all the prisoners who were housed, for men were lying on the floor in the spaces between the beds, wrapped in thin blankets.
As he struggled to pick himself up off the floor, the other prisoners watched dispassionately. No one volunteered to help him. In fact, there was a definite sense of hostility aimed in his direction.
He was a prisoner, just like they were. What had he done to them?
He found out a few seconds later. The lead guard called out something in his native tongue and pointed at one of the other prisoners. Before the man had a chance to protest, two of the guards stepped forward and grabbed his arms, dragging him toward the doorway.
A collective grumble of protest arose from the other prisoners, and several of them stepped forward, reaching toward either their companion or the guards, perhaps both, an act that proved too much for the guard in charge of the detail.
The sound of the shot was deafening in the confined space. The prisoner closest to the guards dropped to the ground, dead from the bullet that had struck him below the right eye and exited the back of his skull in a showery spray of blood and brain matter.
As his body hit the floor, the rest of the prisoners froze in place.
Lying a few feet away, Freeman realized that the guards were at a supreme disadvantage. All the prisoners had to do was rush them and they’d be overpowered in seconds. Sure, a few of the POWs were likely to die in the process, but the group would then be armed and they could use those firearms to gain more in the next attack.
But rather than seize the opportunity, the prisoners backed away from the confrontation, doing nothing more than muttering darkly and casting hate-filled glances at their captors.
The prisoner the guards had seized began to wail in French, screaming for the others to help and begging the guards to choose someone else, anyone else, just not him. Or, at least, that’s what Freeman, with his rudimentary French, thought he was saying.
As expected, the guards ignored the prisoner’s pleas and marched back out the door, taking the prisoner with them as they went.
In the aftermath of their departure, you could have heard a pin drop. Several of the men started toward Freeman, and from the expressions on their faces it was clear that they weren’t coming to help him to his feet, but they were intercepted by a short, dark-haired man with a trim mustache.
He didn’t say anything, just stepped out into the open space between Freeman and the oncoming prisoners, glaring in their direction. That was enough to bring the men up short.
The ringleader, a tall solidly built Irishman, said something to the short man that was too low for Freeman to catch. The other man answered in similar fashion, and whatever was said was enough to defuse the situation. The Irishman looked at Freeman, spat on the floor in his direction, but turned away, content for the moment to let the matter rest. His companions followed in his wake.
“Thanks,” Freeman said from his position on the floor.
The mustached man turned to him and Freeman could see a blaze of anger in his eyes as he said, “Do not think for even a moment that I did that for you. Fighting is a punishable offense, and in this camp there are things far worse than death.”
Mustache and the rest of the prisoners turned away, leaving Freeman lying on the floor wondering just how he was going to survive.
Chapter Eleven
STALAG 113
A fter the shooting and his subsequent shunning by the rest of the prisoners, Freeman found space against one of the walls to curl up in and quickly fell into a restless sleep. It had been too long since he’d had anything to eat or drink and he was feeling weak and light-headed. His condition was worsened, no doubt, by the pain of his injury from the crash and the physical exertion he’d undergone while trying to escape. If the other prisoners had decided they wanted to take revenge for the loss of one of their own, it would have
As he struggled to pick himself up off the floor, the other prisoners watched dispassionately. No one volunteered to help him. In fact, there was a definite sense of hostility aimed in his direction.
He was a prisoner, just like they were. What had he done to them?
He found out a few seconds later. The lead guard called out something in his native tongue and pointed at one of the other prisoners. Before the man had a chance to protest, two of the guards stepped forward and grabbed his arms, dragging him toward the doorway.
A collective grumble of protest arose from the other prisoners, and several of them stepped forward, reaching toward either their companion or the guards, perhaps both, an act that proved too much for the guard in charge of the detail.
The sound of the shot was deafening in the confined space. The prisoner closest to the guards dropped to the ground, dead from the bullet that had struck him below the right eye and exited the back of his skull in a showery spray of blood and brain matter.
As his body hit the floor, the rest of the prisoners froze in place.
Lying a few feet away, Freeman realized that the guards were at a supreme disadvantage. All the prisoners had to do was rush them and they’d be overpowered in seconds. Sure, a few of the POWs were likely to die in the process, but the group would then be armed and they could use those firearms to gain more in the next attack.
But rather than seize the opportunity, the prisoners backed away from the confrontation, doing nothing more than muttering darkly and casting hate-filled glances at their captors.
The prisoner the guards had seized began to wail in French, screaming for the others to help and begging the guards to choose someone else, anyone else, just not him. Or, at least, that’s what Freeman, with his rudimentary French, thought he was saying.
As expected, the guards ignored the prisoner’s pleas and marched back out the door, taking the prisoner with them as they went.
In the aftermath of their departure, you could have heard a pin drop. Several of the men started toward Freeman, and from the expressions on their faces it was clear that they weren’t coming to help him to his feet, but they were intercepted by a short, dark-haired man with a trim mustache.
He didn’t say anything, just stepped out into the open space between Freeman and the oncoming prisoners, glaring in their direction. That was enough to bring the men up short.
The ringleader, a tall solidly built Irishman, said something to the short man that was too low for Freeman to catch. The other man answered in similar fashion, and whatever was said was enough to defuse the situation. The Irishman looked at Freeman, spat on the floor in his direction, but turned away, content for the moment to let the matter rest. His companions followed in his wake.
“Thanks,” Freeman said from his position on the floor.
The mustached man turned to him and Freeman could see a blaze of anger in his eyes as he said, “Do not think for even a moment that I did that for you. Fighting is a punishable offense, and in this camp there are things far worse than death.”
Mustache and the rest of the prisoners turned away, leaving Freeman lying on the floor wondering just how he was going to survive.
Chapter Eleven
STALAG 113
A fter the shooting and his subsequent shunning by the rest of the prisoners, Freeman found space against one of the walls to curl up in and quickly fell into a restless sleep. It had been too long since he’d had anything to eat or drink and he was feeling weak and light-headed. His condition was worsened, no doubt, by the pain of his injury from the crash and the physical exertion he’d undergone while trying to escape. If the other prisoners had decided they wanted to take revenge for the loss of one of their own, it would have
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