Chapter Thirty-Five: The Order of the Camp

July 5, 1941

The day was beautiful. The day was sunny, breezy, not too warm for the middle of summer, and the sky was spotted with harmless clouds. The day was perfect for the camp's football tournament final. The whole camp was squashed in and around the British compound where the game was being played. (The English had argued that it should be played there because they, after all, had founded the beautiful game of football.) The guards were uneasy at first with so many prisoners crammed into one place, but once they upped the numbers on their side, they were more comfortable and patrolled that side of the camp easily enough. Most of the prisoners really were watching the game, though, and what a game that was being anticipated.

For three days, at rec hour, the tournament between an English team, Scottish team, Irish team, French team, and Welsh team. Now, the final had come between the French and Scots. All the British were naturally supporting their closest kin the Scots, so the game quickly became a source of playful rivalry between the British and French. Still, the comrades sat amongst one another, and thus so were Peter, Louis, Luke and Marcel gathered on the sidelines. Stephen would have joined them had he not been Scotland's goalkeeper in the game.

Since the terrible news from home, Stephen had certainly been different. His depressing mood was obvious. He hardly smiled, and when he did it was force and pained. He was having trouble seeing any good in the world anymore. When he was asked to play keeper for Scotland in the tournament, he was reluctantly. He also believed that if he did anything joyful it was like he would not be honoring the memory of his late wife and daughter. His friends vigorously dispelled this thought, but it still plagued him. Finally, though, if anything more than to get his friends off his back, Stephen agreed to play keeper.

He could not lie that playing the games helped him. Out there, he felt less like he was enclosed in a prison that kept him from home. His concentration was on the game, keeping his thoughts away from the sadness that came from every time he thought of his dear Shona and Maisie. It was an escape. His friends saw this, and though his lighter mood hardly lasted long after a game, when it was present it was a comfort. At night, though, it was the worst. When everything was still and quiet, he could only think of what he had lost.

But today, with this big game, undoubtedly the most signifying positive event the camp had seen in a couple of months, Stephen was determined to make something good of it. He was determined to push aside the grief. Football had always been his favorite sport, keeper his favorite position, and so many times at home he had played with his brothers and friends. He remembered showing off to Shona as a young lad, and the first time he had tried to play with Maisie. Those were the memories he would be keeping with him today out on the dusty pitch. He would enjoy himself out there, and have them with him.

His goal was fulfilled. The game was everything the prisoners wanted it to be: exciting, fun, and an escape. The rivalry between the British and French was entertainment in itself as they sang and chanted the rowdy football melodies. It got to where a point that the two sides were simply yelling at one another to see who could sing the loudest. It was highly amusing to the Germans. Even the Kommandant and Duerr watched from the office window.

"It's a good match," observed the Kommandant.

"Despite the fact that none of them are professional footballers," said Duerr.

"For all you know," replied the Kommandant pointedly.

"Right," murmured Duerr. He stood up. "Brandy, sir?"

"That sounds nice, Major," answered the Kommandant.

The toasted one another as they continued to watch.

The tense game ended when Berg blew the whistle signifying the end of the recreation period. The British side erupted with joy; the score was 1-0 to the Scots. They rushed the pitch in a very football-like manner and put the Scottish team on their shoulders. Louis tried to help Stephen get up, but Louis's size was not up to it. Instead Marcel had to assist.

Stephen's eyes were tearful mostly because he was enjoying himself and all the time wishing that he could say the same for Shona and Maisie. Luke, sensing his thoughts shouted up to Stephen:

"I'm sure they are having just as much fun where they are!"

Though it was supposed to be the end of rec hour, the prisoners were taking their time in separating themselves to go to their respective barracks. The guards, sensing no anger from their superiors, urged the prisoners on very unenthusiastically. Berg was exasperated with the prisoners' attitudes, especially with Everley darting around him in his usual mischief. The light mood was welcoming, though, since June had been quite a stressful month with no interruption in the gloominess.

Ten minutes after roll call, the men were still mixed across the camp, but primarily still in the British compound. This was how they were when the staff car was spotted. The car was spotted by the guards in the towers who shouted down to those at the gate. The shouts gained the attention of the prisoners, and all watched as the staff car came into camp. With it, an uneasy feeling came over the prisoners as they wondered who was inside.

When Jöchmann and his aide stepped out of the car into the compound, the tension ins the camp rose quickly. The prisoners in the British compound froze, and those near barracks slipped inside. To avoid being noticed was the idea. Stephen, Luke, and Marcel escorted Peter and Louis to the side of one of the British barracks. Peter and Louis did not object.

They watched as Duerr exited his office and met Jöchmann on the compound.

"I thought the camp was to be segregated, Major," said Jöchmann curtly.

"It is," replied Duerr. "But I chose to allow them time during their recreation period." He was not intimidated.

"Really," asked Jöchmann "What made you think that you could do that?"

"I thought the prisoners deserved some time with their comrades and I asked the Kommandant for his approval," said Duerr.

"I wonder what gave him the idea that he could approve it," said Jöchmann.

"Perhaps because he is the Kommandant of the camp," suggested Duerr sarcastically. Some of the prisoners could not help but smile.

"I thought we had cleared this up the last time I was here," said Jöchmann. "Though you two remain in charge of the prisoners' status, the regulations of the camps remain under my charge."

"Yes, that was clearly stated, but you very unclearly stated your new regulations," said Duerr. "Your words, I believe, were: 'the prisoners need more discipline and less fraternization between each other'. I promise you, Sturmbannführer, that was all done."

"You are pushing the envelope too far, Major," replied Jöchmann with disdain. "And you will regret it." He turned and looked at Berg. "Get these men into formation immediately. I do not care where they belong at this moment, just get them in formation!"

Berg hesitated and looked at Duerr for a confirmation of the orders. Duerr gave a quick nod, and Berg did as he was told. In less than a minute, the prisoners were lined up in no order in front of Jöchmann and Duerr. The Allied officers called their men to attention and the turned to their captors at attention. Jöchmann looked over them all, and it was quite obvious that he was displeased with them.

"Their appearance is un-uniformed and disorderly," he stated to Duerr. "Prisoners of the Third Reich must know the same discipline as the Third Reich does."

"Ah, yes, because you surely do the same with your prisoners," shot back Duerr with equal ferocity. "My prisoners are simply allowed to relax some after their work."

"Work," scoffed Jöchmann. "I saw these men at work, and it is obviously not enough."

"They are not supposed to be dying," said Duerr. "They are supposed to be working and staying alive so that they can work more. Unlike you, we do not have a seemingly unlimited supply of workers."

"Soon enough," said Jöchmann. "You will, when the British and French are more courageous in their ways of regaining the lands they have lost." He sneered at the prisoners. "If they are brave enough."

"I'd like to think we're quite brave, sir," called Luke from the back. "We hit, but you guys hardly hit back anymore. I wouldn't be questioning our bravery, sir."

Luke was too far in the back for Jöchmann or Duerr to see him. But those around him were giving him incredulous looks. His close friends were biting back comments in hopes of Jöchmann not taking an interest in the back anymore. Their hopes were futile, they knew, and this was confirmed when he started walking through the formation to the back where the voice had come from. Duerr, Berg, and Jöchmann's aide followed closely.

When Jöchmann spotted Peter, Louis, Luke, Stephen, and Marcel standing in the last row, eyes dead ahead and trying to look invisible, he smiled and went straight for them. Duerr set his lips in a thin, annoyed line. He should have known it was one of these men.

"Well," said Jöchmann, as he stepped in front of them. Luke was on the end, beside him Peter, then Stephen, Louis, and Marcel, and the rest of the line. "It was an Englishman who spoke, and you all have distinct enough voices." He looked at Luke. "I trust you have not forgotten your unwise move that day at my camp?"

"How could I," asked Luke. "I quite liked how it felt to deck you."

The prisoners who Jöchmann had his back to snickered slightly. Those he faced kept their composure out of fear. Jöchmann was clearly agitated, and for a moment he was still. But suddenly he backhanded Luke across the face. Everyone flinched and Peter, who was next to him, started forward, but stopped himself. Jöchmann noticed though.

"I would not move if I were you," he said with a gleam in his eye.

Luke steadied himself and looked resolutely back at Jöchmann much like he had to Haussler on that fourth night of the march across France. But here, he felt stronger. He had a background in it now. Jöchmann was trying to stare Luke down, but Luke would not budge. He stuck out and hit Luke again; this time a punch right in the jaw. Luke staggered back. Peter, unable to help himself any longer, caught Luke before he could fall. He helped him straighten up. Just as Peter was about to go back to attention, Jöchmann struck out on him, slamming a club into his gut. Peter doubled over and then stood back up quickly, trying to hide the pain.

"I warned you not to move," said Jöchmann. But he seemed pleased.

"Then stop 'ittin' 'im, an' I will," growled Peter.

"Your prisoners speak their mind, often, Major Duerr," asked Jöchmann.

"Only when we think we must," replied Louis. He was looking across Stephen to Jöchmann, with his eyes filled with contempt.

"It will be the cooler for all of you," said Duerr sternly, imploring them with his tone to shut up.

"There is an easier way to teach," said Jöchmann. A second later, Luke's head was snapping back for the third time.

And quite suddenly, Stephen had covered the ground between him and Jöchmann in an instant before anyone else could move, and hit Jöchmann across the face so hard, he fell to the ground.

"DON'T YE EVER HIT THAT BOY AGAIN!"

"Stephen! No, please, don't shoot!"

Marcel's cry was too late, because Jöchmann's aide had already set his mind to the task. There was a staccato of fire, and Stephen crumpled to the ground.

Prisoners hit the ground so fast the compound was flat in seconds. Those who were left standing were confused guards and those in the back who were frozen out of shock at the turn of events.

Luke and Peter were staring at their feet where Stephen now laid, his eyes wide and unseeing, and his jacket bloody from the wounds he had just taken. Louis, all fear of blood forgotten, was quickly kneeling beside him, trying to wake him up. Marcel started to pull Louis away out of fear that Jöchmann's aide may fire on someone else. Jöchmann stood up quickly, touching his cheek tenderly. He nodded to his aide, signifying his approval. Duerr and Berg were stunned. For a moment, the world was slower, and then it came back to action when Peter moved suddenly.

If Louis and Marcel beside Stephen had not encumbered his path, Peter could have ended up dead as well. As it was, Peter tried to scoot around them as quickly as possible, his target: Jöchmann's aide for revenge. Louis and Marcel did not see him, and Luke was frozen in shock. It was the most unlikely person that saved him…but perhaps not so unlikely.

Peter was intercepted by Duerr, who had taken Jöchmann's club for himself. He swung it and caught Peter under the chin. Peter hit the ground hard, and it was enough time for Berg to take control of him, even as he began to struggle.

"No! No! You killed him, you ruddy monster!" he was glaring at Jöchmann and the aide, who were looking disgustingly smug.

"You murderer! Why'd you 'ave to do it? Why?!"

Over Peter's shouts Duerr said: "Berg bring him to the cooler."

Berg complied, and started dragging Peter away who in his blind fury had only one goal: get to the aide. Duerr then turned back to the prisoners at the scene. He called another guard over.

"Escort them to the infirmary," he ordered. "They are to remain there until I say."

"Get up," ordered the guard. "Bring your comrade." Louis and Marcel gently picked up Stephen at his shoulders and legs. They started walking. When Luke would not budge, the guard yanked him forward and pushed him on. "Come. Get going." Luke followed his friends on his own powers.

As they left, the prisoners who had hit the deck got up slowly. Out of respect for their fallen comrade, they took their hats off and bowed their heads.

"Everyone into their barracks," yelled Duerr. The guards started blowing their whistles. The prisoners quickly obeyed. Géraud and Lawrence approached Duerr, who held up his hand impatiently.

"Not a word," he said. "Into the barracks."

"Sir," began Géraud. "One of our men was killed—"

He was cut off by Duerr. "I said into the barracks now or there may be more fatalities."

The officers fumed but could did not know how to safely retort to that with Jöchmann and his trigger-happy aide close by. They simply turned away and went inside. When the compounds were cleared of prisoners, Duerr looked to Jöchmann and his aide, and clearly taking control of the scene, pointed to the office. "I suggest we continue to talk in there, gentlemen."

Without another word, they took it to the office.

Luke sat down on the bed next to where they had laid Stephen. He was too shocked to really do anything. Everything had happened so fast. Was there something he could have done?

"'E was not the same," said Marcel quietly. "It was the letter. 'E would not 'ave done it if 'e that letter 'ad never come."

"It would have come sooner or later," murmured Luke. "It just had to come when Jöchmann was around." He spat the name out like venom. "What now?"

"I need to find Pierre," said Louis. He stood up quickly with determination.

"He is in the cooler," said Luke.

"I know, but I need to go to 'im," said Louis. He started out for the door, but Marcel grabbed his jacket and pulled him back.

"You cannot go out there," said Marcel. "Peter was put in the cooler so that 'e would not get 'imself killed. They put us in 'ere for that same reason. Just stay, Louis. 'E will be fine."

"Non," said Louis. "I must go to 'im. 'E will be chewing 'imself out for all of this." He tried to wrangle out of Marcel's grasp but Marcel did not let go.

"Non," said Marcel. "Stay 'ere." He pushed Louis down into a chair.

Louis glared up at him. "You cannot tell me what to do. I am going to see Pierre."

When he tried to get up again, Marcel pushed him back down. "Actually, I can tell you what to do. I outrank you, remember. Now, stay here."

Louis was about to talk back, but Luke interrupted him.

"Not now, chaps," he said. "Not now." His voice was tired and worrisome, and it quickly melted away anything coming between Louis and Marcel.

"Je suis désolé," said Louis. "I am not thinking straight right now."

"I know," replied Marcel. "And I do not want to be rude, but I do not want to see you 'urt anymore either. Do not worry about Peter. 'E can take care of 'imself. I am sure Duerr will let 'im out once 'e quiets down."

They all got quite and looked back to Stephen, growing cold on the bed.

"I can't believe all of this is happening," murmured Luke in a pained whisper. He was voicing all of their thoughts.

Berg pushed Peter—who was still struggling—into the cooler cell. Quickly, Berg slammed the door shut. On the other side, Peter had made a dash for it, but only found himself slamming into the solid steel door and going nowhere. He heard the lock click, and it set off a terrible feeling of hopelessness inside him. Everything had gone wrong. Everything. They were supposed to all make it through. But he couldn't even keep one of his best mates alive. All because of that creep….Jöchmann.

The very thinking of the name made Peter's anger and frustration rise up again, and he punched the door as hard as he could. When that stupid move made his knuckles burn, a sudden exhaustion took over him. The adrenaline rush ended. He slid down to the floor against the door, and went still there.

Why, why, why?

About an hour later, Peter was in a reminiscing daze. He kept thinking about Stephen, and home, and everything good that he could remember. Sometimes he would come across a memory and could only just quite not remember a detail. It was tormenting and signified to him that he had been away too long. He thought about Stephen, and that terrible letter he had gotten. He was sure that if Stephen had never received such a letter, he would not have done what he had done to get himself killed. The rash move wasn't like him. Then again…did he do it deliberately? The thought was terrifying, but Peter wondered. If he had gotten a letter saying that Mavis was gone, what would he do? It would drive him crazy; he already knew that. The thought of Mavis at home, growing up and going further than anyone in her family, and being so successful made Peter want to fight harder than ever. If she was not there any longer, it would be as if there was nothing left fighting for.

But that wasn't true. They had tried to tell Stephen. There was still so much to fight for. Still, losing someone that close…it was enough to send anyone over the edge. And Peter was terrified of such a chance.

In his daze, Peter did not hear the cell door opening. He did not realize it until it moved. Startled, he jumped back, and scooted away quickly. Looking up, he saw Duerr standing in the doorway. Peter glared as the man stepped inside.

"Come to tell me 'ow foolish a move it was for me to try an' 'ave a go at that ruddy SS chum," spat out Peter. He stood up, but Duerr hardly seemed intimidated.

"No," answered Duerr. "I am fairly sure that when I hit you with club you got that message."

Peter admitted to himself that it was true; his chin already felt like a bad bruise was coming on. But he still glared at Duerr.

"Yea, why'd you do it anyway? You'd already let that creep walk all over us. You'd already let 'im kill some poor prisoner."

"You act as if that man did nothing. He struck a superior officer—"

"You think I give a damn! That doesn't warrant enough to get shot!"

"It does in the SS!"

"Wot about the Wehrmacht? Wot about you?"

"You think I would protect your friend? He was the man who stepped out of line."

"Really, I thought it was Jöchmann all this time. 'E 'asn't stopped messin' with us since 'e found us. An' us prisoners—well, we thought you 'ad it under control. We actually trusted you. We 'ad faith in you, that you'd keep 'im away. So, wot 'appened?"

They had subconsciously gotten inches away from one another, but neither of them were thrown off about it.

"I will only tell you the order of the camp these days," said Duerr calmly. "I watch out for my Kommandant, then myself, then my men, and then my prisoners." He stepped back.

Peter gave him a sharp nod. "You think it's supposed to be that way." His tone was cold and heartless. "Every man for himself."

"It is war, Corporal," said Duerr. "That is what happens in war."

Peter shook his head. "You're wrong. The prisoners will stick together. It's not every man for himself for us. It's survival."

"One day," said Duerr, as he walked to the door. "You will learn that more men out there are going to save their own lives before anyone else's."

And then he left.