Broken Blades Page 5

  But then he’d forced himself to calm and do just his duty, without ire or prejudice. Not even against Chandler.

  Armin couldn’t help wondering how Chandler and Mark would get on. He assumed Mark was respectful of rank and had proper military bearing, but he also knew the fiery core underneath the uniform and insignia and hair that had grayed before its time. If Chandler could push Armin to consider finding a way to have the bastard court-martialed, then Armin could only imagine what Chandler could bring out of Mark.

  Assuming, of course, that fiery core still existed.

  Chapter 6

  From the second he met him, Mark didn’t like Major Chandler. It wasn’t that he expected everyone to be giddy at the arrival of more captured troops, but Chandler instantly struck him as having a massive chip on his shoulder. Even in a calm state, he seemed like the type who could get the red ass over the slightest offense.

  In a cramped room made of stone, Chandler faced Mark and Silent Joe across a rickety wooden table. Beside a flickering candle, a cigarette resting in the ashtray sent up a single swirl of gray smoke. Mark’s mouth watered. He’d smoked three cigarettes in rapid succession after Blitz had died, and shortly after that, the Wehrmacht had shown up. He hadn’t had one since, and now he was desperate for one.

  There was a tattered pack beside Chandler’s elbow. It looked like it had at least five or six smokes still in it. It had caught Silent Joe’s attention too—the first thing that had really piqued his interest in days—but Chandler didn’t offer. He picked up the smoldering cigarette and cradled it between his fingers.

  “So, Captains.” The major took a drag. “I understand you were part of a downed B-17 crew.”

  Silent Joe didn’t speak, so Mark said, “Yes, sir. Eighth Army Air—”

  “I can read your patches, Captain.” Chandler gestured with his cigarette at the “8” on Mark’s shoulder. “How many in your crew survived?”

  “Six, sir.”

  “Seven.” Silent Joe’s voice startled Mark. “Seven survived the crash.”

  Chandler’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “Well? Was it six, or was it seven?”

  Mark squared his shoulders. “Seven. The sixth was killed after we were captured.”

  “I see.” Chandler took another long, luxurious drag, and then blew out the smoke. “And the two who arrived with you. They’re uninjured?”

  Mark hesitated. “Our bombardier, Lieutenant Broadwater, is fine. Bumps and bruises, but he’ll be all right. The navigator, Second Lieutenant Keller …”

  Beside him Silent Joe shifted, the chair creaking in the otherwise silent room.

  “What about him?” Chandler asked.

  “He’s got a”—Mark gestured at his own temple—“a gash. The Germans sewed it up, but I think the crash rang his bell. He’s been sick, unsteady on his feet.” He paused, glancing at Silent Joe, and quietly added, “He’s not improving.”

  Chandler nodded. “We’ll keep an eye on him, then.” He looked at the other men who’d been standing unobtrusively against the wall, and gave a slight nod. One of them left the room.

  Mark was relieved, knowing the major was making sure someone looked after Rubble, but he still wasn’t sure about this guy. He had a gleam in his eye that Mark had seen before, especially in men who’d fought in the last big war. Those who were restless when the battle was over. Those who, if they were taken from a fight, would find—or create—another one.

  “Consider yourselves lucky.” Chandler leaned forward. “Castle Ahlenstieg is an Oflag—officer camp. They moved the French out last year, so now it’s just British and American.” He glanced back at the door. “There’s a hundred-fifty men in here, almost a hundred guards, most of them old, crippled or otherwise useless, then staff. Nearest village—you walked through it. At least a few men are in the cooler at any given time.”

  “What for?”

  “Mostly misdemeanors, goon-baiting, drunk and disorderly conduct, some escape attempts. The first duty of any officer is to escape. If they catch us, we go into the hole.”

  “And I thought the Nazis do the ‘shot while trying to escape’ thing.” Mark glanced at Silent Joe, who gave the barest nod.

  “The ones here don’t. They’re Wehrmacht, not SS. It’s not nearly as strict as in other camps.” Chandler shrugged. “They catch us, they put us in the hole, and that’s it. That’s because the Kommandant? He’s a weakling. Brittle nerves. Can’t withstand stress.”

  Mark ground his teeth. Much as he loathed Armin just then, he refused to believe he was weak. Weathered and beaten, maybe, but weak? Not a chance. The Nazis didn’t decorate chests for weakness.

  “Has anyone escaped?” Silent Joe’s voice was flat, devoid of his usually boisterous personality.

  Chandler nodded. “It’s rare. Some have been brought back later. The guards claim the three that got out a few weeks ago were lynched by the population, good citizens of the Reich that they are, and they left the bodies out in the snow, but …” He shook his head and then took another drag before extinguishing what was left of his cigarette. “That’s another thing that queer Kommandant won’t tolerate.”

  Mark kept his expression neutral, and ignored the “queer” part. He didn’t want to know how Chandler knew. Or thought he knew. Mark cleared his throat. “He won’t tolerate it?”

  “Nope.” Chandler chuckled. “Says he wants anyone killed during an escape attempt brought back here as an example to the rest of us, but I think he’s just too much of a softy to leave bodies out there.” He pulled another cigarette from the pack. “I figure he knows they’re losing the war and he’s already starting to curry favors. Or he just doesn’t have the stomach for war.”

  Mark decided to let the subject drop.

  “Considering how things are going on the outside, there’s a strong opinion among prisoners that we should all just stay put until it’s over. Some say it’ll be over by Christmas. I for one can’t wait to see the Kommandant and his goons hang. Well.” Chandler struck a match and lit his cigarette. “Now that you’ve briefed me, I’ll have the men show you to your bunks. Any questions or requests, or any problems, let any of these men know.” He waved a hand at the others. “I’ll take any issues to the Kommandant.”

  Another captain led Silent Joe and Mark down the corridor to a drafty room set up to accommodate—if rather tightly—eight men. They were assigned the bunk at the far end of the room, which unfortunately put them near the window, but some rags had been hung over it to, hopefully, ward off some of the cold.

  Silent Joe took the top bunk. Mark sat on the bottom one; it was hard and uneven, but a damn sight better than the floor of a box car. The coarse blanket wouldn’t be quite the same as one of Mother’s afghans back home, but it’d beat shivering in a concrete cell or being back on that damned train. And thank the Lord he and Silent Joe both still had their leather jackets. He didn’t envy the men who’d lost or were never issued jackets like that.

  He emptied his pockets of the few possessions he still had. Why he still had his wedding band with him, he couldn’t begin to explain, but he wasn’t quite ready to throw it away. Maybe he could barter it for something later. It wasn’t worth a damn to him anymore, so if he could get a few packs of cigarettes or a chocolate bar for it, he’d be happy.

  The folded letter he’d kept in the same pocket—that was worthless. But he kept it. Especially since it was the only letter from home he had left. The string-wrapped bundle of letters he’d carried around with him had been soaked with too much of Blitz’s blood to save, and the only one that survived had been this one since he’d kept it in a different pocket. Of all the letters to survive, it had to be that one.

  He didn’t read it this time. He tucked it, along with his obsolete wedding ring and a few other personal effects, under the lumpy mattress. Then he lay back across the bed, hands laced behind his head on the hard pillow. So this was prison. His older brother had spent some time in the county jail back home, and told
him it was boring.

  “Nothing to do,” he’d said. “Just sittin’ around, passin’ the time until they let you go.”

  He wondered what his brother would think of this. Boring with nothing to do, but with the added fear that one of those bombs he felt going off in the distance could come through this roof.

  Boredom mixed with terror. This would be a wonderful stay. Especially with the letter from his wife—well, not anymore—under his pillow, and the man he’d never gotten out of his mind as the camp’s Kommandant.

  Maybe he’d died in that crash after all. It would certainly explain how he’d ended up in hell.

  Chapter 7

  Armin thought of it as his walk, his rounds. Maybe it was no different from a head surgeon walking along the wards in his clinic to get an idea of what was going on and maybe shake hands every now and then.

  He didn’t expect to shake any hands here, but he did feel responsible for the castle despite the fact it was nothing like his family’s castle. The family clung to that old box largely for tradition’s sake, and the place had mostly been used as a hunting retreat for a generation or two, at least until Göring as the Reich’s Hunting Leader had forbidden to use horses and hounds to hunt, claiming it was “unsporting” for the game. Had they afforded the same delicate sensibility to the Communists and Socialists and everybody else who disagreed, Germany would have been a different place.

  The British were using one part of the castle for their activities—this early in the day, those included lectures. They sat on all manner of chairs that they could have assembled in the castle and were listening raptly to what Armin caught was a diplomatic history of the eighteenth century. They hushed when he entered what had once been the great hall, and even the lecturer fell silent, which made some of the prisoners turn around, regarding him curiously.

  Millington-Smythe immediately showed up and pushed himself between his men and Armin, as if physically protecting them with his long, lanky body. Armin noticed most of them weren’t shaved, and Millington-Smythe’s handlebar moustache was beginning to creep sideways.

  “Kommandant.”

  Armin nodded, indicating he didn’t stand for much ceremony. Trying to enforce any of it would only mean trouble. They knew better than to provoke or attack him—the guards were watchful, and Schäfer’s bulk stood right next to him. Armin sometimes wondered what tank factory had had parts left to make Schäfer.

  Armin walked along the great hall, feeling the gaze of the POWs on him, and stood in front of the cold fireplace. They didn’t manage to heat the whole castle and even when they did, the thick walls never fully warmed up, but it was very cold in here. Much more than in his office, though maybe he was just always cold. Always cold. Never managed to get warm since …

  Armin pressed his lips together and looked at Millington-Smythe, who now came closer.

  “Kommandant, did you think about my suggestion?”

  “I did.” Armin looked over the soldiers in their dirty uniforms, casual, even insolent now on their chairs while the lecturer surreptitiously leafed through a few sheets of notes. They were clearly stalling. As if some ancient diplomatic history could be of any use to the enemy now.

  “There are a few concerns. One is the danger.”

  Millington-Smythe assumed his blasé attitude. “No more dangerous than the lads getting crazy ideas. It’s important for morale, Kommandant, especially now in winter.”

  “Where will you get the equipment from?”

  “I thought … in your office, Kommandant. If you would loan …”

  Armin felt his heart jump into his throat and then suddenly die. “Ah, yes. I do appear to have some of the equipment you’ll need.”

  “If it’s not too much of an imposition.”

  Strange, how it hurt. That it hurt. That old bundle of swords and masks. He could find britches and plastrons, too. He briefly considered claiming he didn’t even know who they belonged to. Maybe a previous Kommandant, of which the castle had had two before him.

  “I’ll make you responsible for the equipment. After the lessons, the swords and equipment will be locked away again.” Or they’d end up as parts in one of the more adventurous stills that the prisoners kept building. Constantly, things went missing in the castle and never appeared again. They even dismantled basic plumbing to use the parts elsewhere and complained about the breakdown of sanitation and running hot and cold water.

  “Indeed, Kommandant. That would be splendid.”

  “This room has about the right dimensions. Do you have judges and trainers?”

  “I fenced at Oxford. So has …” The Briton aborted the gesture to an indistinct wave. “A few others. We feel it will help keep the discipline and morale.”

  And there’s at least one more experienced fencer among you now.

  Armin nodded. “Very well. I’ll see to it that you have the equipment you need.”

  “Thank you, Kommandant.”

  Armin responded with another slight nod, and then slipped out of the room with Schäfer. Behind him, he heard the lecturer clear his throat and begin again just before the door shut, cutting off the man’s voice.

  “Are you sure this is wise, Kommandant?” Schäfer asked.

  Armin glanced up at him as they continued down the corridor. “Tell me why it isn’t.”

  “Giving the prisoners weapons? Letting them—”

  “Weapons?” Armin laughed. “You’re not a fencer, are you, Hauptmann?”

  Schäfer stopped. So did Armin.

  Scowling, the giant of a man gestured at Armin’s face. “Apparently you are?”

  “I was,” Armin growled. “And this”—he pointed sharply at the old scar—“is something different entirely. These men won’t be using sharp weapons.”

  “Not unless they sharpen them.”

  Armin chuckled and continued walking. “Well. At least that will give them something to do.”

  “Kommandant.”

  “Relax.” Armin glanced up at him again. “They’ll be under heavy supervision. All weapons accounted for before and after each session. Anyone takes one, whether they intend to sharpen it or not, then they’re welcome to attempt to dig their way out of the hole with it.”

  Schäfer just grunted, but let the subject go.

  In one of the rooms that had been converted into a mess hall, several Americans were engaged in a poker game. They hunched over their cards, pushing cigarettes and small rations of chocolate into the growing ante pile at the center of the table.

  One man’s eyes flicked up. Though he didn’t make a sound, and his posture didn’t noticeably change, the other men seemed to take notice, and looked up as well. Subtly, they all leaned toward the table, as if guarding both the cards in their hands and the luxuries at stake.

  “Gentlemen.” Armin continued past the room, leaving the men to their game. A few whispers rose behind him, but he couldn’t understand them. Let them talk. They weren’t here to like him, and snarling over some cards and chocolates didn’t get them out of the castle.

  “They should be grateful they’re here and not one of the other camps,” Schäfer groused.

  Armin just chuckled. “They don’t have to be happy here. They only have to stay here.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  The corridor wound around to the left, and as it straightened out again, Armin saw three Americans speaking in hushed tones and smoking beside a stone archway. All three turned as one. Armin knew most of the POWs by face, if not by name, but he couldn’t identify the two men on the right. Not because he didn’t recognize their faces, but because he caught himself looking straight at the third one.

  Mark.

  Mark’s eyes narrowed as he brought his cigarette back up to his lips, and he held Armin’s gaze as he took a long drag.

  The silence inched toward extremely awkward. Armin cleared his throat and acknowledged the other two with a glance. “I trust you are all settling in.”

  “If you could call it that,” Mar
k muttered around his cigarette.

  Armin wasn’t sure how to respond. He was used to venom from the men under his charge, but it was strange coming from Mark. Whatever innocence had drawn Armin to him back then was long gone now, replaced by this battle-hardened, bitter warrior. Judging by the focused intensity of Mark’s cold, unwavering stare, not all of that bitterness was directed at the nearest available German. Not a general hatred and distrust of all Germans, but something pointed at one specific target.

  Armin squared his shoulders, ignoring the perpetual stiffness in the left one. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  The two on the left grunted something like “same to you.” Mark said nothing, and looked out at something beyond the stone arch instead of at Armin.

  Armin and Schäfer kept walking.

  “That one’s going to be a problem.” Schäfer spoke quietly so his voice didn’t echo and only Armin could have heard him.

  He won’t be a problem for anyone but me.

  “I’m not concerned about him.”

  Major Chandler was coming up the corridor now, taking long, angry strides, his face red. Only years of practiced reserve kept Armin from releasing an exasperated sigh, no matter how much he wanted to do just that. What now, Chandler?

  “Major,” he said.

  “Kommandant.” But the major kept walking, nearly colliding with Schäfer as he brushed past.

  Armin and Schäfer both glanced over their shoulders at the major’s back, then looked at each other, shrugged, and kept walking.

  * * * *

  “Captain Driscoll.”

  “Oh, shit.” Mark dropped his cigarette and stomped on it. He stood straighter and—despite pain, fatigue, and fresh annoyance flaring up inside him—forced himself to have some military bearing. He faced the major as he approached. “Yes, sir?”

  Major Chandler stepped up right in Mark’s face. “Did I just see you talking to the Kommandant, Captain?”