Blackbone

by George Simpson

  Then the captain was walking toward him, and it was too late to run.

  “Captain Hopkins reporting, sir. Welcome to Blackbone.”

  Gilman returned the salute. “Major Gilman, Captain.”

  Hopkins grinned and stuck out his hand—the gesture was openly informal and seemed to say, Let’s show the men that you and I are gonna be pals.

  Gilman made no move to acknowledge the gesture until Hopkins’ grin faded, then Gilman gripped his hand. Thereafter, Hopkins was in an uncertain mood.

  Gilman rushed through the formalities of assuming command. Hopkins called the MPs to attention, and they ran a quick inspection.

  Gilman came to the end of the first rank and realized he hadn’t looked a single one of these soldiers in the eye. He had stared at their boots, their belt buckles and buttons, but not their faces. He did the second rank less quickly, forcing himself to display some humanity, some interest, though doing so only made him anxious.

  This was not going to be easy. He kept seeing those faces in France. Second Battalion.

  He returned to position himself in front of the men. Hopkins stood before him stiffly. Gilman looked past him, through the fence at the row of Germans lined up behind the warning wire. He stared at them and for a moment the MPs didn’t exist: there was only David Gilman and a bunch of Germans, the enemy.... Some feeling he didn’t understand welled up inside him. Gilman thought it might be hate, but it felt more like despair.

  He caught Hopkins staring at him. The captain’s face betrayed nothing, but what had he seen in Gilman’s eyes? Fear? Terror? Weakness? Gilman didn’t give him a chance to think about it.

  “I’d like to tour the camp, Captain.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather get settled first, sir?”

  “I’m settled just dandy. Let’s go have a look at those Germans.”

  They went through the gate—Gilman, Hopkins, and four MPs. It was closed, chained, and padlocked after them. They went down the slope and were met by Steuben and Bruckner.

  Ignoring Bruckner, Hopkins introduced Steuben. “Major Gilman, this is the senior Nazi officer at Blackbone, Major Walter Steuben.”

  “German officer, Captain Hopkins,” Steuben said, matching the precise inflection of hostility that Hopkins had directed at him. “As I have reminded you many times, the Nazis are a political party of which I am not a member. I am an officer of the Wehrmacht. I realize it’s difficult for you, but please make that distinction.”

  Steuben spoke excellent English with only the trace of an accent. Gilman figured him for about forty. He was heavyset, with wolfish features and an impressive air of authority. Bruckner, on the other hand, wore a phony smile. Behind it lurked pure terror. He kept glancing at Hopkins and tightening his grip on the dog’s leash.

  Steuben saluted Gilman. “Blackbone is not your typical American resort, Herr Major, but should you desire company, I am happy to offer my quarters as a refuge from the daily bore. You play poker, Major?”

  Gilman returned the salute. “Sure do. But you know the rules—no fraternizing.”

  “Wie schade!”

  “Yes, it is a pity.”

  “You speak German, Major?”

  “Just enough to tell a prisoner what to do.” Gilman grinned. Steuben’s smile froze.

  He recovered quickly and bowed with that curious European chickenlike nod. “I am happy to report that in my time in your country, I have acquired what the Americans call a sense of humor. I shall be most happy to take it home with me when the festivities are over.”

  Hopkins spat and glared at Steuben. “Don’t be fooled by his jokes, Major. Steuben here is the leader of the pack. What he says, goes. If the Germans make trouble, you can be sure he’s behind it.”

  Steuben bowed again. “I am sure Major Gilman knows a troublemaker when he sees one, Captain.”

  Hopkins took a step toward Steuben, his features going taut with anger. “I don’t think the major needs to hear any more from you.”

  Steuben faced him without expression. There was nothing more Hopkins could say or do, so he whirled sharply and glared at Bruckner.

  “You still got that damned dog?”

  Bruckner shrank slightly and looked at Gilman with a bent smile that seemed forced under his natural pinched scowl.

  “Leutnant, I’d like you to speak freely,” Gilman said. “How is it here? Are you comfortable?”

  Bruckner stared at him. “Ja,” he said hesitantly.

  “And your dog? How does he get along?”

  “He eats scraps, Major,” Steuben cut in. “He’s really no bother.”

  Hopkins strolled around Gilman and approached the dog. Bruckner eyed him warily. “Don’t worry, Leutnant,” said Hopkins. “I’m not going to kick the sonofabitch. I don’t kick dogs.”

  Gilman felt the tension even more than the chill in the air. He had learned one thing without anybody telling him to his face: the Germans hated Hopkins. And they feared him.

  Gilman knelt down. Slowly he raised a hand. Cautiously, the dog approached and sniffed it. That led to some petting and stroking, then the dog was licking his hand and Gilman was scratching its ears, and Bruckner knelt down with him and together they petted the dog.

  “His name is Churchill,” Bruckner said, almost apologetically.

  Gilman snorted a laugh. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the Germans along the slope watching him and nodding to each other. Yes, sir, best move he could have made. Pet the dog, make some friends.

  The barracks huts looked a lot worse close up—warped walls and rot, and great flaps of tar paper hanging over the edges of the roofs. The huts had been constructed on stilts with about eighteen inches of crawl space beneath. There were a few windows and a door at each end. None of the doors were seated right. And at some of them, there were no steps, just a sharp drop—bad for sleepwalkers.

  Inside, the huts were sectioned off into rooms on either side and an aisle down the center. The walls were thin plywood sheets. There were double bunks, and the Germans slept eight to a room. No frills. Some rooms had windows, others did not. The shower hut was a communal facility with a urinal trough, a few unenclosed pots, a long sink, and mirror for shaving and washing clothes. Most of the hut was taken up by a large shower stall with a concrete floor and drainage. The floor sloped sharply toward the drain, and Gilman noted a thick soapy scum around the sides. Overhead were shower pipes with unnozzled spouts.

  “Hot water?” he asked Hopkins.

  Hopkins took him outside and showed him the jury-rigged water heater, fed by a coal-burning stove. It was stone cold, and there was no coal in the bin.

  “How often do you shower?” Gilman asked Steuben.

  “Whenever we can heat the water,” Steuben replied.

  “How often is that?”

  “Now and then.”

  “Major, would you care to register a complaint?”

  Steuben studied him carefully, unsure how to answer that. He still hadn’t figured out whose side Gilman would be on. “Not at this time,” he said.

  Gilman glanced at Hopkins, who shrugged. “Want to see your quarters, Major?” he asked.

  “I’m not through here.” Gilman motioned to Steuben and they went back into the shower hut. Gilman asked about towels, soap, toilet paper, supplies in general.

  Steuben thought for a while, then said, “We have been short of these things in the past. Very short. But then, magically, they appear.” He threw a look at Hopkins.

  Hopkins snorted. “Sir, I think you should be directing those questions to me,” he said.

  “Okay.” Gilman turned and looked him square in the eye. Hopkins motioned toward the mess hut and they all trooped after him.

  Half the hut was a mess hall, crowded with tables and benches. There was a coal-burning stove in one corner. Behind another plywood partition was the kitchen, small and cramped. And beyond that, a locked pantry. Hopkins opened it and turned on the light. Inside, he displayed stacks of food—canned meats,
soups, and vegetables by the gallon; sacks of flour, rice, and salt; crates of oranges and fresh vegetables. It was more than well-stocked—it was stuffed with food that Steuben hadn’t seen in months. And he said so.

  Hopkins smiled. “Oh, come on, Major. You know damn well there’s a war on. There’re always shortages. We got lucky this week. Big shipment came in.”

  “And when did you bring it into the camp?” Steuben asked. “In the dead of night? When we were all sleeping?”

  “Sure. Made for a lot less fuss.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  “Don’t you like surprises?”

  Hopkins was enjoying his little joke.

  “What about coal for the stoves?” asked Gilman. “Blankets?”

  Hopkins took them out to a padlocked shed behind the mess hut. Opening it, he displayed two huge bins filled with coal. “Blankets came in yesterday,” he added. “Still out in our supply shack. Haven’t sorted them yet. But we’ll have them distributed today.”

  He stood back and rocked on his heels, happy.

  Steuben turned to Gilman, flushed with anger. “Major, this is all for show. These items have been requisitioned for months, but we have always been given the same excuse—there’s a war on. We are forced to live with shortages.” He pointed to the full coal bins. “This is not normal!”

  Gilman quietly asked, “Now do you want to make a formal complaint?”

  Steuben shook his head. “Your concern is enough.”

  Gilman nodded. By now, he had Steuben pegged. Career soldier, army man down to his toes, responsible, unselfish, and proud. Bruckner reminded him of an eagle-eyed accountant and seemed out of place as a soldier. Tight-lipped, brooding, and suspicious, he clung to his dog’s leash and carefully kept the animal away from Hopkins.

  Hopkins was only one thing, with or without the uniform—a bully.

  Gilman turned on his heel and walked away from the huts, heading for the warning wire, then beginning a hike around the perimeter. The others followed. The Germans hung back a little, but Hopkins caught up.

  Hopkins said nothing for a long time, and Gilman had the feeling he was being gauged. “We do the best we can,” Hopkins finally said. “But after all, sir, they are Germans.”

  “How goddamned observant of you, Hopkins.”

  “Sir—”

  “Now listen to me and listen carefully. When we finish this little tour, I’m going over to the supply shack to check out inventories for the last six months. You want to tell me right now what I’m going to find, or should I tell you?”

  Hopkins was silent.

  “Okay. You’ve been skimping on everything. Coal, blankets, food, soap—everything. Maybe you think it’s clever to treat these men like shit. After all, they’re your prisoners and they’re Germans. They’re not human, so you short their supplies. You starve them a little, and that reminds them who’s boss. I don’t believe you’re siphoning the stuff off for profit, Hopkins. I don’t think you’re clever enough for that. But you’ve become an expert torturer. Maybe you don’t think it’s wrong. Maybe you think it’s creative punishment and you ought to get a medal for what you’re doing. Well, I’ll tell you what you’re going to get. You’re going to get those goddamned blankets out now and, if you’re still short, you take them off the MPs’ bunks and you explain to them why. But I want every prisoner in this camp to have two new blankets by 1500 hours. And let them into those coal bins. And give Steuben a set of keys to the shed and the pantry. Now... what the fuck is this?”

  Gilman stopped at the back perimeter, where the fence climbed the sharp slope of the Blackbone foothills, enclosing a caved-in area within the camp.

  Hopkins was slow to answer: his ears still burned from Gilman’s attack. Gilman snapped at him, “I asked you a question, Captain!” as Steuben and Bruckner joined them, followed by the MPs.

  Hopkins stared at the cave-in. “It’s an abandoned mine shaft,” he explained. “Used to be a silver mine in Blackbone Mountain. When the Corps of Engineers laid out the camp, they sealed the shaft with explosives, then ran the fence around it.”

  “Why didn’t they put the fence on this side of the shaft?”

  “It... it was supposed to be sort of a symbol.” Hopkins glanced up from his shoes.

  “Of what?”

  “Freedom. So near yet so far.” Hopkins couldn’t resist a little smile at the joke.

  Gilman stared at him. “We’re supposed to be holding these people, Captain—not tormenting them.”

  Hopkins quivered with anger. “Sir, I have to question the wisdom of leniency. After all, sir, they are the enemy. Anything we can do to make them miserable, to demoralize them, is a contribution to the war effort!”

  With Steuben and Bruckner listening to every word, Gilman went nose to nose with Hopkins, “Treating them properly, Captain, is not leniency. It’s good sense, maybe even vital. If we break the rules, what indignities do you imagine the Germans might feel free to inflict on Americans in their camps? These men are under our care, not our thumb. Now, get this camp up to standard and be quick about it. And move that fence so that caved-in mine shaft is outside the wire.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hopkins’ lip quivered bitterly. “But... we’re out of fencing.”

  “Order some.”

  Gilman sent Hopkins back with the MPs, then hiked back toward the huts with Steuben. Bruckner remained a few paces behind, stopping once to let his dog take a leak.

  “Blackbone isn’t going to turn into a resort, Major,” said Gilman, “but I don’t think it should be an unpleasant place to sit out the war.”

  “Most appreciated, Major Gilman. Du bist ein ehrenhafter Mann.”

  “Honorable?”

  “Ja.” Steuben smiled. Gilman made no response. As they drew closer to the huts, he grew edgy seeing the crowd of faces studying him from the hut doors, from outside the huts, from beneath trees, Germans with curious eyes, hopeful eyes some of them, others hateful....

  “Ironisch, Herr Major,” said Steuben. “We are both sitting out the war, and we both have the same job—looking after the welfare of these men.”

  Gilman stopped abruptly and stared straight ahead as if lost. Then he parted from Steuben without a word and marched stiffly past the Germans and up to the gate.

  Steuben stared after him curiously.

  Chapter 3

  Hopkins slammed the door as he walked into headquarters. The company clerk, Corporal Chilton, looked up from his typing briefly, then continued, out of the corner of his eye watching Hopkins go to the window. Hopkins lit a cigarette and stared out at the camp, his brow furrowed with anger. He rolled the cigarette around his fingers like a magician rolls a coin, over the knuckles and under the tips then back and up into his mouth for a long draw. He was thinking.

  Chilton stopped typing and lit a cigarette for himself. Finally, their eyes met. “So, what’s he like, sir?” said Chilton.

  “He’s like shit,” said Hopkins.

  “What’s his beef?”

  “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

  “Sir?”

  “I want you to plug into the pipeline and get whatever dope is available on Major Gilman. I want to know exactly how he screwed up in France. I want names, dates, and places. I want to know if he crossed anybody, or fucked a general’s wife.” Hopkins rolled the butt through his fingers again. Then he flicked it across the room, and it landed squarely in Chilton’s ashtray.

  “I want something on him,” Hopkins growled. “I don’t care how you get it.”

  “Tall order, Captain.”

  “Is it worth a week in Frisco?”

  “Are we talking leave, sir?”

  “Could be.”

  “I’ll get right on it, Captain.”

  Steuben’s room served as the unofficial headquarters for the camp’s senior officers. There was a pinup next to the door, a magazine photo of some buxom Bavarian blonde with an extremely prominent behind. Some claimed it was Steuben’s w
ife, others his mistress. But everyone to a man who entered the room paused to pay homage, even if it was no more than an affectionate pat or a sideways glance. It served its purpose well, loosening tensions and promoting a lusty camaraderie.

  But there were serious faces filing into Steuben’s room after Gilman’s walking tour. Within ten minutes after Steuben returned, the room was filled with fellow officers wanting to know what the new amerikanischer Kommandant was like.

  “By the book,” said Steuben. “Tough, direct, but fair. I think we’ll see some improvement.”

  Leutnant Hoffman sneered. “How soft is he?”

  “Not soft at all. He is as likely to come down on us as he did Hopkins.”

  “You think he’ll transfer Hopkins out?”

  “No, but he’ll get him under control.”

  “I doubt that.” Bruckner was sitting on the window-sill, stroking Churchill’s ears. “Major Gilman may start off behaving like a saint, but he’s not immune to temptation. He has a campful of enemy officers at his mercy. Was Hopkins such a bastard when he came here? No, it took time for the disease to fester. It will be the same with Gilman—”

  “That’ll be enough, Bruckner,” said Steuben.

  But it wasn’t enough for Bruckner. His eyes flashed and he tightened his grip on Churchill’s leash. “They are plotting things, Hopkins and his pawns. And Gilman is part of it. He’s going to be nice to us, give us food and blankets and extra coal, and make us think he’s on our side. And then when he’s got us where he wants us—”

  “We’re already where he wants us!” Steuben snapped. “We’re prisoners! What more can they do to us?” He paused to control his anger then worked toward patience. “Hans, you have more theories and fears than I have hairs on my head. Accept one thing at face value, will you please? Nobody is plotting evil against us. We’ve been here too long and we’ve survived. Nobody has died in this camp! Nobody! Even Hopkins, with all his little tortures, has killed no one. We know the limits of what they will do. Hopkins is the worst, but he’s unique. I am prepared to believe that Gilman is more representative of the way this government wants to treat us. And until we get evidence to the contrary, I believe we should be model prisoners. Offer no resistance, cause no trouble. Give them no reason to take reprisals. And that is how we will determine the true intentions of Major Gilman. I believe that, just as strongly as I believe that if we do step out of line, Gilman will act.”