voice rose.
‘Why doesn’t he do anything, Jim? Why doesn’t he stop them like he stopped the tribes that plotted against Israel?’
Horace opened his mouth to speak, ready to tell Tom Fenwick that his God didn’t exist. Horace always had his doubts, wondered how his brother could have been sucked in so easily. Harold had wanted his twin brother involved. He had wanted him to attend at least one or two services he preached at. Horace had refused, wondering why so many grown men and women wasted so many hours of their lives preaching and praying to someone or something they had never met, never touched, never even seen. He could understand the ancients worshipping the sun, the giver and taker of life in times of darkness and bad summers. Yes, he could understand the man who would pray for a good harvest, pray for the sun to shine…
Yet he’d always kept an open mind. He’d admired the teachings of the Christian church. He’d respected the man Jesus Christ and his ideals, respected and somehow believed,or rather hoped, that good would always triumph over evil. Until now.
There was no God. There couldn’t be.
At that very moment it was he who wanted to stand up in the pulpit and preach to this man and tell him how ridiculous his belief was. But there was no need. At that same moment Tom Fenwick lost his faith, lost the God he’d believed in for as long as he could remember – and Horace saw it in his eyes. The young man buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a baby.
After the roll call the prisoners were marched over to the far side of the camp to the kitchen. Their daily ration was one bowl of cabbage water soup and a third of a tin loaf of stodgy, heavy, dark brown bread, an hour or two after they were woken around seven. It was the highlight of each day. Horace broke his ration of bread into three for the long day ahead, as did most of the men. Horace sat with Tom Fenwick who, unusually, wolfed down his bread ration in one. It was the action of a man taking his last meal, though Horace didn’t know it at the time.
The fort was surrounded by a huge moat, though empty of water. The only way to exit the fort was across a drawbridge patrolled on either side of the wall by German guards. To set foot on this bridge without permission was tantamount to suicide.
Tom Fenwick smiled at Horace and mumbled something about being reunited with his father again. Before Horace had realised what was happening, Tom Fenwick sprinted towards the bridge, screaming something undecipherable at the top of his voice. As was intended, it drew the attention of every German soldier on duty and as he leapt onto the wooden gantry he was cut down in a hail of bullets before his feet touched the ground. Still the Germans pumped more bulletsinto the body lying on the wooden surface and Thomas Albert Fenwick breathed his last.
Horace looked into the faces of the soldiers who had ended the life of the young man without hesitation. They were smiling, congratulating each other… not unlike the praise Horace had received from his father all those years ago as a teenager when he had taken down a fast-running hare or rabbit at long distance. It seemed the Nazis had enjoyed their early morning sport.
The Waffen SS ran Fort Eight at Posen with an iron fist and near hatred for the incarcerated men. There was a total lack of respect for the soldier who had ended up there. The SS were indoctrinated that the honourable man died on the battlefield and only the lowest surrendered or were captured. The beating of a prisoner was a common occurrence; a man just had to look at a guard the wrong way and the shit would be kicked out of him.
Within a week the prisoners fit enough to stand on parade were asked by an SS officer if any of their civilian occupations could help with the glorious German war effort. It was the wrong approach. The men kept quiet – except one.
‘I will help the marvellous German war effort with my civilian work
‘Why doesn’t he do anything, Jim? Why doesn’t he stop them like he stopped the tribes that plotted against Israel?’
Horace opened his mouth to speak, ready to tell Tom Fenwick that his God didn’t exist. Horace always had his doubts, wondered how his brother could have been sucked in so easily. Harold had wanted his twin brother involved. He had wanted him to attend at least one or two services he preached at. Horace had refused, wondering why so many grown men and women wasted so many hours of their lives preaching and praying to someone or something they had never met, never touched, never even seen. He could understand the ancients worshipping the sun, the giver and taker of life in times of darkness and bad summers. Yes, he could understand the man who would pray for a good harvest, pray for the sun to shine…
Yet he’d always kept an open mind. He’d admired the teachings of the Christian church. He’d respected the man Jesus Christ and his ideals, respected and somehow believed,or rather hoped, that good would always triumph over evil. Until now.
There was no God. There couldn’t be.
At that very moment it was he who wanted to stand up in the pulpit and preach to this man and tell him how ridiculous his belief was. But there was no need. At that same moment Tom Fenwick lost his faith, lost the God he’d believed in for as long as he could remember – and Horace saw it in his eyes. The young man buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a baby.
After the roll call the prisoners were marched over to the far side of the camp to the kitchen. Their daily ration was one bowl of cabbage water soup and a third of a tin loaf of stodgy, heavy, dark brown bread, an hour or two after they were woken around seven. It was the highlight of each day. Horace broke his ration of bread into three for the long day ahead, as did most of the men. Horace sat with Tom Fenwick who, unusually, wolfed down his bread ration in one. It was the action of a man taking his last meal, though Horace didn’t know it at the time.
The fort was surrounded by a huge moat, though empty of water. The only way to exit the fort was across a drawbridge patrolled on either side of the wall by German guards. To set foot on this bridge without permission was tantamount to suicide.
Tom Fenwick smiled at Horace and mumbled something about being reunited with his father again. Before Horace had realised what was happening, Tom Fenwick sprinted towards the bridge, screaming something undecipherable at the top of his voice. As was intended, it drew the attention of every German soldier on duty and as he leapt onto the wooden gantry he was cut down in a hail of bullets before his feet touched the ground. Still the Germans pumped more bulletsinto the body lying on the wooden surface and Thomas Albert Fenwick breathed his last.
Horace looked into the faces of the soldiers who had ended the life of the young man without hesitation. They were smiling, congratulating each other… not unlike the praise Horace had received from his father all those years ago as a teenager when he had taken down a fast-running hare or rabbit at long distance. It seemed the Nazis had enjoyed their early morning sport.
The Waffen SS ran Fort Eight at Posen with an iron fist and near hatred for the incarcerated men. There was a total lack of respect for the soldier who had ended up there. The SS were indoctrinated that the honourable man died on the battlefield and only the lowest surrendered or were captured. The beating of a prisoner was a common occurrence; a man just had to look at a guard the wrong way and the shit would be kicked out of him.
Within a week the prisoners fit enough to stand on parade were asked by an SS officer if any of their civilian occupations could help with the glorious German war effort. It was the wrong approach. The men kept quiet – except one.
‘I will help the marvellous German war effort with my civilian work
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