SailingRabbit

Austin Tretheway felt like he had aged several years in the months he had been laid up in Stalag V C’s hospital. For the first time in months, he was able to look into a mirror, and wondered if the man in it was really him. The man’s face was hollow. His bones were more prominent. His eyes were deeper in their sockets, and lined with dark circles. “Corporal,” he said, looking at the German medic, Wenzel, measuring fluid in an IV drip bag, “is it really March already?” “Yes,” Wenzel replied. “And it was January when I was captured?” “I think ‘rescued’ is the better word to use.” A dull ache suddenly bloomed in Tretheway’s right side. “You’re right.” After leaving the hospital, Tretheway tried to integrate himself into camp life. As a commando, he was completely alone. Everyone else had their own little groups based on what their job was in the British Army when they were captured. The majority of soldiers there had been taken in North Africa, while the rest had been taken in

“I remember the first time I was given a birthday present that wasn’t a toy,” Sergeant Plundell said. “I had turned twelve, and my father gave me a watch. I was confused, because I had wanted a new bicycle, and he told me that there was going to come a time where I would appreciate getting things I actually needed as gifts.” The middle of May brought beautiful weather, along with the young soldier’s birthday. A whole twenty-six years old that day, and spending it in a prisoner-of-war camp in southern Germany. He had been showered with gifts and shouts of “Happy birthday!” from just about everyone in camp since getting up that morning. It was exhausting, so much so that Stalag V C’s commandant, Captain Westheimer, took Plundell aside so he could catch his breath. “What did I even do to deserve so much?” Plundell asked, looking up at the older German. “Your birthday is a celebration of your life,” Westheimer replied. “You are fortunate to have so many people who love and care for you

“Grow up.” Captain Westheimer glared at Private Jahn as the younger man was giggling every time some unsuspecting soul sat on the whoopie cushion he had placed on the bench outside one of the prisoner barracks—that whoopie cushion happened to be invisible, and Jahn had been holding the spell for quite some time, enjoying people’s reactions whenever they sat down and immediately when searching for the cushion. “Come on, Captain, it’s hilarious. They can’t figure out where the sound is coming from,” Jahn replied, wiping tears from his eyes. Sighing heavily, Westheimer plucked the wand from Jahn’s grip, immediately revealing the bright-pink cushion on the bench. “If you are bored, you can go water the plants in the greenhouse.” “Liebermann’s doing that, sir.” “Then find something productive to do, or I will make you clean bedpans in the hospital.” On one hand, Jahn couldn’t fault the commandant for being irritable. Their resistance group was being flooded with rumors that the Allies

Warmer, nicer weather wasn’t a good combination with a prisoner-of-war camp, where no one could leave. The British POWs who had been at Stalag V C for a few years now were used to it, while newer arrivals like Sergeant Plundell found themselves pacing the perimeter of camp more frequently. At least they were able to stay outside longer. The sun still being out after dinner felt strange after the many long and dark winter months. As the sky began turning all shades of red, pink, and orange, Plundell wandered over to where one of the guards, Private Liebermann, was sitting cross-legged on the ground, gazing out through the fence at the gently sloping hills and forest that bordered the camp. Sitting next to his friend, Plundell asked, “How come you’re back here by yourself?” “Thinking,” Liebermann replied. “About what?” Liebermann sighed. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but . . . Westheimer’s been hearing rumors about the Allies invading France at some point this year.

“You’ll never know unless you try.” Sergeant Plundell’s words echoed in Private Liebermann’s head as he looked across the sparsely populated tavern at a young woman gazing down at a book and absentmindedly stirring a cup of tea. She had been coming into the tavern for the last week or so, sitting at the same exact spot and ordering the same exact tea, reading the same book. The only difference was where her bookmark ended up. Her hair was short and the color of coffee. One could say she was rather plain-looking, but Liebermann disagreed. “She’s quite pretty, actually,” he had said to Plundell in the Stalag’s mess hall. “At least, I think so.” “Sounds like you’ve got a bit of a crush going on,” Plundell replied, putting a spoonful of stew in his mouth. “Have you said anything to her?” “No. I’ve just . . . noticed that she comes into the tavern to read, which is odd. A tavern is too loud.” “That could be just how she likes it. Is that the only thing that caught your

There had to have been over a hundred photographs strewn across the floor, all of which were enveloped in memories with varying emotions. They were destined for a large and thick album Sergeant Plundell was holding on his lap while he sat with his back to the desk in Commandant Westheimer’s office. He felt like a child again, putting together an album of pictures he found interesting or delightful. Ever since he knew he was in love with a young lady named Monnie Abberton, he had wanted to give that album to her. Sadly, that album was back in Britain, and he was stuck in Germany for the foreseeable future. With Valentine’s Day around the corner, he felt obliged to make something for her, and it would take too long to write his parents and ask them to send the album to Monnie. Mail was only collected and sent once a week. That, and Plundell wanted to feel like the gift was coming from him. It needed to be special. So he went around taking pictures of things and people around Stalag V C

Upon hearing that the Brandt farm had requested a work detail from Stalag V C again, Private Jahn didn’t hesitate to storm into Captain Westheimer’s office to say, “If you decide to take the prisoners to the Brandts, I am not coming with you.” Westheimer raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think that tone of voice will convince me to let you stay here, son?” “You know how much I hate Griselda, and she hates me. So much so that she’ll stop at nothing to make our stay a living hell for me.” “You are both adults. You can be around each other for a few hours without resorting to petty pranks and trickery.” Westheimer took a sip of his coffee. “I thought you made a point out of respecting our wishes.” “I do, but I do not appreciate when you attempt to abuse my compassion to get out of duties or acting more mature.” “How do you expect me to be more mature around Griselda? She’s nineteen, yes, but she acts like she’s nine!” “And who pulled her pigtails in grammar school and teased

The two German soldiers in the back of the truck had struggled to keep their prisoner under control for the last half-hour they had been riding through the snow-covered forests of southern Germany. The tall, imposing, but lean man wearing a British uniform was covered in bruises and blood, but much of the blood wasn’t his own, as seen with the bandaged bitemarks on the neck of one of the Germans. At least, to their relief, the man wasn’t a vampire or werewolf. They still put a makeshift muzzle on him when it became clear he was going to fight no matter what. “We’re almost at the camp, Sergeant Becker,” the bandaged one said. “You can act like an animal there. I highly doubt the commandant will tolerate your behavior, though.” “And we’re talking about someone who is typically very calm and tolerant,” his companion said. “Good luck.” The sergeant glared at both of them, not saying a word. The blood was drying to his face and freezing solid on his uniform, making it feel hard and

The fruity and somewhat tart smell of raspberry tea had filled the kitchen. It was pleasant and sad at the same time, because the memories associated with such a smell were both pleasant and sad. It was a smell associated with home and happiness and comfort, but the last week or so had been a whirlwind of emotions for Private Liebermann, so much so that there was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to go numb. He had never expected being a guard at a prisoner-of-war camp would be rife with excitement. He was told it would be incredibly boring. For his first assignment, it was. Upon being moved to Stalag V C, suddenly things became more interesting. Nothing was typical, and he liked that. But it wasn’t always fun. After last week, he found himself wishing for a day where nothing happened, where he didn’t feel anything. It started with feeling someone else’s pain, an injured British paratrooper found outside the camp’s perimeter, and it continued with being unable to

Captain Westheimer knew there was a reason he primarily stuck to coffee and hot chocolate after Stalag V C opened, and it wasn’t because tea just wasn’t available—he had plenty smuggled in for his British prisoners from Switzerland—nor was it because he didn’t enjoy tea once in awhile. It was because he couldn’t stand the intense standards tea was held to among the British, and after a particularly nasty argument between the German guards and British prisoners, Westheimer vowed to only drink tea in private. His superior and close friend, Major Kersting, arrived one cold evening in mid-January of 1944 with several large boxes containing both bagged and loose tea in the trunk of his staff car. “I thought you all could use a present,” he said. “Christmas was almost a month ago, Dieter,” Westheimer replied. “Frankly, I am surprised no one searched your vehicle. The smell is . . . quite powerful.” “And delightful. This is the good stuff, far from the low-quality ration tea.” “I gave