steps away towards the train as the conductor blew the whistle, calling everyone on board. Then, he turned around, just as Mavis leapt into his arms. He gave her long, comforting hug, and then set her back down. He patted her head, and wiped a tear off her cheek.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll be fine. I'll be right there on the ground. Stay strong, Mavis. Stay strong for me."

"I will, Peter. I will."

The whistle blew again. Mavis hugged him again, clinging to him, showing her displeasure at having to see him off again. The whistle blew again, and he stood up straight to go. Mavis wiped her eyes, and handed him his bag. The whistle blew again, and kept blowing…

Peter sat straight up in his bed, half expecting to see Mavis standing in front of him in the bustling activity of London's train station. But she wasn't. And that damned whistle was still blowing. There was someone yelling too.

"Raus! Appel! Appel! Schnell!"

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion. Roll call? Wait no…he was in a room…in a bed?!

Peter looked around worriedly. He expected to be waking up in the middle of the road, or actually never waking up again. Not on this planet at least. He was sure Haussler had finished him off, no matter what kind of speech he had given. But the slight sting on his temple told him he was very much alive. And looking down he saw that he was still in his filthy uniform. His boots were off, and his wedge cap placed at the foot of the bed. He was not the only one in the room. There were four other men lying in beds around him. It was some sort of hospital.

One of the men, a British infantryman, sat up and looked at him questioningly.

"You new, chum," he asked.

Peter nodded. "Um, yea, I suppose. Though I'm not sure where I'm new to."

"Welcome to Stalag XXXA," said the Brit, with a sweeping gesture of his arm. "The 'ard labor camp o' southern Poland." He leaned over and extended his hand out to Peter. "Corporal Everley Blackwell at your service, mate."

Peter smiled, and shook Everley's hand. "Corporal Peter Newkirk. Where you from? That accent sounds a bit familiar."

Everley chuckled. "Whitechapel. You?"

"Cor, mate, not too far from you at all," said Peter. "Stepney."

Everley laughed again. "Glad to find another chap from the East."

"Yea," agreed Peter. "Does make the place seem less scary." He glanced around, wondering what had happened with Louis and the others. "Wot's the day?"

"July 5th," answered Everley. "They brought you in yesterday."

Peter nodded. "You been 'ere long?"

"Well," began Everley. "I been in the camp for about o' month. But I only been in the 'ospital for two weeks."

"Wot's wrong? You sick?"

"That's wot Jerry thinks." Everley grinned devilishly.

"I might 'ave to take some lessons from you, mate," said Peter, leaning back in the bed.

"I 'ear you might not 'ave to," said Everley.

"Wot you mean?"

"The Major practically saved your arse."

"Who?"

"Major Duerr. 'E's the disciplinarian o' the camp."

"An' 'e saved me," asked Peter. "Wot, 'e found me out on the road?"

"No," said Everley. "You see, there's another camp a few miles down. It 'olds Polish prisoners, an' the SS run it. The way I 'ear it, the SS were bringin' the Poles back to camp, an' they found you. Brought you back to camp, an' dumped you on the doorstep. The SS officer wanted to shoot you, but Major Duerr, 'e stopped 'im, an' voilá, 'ere you are, alive an' as well as you'll ever be in this 'ole."

"But why would 'e want to save me," asked Peter. What was it with Wehrmacht officers and him? They hated him, but kept him alive? That didn't make any sense whatsoever to Peter.

Everley shrugged. "Beats me. It was probably just the fact that Major Duerr 'ates the SS. Probably was just doin' it to show power to that SS bloke. Then again, since this is a work camp, every man is valuable. Duerr could've thought that you'd be fine an' then useful later on. We're slaves to 'im really."

"Slaves is kinda 'arsh, doncha think," asked Peter.

"Look," said Everley. "That's just 'ow they talk about you aroun' 'ere. Take care o' 'em they say. You think they really mean it. But they're just concerned that if they lose too many, the work won't get done. This is supposed to be a regular POW camp, no work allowed for us. But Jerry keeps us small an' quiet, an' no one knows the difference. That's the way I see it anyway."

Peter nodded. "Just a no win situation."

"No," said Everley. "There is a way to win. Stay sane, be yourself, an' stay alive. That way, it's one less thing they've taken away from us."

Peter smiled. "Got it."

Then, the door opened up, and two medics entered, one British and the other French. They were followed by two guards. One was very tall and muscular, and Peter quickly promised himself that he would evade that guard as much as possible. The guard looked around at the five prisoners in bed, and his eyes stopped on Everley and Peter. He pointed to them.

"Check these two," he said in clipped English.

Everley groaned. "Should've stayed layin' down. Now they'll think we're okay." He lay back down, but Peter just remained leaning against the wall. The British medic went up to Everley. The medic seemed rather annoyed. He was limping slightly as well.

"How are you today, Corporal," he asked. He turned his back on the guards some and hissed at Everley. "They want you out of here. Two weeks was pushing it."

Everley got the message. "Yeah, I'm feelin' better sir. Thanks for the care, doc."

The medic stood up straight. "Good." He turned to Peter, and his eyes became softer and kinder. "Ah, our newcomer. Already in the infirmary. That's definitely not the way to start the term in this school, lad. How are you this morning? Headache any?"

"It just stings," replied Peter honestly. He leaned his head forward some as the medic unwrapped the bandage he had put on Peter's head.

"That's good then," said the medic. "No concussion. I'm Staff Sergeant Wilkerson by the way. Call me what you like, though. We aren't that formal around here."

"Quickly," barked the muscular guard. "They must be out for breakfast."

"They will be," said Wilkerson with some authority. He looked back at Peter with a wink. "Don't worry. That's ole Berg, Sergeant of the Guard. As far as I know, he hasn't harmed a soul in this camp except his own men when they get out of line. As long as you don't do anything too drastic, like attacking one of his men, you should be fine. He always expects us to try and escape, so when it actually happens, he doesn't bother trying to kill."

"So 'e won't," asked Peter.

"Well, the bottom line is that he's a German soldier and we're the enemy," said Wilkerson. "No one has ever kept going after the first warning shots. So really, what Major Duerr always says might actually happen one day. After the warning, they shoot to kill."

Peter swallowed, and then winced as Wilkerson poked the cut. "Sorry," said Wilkerson. "It looks fine. Just be sure to wash it every day. Infection can kill a man around here. As for work, if you really are feeling bad, tell one of the prisoners who've been here longer. That way, they'll know who to go tell. You'll just get a lighter job." Wilkerson started to walk off.

Peter nodded. "Yes sir."

The medic turned around. "Please, don't call me sir. I'm not an officer. Just a doctor."

"Then, yes doc," answered Peter. Wilkerson nodded and then went to tending some of the other patients in the hospital with the French medic.

Everley handed him his boots. "Best tie 'em tight. I'll take you to the mess hall."

"Nein," said Berg, stepping forward. "You both go to barracke."

"Wot about breakfast," whined Everley.

"It is not die Engländers turn," said Berg, tapping Everley's chest with his club. "You know drill: Franzose first, then Engländer."
"Yea, yea," said Everley. He sat down to wait for Peter to finish tying up his boots, but Berg pulled him off the bed and forced him to stand in the aisle. He looked at the other guard. "Take him to his barracks."

The other guard took Everley by his arm and escorted him from the infirmary. Everley looked back at Peter. "See ya at breakfast, mate."

"Righto," replied Peter. He finished tying his laces quickly and then stood up. He put his wedge cap back in his shoulder strap, and then let Berg take him outside. They walked across a smaller compound and into another building; the administrative one. Berg pushed Peter inside an office, where a man behind a desk was studiously working on a report. Berg clicked his heels and went to attention.

"Sergeant Berg reporting," he said. "I have the prisoner you wished to see for the Red Cross file."

Peter looked from Berg to the officer, trying to decipher the meaning of him being here. But the officer did not look up for a moment. Berg smacked Peter across the back of the head. "You must go to achtung when with an officer."

Peter went to attention as well. They stood there for a few moments more while the officer finished his report. Then, he filed it away and Major Duerr turned to look at them both.

"Danke, Oberfeldwebel," he said. He looked at Peter. "You may go at ease, Corporal." Peter went to the traditional at ease position, not relaxing in the slightest. Duerr almost smiled. "I am just getting information for your Red Cross file. That way, you can converse with your family through letters."

Peter just nodded, and watched as Duerr pulled out a file with his name on it. He wondered how the Major even knew his name.

"So," said Duerr. "I have your name. Obviously, your rank is Corporal. Anything else you wish to give me?"

"Serial number: 01568832," said Peter automatically, his voice adamant.

"Sehr gut," said Duerr. He quickly filled it in. "That all?"

"I am required to give you nothing else, sir," said Peter, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

Duerr smiled, and stood up, and Peter found himself looking right at Duerr. "That is good. Berg, take him to his barracks."

"He was never assigned to any, sir," said Berg.

"Just find an empty one then," said Duerr.

"Jawohl," said Berg. He yanked Peter by the arm to the door.

Peter shot Duerr a curious glance and then obediently went outside. There berg escorted him through a gate and into a compound. Rows of barracks stood before him. The windows were open on most of them, and even the doors to others. As the gate shut behind he and Berg, Peter noticed many of the British prisoners coming to the windows and doors and looking at him curiously. He remembered how Everley had seemed amazed at how Peter had been treated by Duerr.

Berg pushed him along and they crossed the compound, and went straight to the first building. Berg looked to the prisoners in the window. "Where is there a barrack with room for this one," he asked.

"The back barracks," said one. "The ones closest to the fence."

Berg looked at Peter, and Peter looked back at him. "Nein. Not for you. Any that are further away from the fence?"

The prisoners shrugged. "I dunno. Go look."

Berg shook his head and pushed Peter along. The prisoners watched them go. Every barracks they passed, prisoners curiously looked out of.

"Peter!"

Peter and Berg both jumped as the voice had come from directly next to them from a barracks window. They looked up and Luke was staring down at them.

"Well, 'ello mate," exclaimed Peter.

"You know him," asked Berg.

"Yea," said Peter.

"There room in there for one more," asked Berg through the window.

"Are you kiddin'," said someone. He came to the window and Berg groaned. It was Everley. "Yea, we got room ole Bergie. Let 'em stay 'ere."

"Oh, for the love of Gott," said Berg. "You are everywhere. Fine, he can stay here."

Luke whooped and ran to the door. He practically pulled Peter in, and Berg slammed the door shut. Everley opened it again and said good bye to Berg as the muscular guard walked off. Meanwhile Luke clapped Peter on the back.

"What happened? We thought Haussler had killed you!"

"No, 'e just 'it me on the loaf an' left me there. Supposedly I was picked up by some Poles an' dropped off 'ere. Not much to tell."

"That's not what we hear."

Peter turned around and saw Stephen lying up in one of the bunks. He coughed some. Peter quickly went to his side.

"'Ey, you all right, mate," he asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," said Stephen. "Feelin' better after getting' oot o' that stuffy cattle car. But really, we heard that the Major saved your life."

"That's wot I 'ear too, but I just saw 'im, for Red Cross stuff, an' I can tell; all 'e wants me for is work," said Peter. "Nothin' special 'ere."

Stephen smiled. "Louis was worried aboot you. I thought he was actually goin' tae attack Haussler."

"Yea," exclaimed Luke. "You should've seen him! It was a good thing Marcel was there to bring him back."

Peter smiled. "I'm just glad 'e's alright. But where is 'e?"

"The camp's divided up," said Everley. "French on one side, British on the other."

"Too bad, innit," said Peter. "I kinda liked 'avin' them Frenchies around."

"Me too," said Luke. "I was even learning how to speak French. That would've passed the time better."

"Learn German instead," said another man. He held his hand out. "Private Dean Matthews."

Peter shook his hand. "German?"

"Well," said Dean. "If you learn German, maybe you could escape more easily."

"Escape," echoed Luke, in a voice of confusion. He looked at Peter uncertainly, and Peter flashed him an encouraging grin.

"Of course," replied Dean. "I sure as hell want to escape as soon as I can. Don't you?"

"Well, yes," said Luke. "It's just that…after everything…it almost seems impossible."

"We'll see about that," said Everley. "After awhile, we'll find a weakness in 'ere. We've just got to. Do you really wanna spend years in this place?"

"No," answered Luke adamantly with a scowl. "And I believe you: we'll find a way. You just startled me is all."

Peter clapped Luke on the shoulder. "Don't worry. Remember wot I said: we won't be locked up forever."

More introductions were made from around the barracks. It was a mix of men who had been captured in Dunkirk and earlier. There were thirty men in the barracks, and it was definitely crowded. Peter found himself on the top bunk, above Luke and Stephen. Looking around, he realized that however long he was going to be here, it was going to be tough. But he knew that because of the men around him, he would have help in remaining strong.

They were called for breakfast about an hour later, and when they filed outside and across the compound, Peter's eyes and thoughts went through the fence to the compound next to them. The French camp was still, and guards patrolled it, keeping the prisoners inside their barracks. Peter smiled, knowing that Louis was safe and sound, for now.

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

Breakfast was bread and soup, and neither was that bad. In fact, it was very sustaining to those who had not ha food in a few days now. After breakfast, they were sent back into the compound, and back into the barracks. There, the newcomers inquired about the camp's routine.

"Bloody borin' is wot it is," was the first thing Everley said. "We get up, have breakfast, come back, get work details, work, lunch, work, rec period, dinner, roll call, bed."

"That's it," asked Luke.

"Wot's rec period," asked Peter.

"The time they give us to get our exercise, as mandated by the Geneva Convention," answered Dean.

"But since we've been workin' out arses off all day," said Everley. "It's more a time to rest outside while you can. It's only an 'our too, and that's only if you get back from work in time."

"What kind o' work do we do around here," asked Stephen.

"Well, there hasn't been much," said Dean. "But Berg keeps promising there's more and I believe him. So far we've been repairing farms and roads."

"Repairin'," asked Peter.

"From when Germany came through Poland," explained Dean. "We've been fixing everything that can be put to use. And some of us are rented out by townspeople for reconstruction inside town."

"Cor," said Peter. "It is like slaves."

"Told you," said Everley.

"But we're treated all right," said Dean. "It's just hard stuff sometimes, and then we only get bread and soup. So far, no one's be beaten or harmed in any severe way. Course they rough us up some times if we get too disobedient, but they really are concerned about their workforce. I heard from one of the guards that it's so remote out here, finding work from the Poles is hard."

"And the Polish prisoners," asked Luke.

"They work too," said Everley. "We've seen 'em. But I they never work wif us, an' we never work wif them."

"Why not," asked Luke.

"Dunno, don't care," said Everley with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "We can't even speak the same language as them, so why bother? As for the Frogs, we work wif 'em on occasion. If we're out on a farm we usually do, because there's a lot o' us. Still, the guards try to separate us if they can."

Peter nodded, and he looked out the window towards the French side of camp. "When do we start workin'?"

"We should've already begun," said Dean, looking at his watch. "But maybe cause it's you guys' first day, they're giving us a break. They probably think you all are just not ready to work yet. After our trip here, they gave us a few days' rest."

"Hey," said Stephen, leaning back in his bunk. "They won't hear me complainin'."

The men chuckled, and conversation moved onto other things. Peter sighed wearily, though. At least, he hoped, routine should make life a bit easier. No surprises…he hoped.