been easy to slit his throat in his sleep, but Freeman was beyond the point of caring.
The guards came for him just before sundown.
A hush fell over the barracks, and the stomp of booted feet dragged Freeman back to wakefulness. He was just rousing himself when the guards grabbed him by the arms and literally dragged him across the floor to where an officer in the uniform of an oberleutnant stood waiting.
The man looked down at him and said something in German, but Freeman didn’t understand and simply shrugged his shoulders in response. The oberleutnant sneered at him in disgust and then gave a rapid-fire round of orders to the guards before turning on his heels and marching out of the barracks.
The guards followed suit, dragging Freeman with them. They took him behind the workshop and pantomimed that he should strip off his dirty clothes, gesturing with their weapons when he hesitated. When he had complied with their order, they made him stand up against the rear wall of the workshop on a cement slab set into the ground and then retreated a dozen feet away.
So this is how it ends, Freeman thought to himself. He’d survived both an aerial dogfight with the famed Richthofen and the crash that followed only to face summary execution in a dirty POW camp by a couple of German thugs.
Freeman ignored the pain in his leg and did his best to stand tall, wanting to go out with some dignity.
To his surprise, one of the guards disappeared around the side of the workshop and came back a moment later carrying a fireman’s hose. The guard threw the lever attached to the side of the nozzle, and a jet of icy cold water struck Freeman like a freight train, slamming him against the wall behind him and holding him there with the strength of ten men. The guard directed the spray up and down Freeman’s body, using the water like an industrial-sized scrubbing pad, leaving the American gasping for breath as the force of the flow hammered him without mercy.
Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, the guard switched the hose off and Freeman collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Now he understood the purpose of the slab he was lying on; it wouldn’t do to have freshly scrubbed prisoners fall into the mud that was the dominant feature of the camp. While the first guard returned the hose, another approached and threw a gray coverall to Freeman, indicating he should get dressed.
When Freeman didn’t move quickly enough for the guards’ liking, they moved in and helped him get dressed, not caring how often they yanked or bumped his injured leg. By the time they were finished, he was gasping from the pain, but at least he was no longer naked. The prisoner’s uniform he now wore also gave him the sense that he might be here awhile.
They gave him a moment to get himself together and then marched him across the camp to the commandant’s residence. Rather than going into the clerk’s office, as he had earlier in the day, the guards led him in through a different door on the side of the house facing away from the camp and Freeman found himself standing in a well-appointed foyer. A butler was waiting for them, and after exchanging a few words with the guards, he turned to Freeman and said, “This way, Major.”
Their destination turned out to be the dining room, where several German officers were seated around the table. Conversation ceased when he entered the room.
“Ah, Major Freeman, how good of you to join us!”
The speaker was a blond-haired, jowl-cheeked man in the uniform of an oberst, which made him the equivalent of an American colonel, one rank above Freeman. He wore a pair of pince-nez spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose and black leather gloves on his hands, though whether the latter was to hide an injury or as a personal affectation, Freeman didn’t know.
“I am Oberst Schulheim, commandant of Stalag 113,” his host said with a smile, revealing teeth that had been sharpened to points, “and I
The guards came for him just before sundown.
A hush fell over the barracks, and the stomp of booted feet dragged Freeman back to wakefulness. He was just rousing himself when the guards grabbed him by the arms and literally dragged him across the floor to where an officer in the uniform of an oberleutnant stood waiting.
The man looked down at him and said something in German, but Freeman didn’t understand and simply shrugged his shoulders in response. The oberleutnant sneered at him in disgust and then gave a rapid-fire round of orders to the guards before turning on his heels and marching out of the barracks.
The guards followed suit, dragging Freeman with them. They took him behind the workshop and pantomimed that he should strip off his dirty clothes, gesturing with their weapons when he hesitated. When he had complied with their order, they made him stand up against the rear wall of the workshop on a cement slab set into the ground and then retreated a dozen feet away.
So this is how it ends, Freeman thought to himself. He’d survived both an aerial dogfight with the famed Richthofen and the crash that followed only to face summary execution in a dirty POW camp by a couple of German thugs.
Freeman ignored the pain in his leg and did his best to stand tall, wanting to go out with some dignity.
To his surprise, one of the guards disappeared around the side of the workshop and came back a moment later carrying a fireman’s hose. The guard threw the lever attached to the side of the nozzle, and a jet of icy cold water struck Freeman like a freight train, slamming him against the wall behind him and holding him there with the strength of ten men. The guard directed the spray up and down Freeman’s body, using the water like an industrial-sized scrubbing pad, leaving the American gasping for breath as the force of the flow hammered him without mercy.
Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, the guard switched the hose off and Freeman collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Now he understood the purpose of the slab he was lying on; it wouldn’t do to have freshly scrubbed prisoners fall into the mud that was the dominant feature of the camp. While the first guard returned the hose, another approached and threw a gray coverall to Freeman, indicating he should get dressed.
When Freeman didn’t move quickly enough for the guards’ liking, they moved in and helped him get dressed, not caring how often they yanked or bumped his injured leg. By the time they were finished, he was gasping from the pain, but at least he was no longer naked. The prisoner’s uniform he now wore also gave him the sense that he might be here awhile.
They gave him a moment to get himself together and then marched him across the camp to the commandant’s residence. Rather than going into the clerk’s office, as he had earlier in the day, the guards led him in through a different door on the side of the house facing away from the camp and Freeman found himself standing in a well-appointed foyer. A butler was waiting for them, and after exchanging a few words with the guards, he turned to Freeman and said, “This way, Major.”
Their destination turned out to be the dining room, where several German officers were seated around the table. Conversation ceased when he entered the room.
“Ah, Major Freeman, how good of you to join us!”
The speaker was a blond-haired, jowl-cheeked man in the uniform of an oberst, which made him the equivalent of an American colonel, one rank above Freeman. He wore a pair of pince-nez spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose and black leather gloves on his hands, though whether the latter was to hide an injury or as a personal affectation, Freeman didn’t know.
“I am Oberst Schulheim, commandant of Stalag 113,” his host said with a smile, revealing teeth that had been sharpened to points, “and I
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