Prisoner of Warren

by Andreas Oertel

  The work continued after lunch. And the whole time we were stuck in that pit, I sensed he wanted to start another conversation. But I didn’t feel like talking. I wanted nothing to do with his brainwashing tricks or sneaky arguments. I wanted him gone. And by gone I mean dead or back at the Ripples P.O.W. camp.

  Late in the afternoon Dad showed up again. “Why don’t you guys take a break and go for a swim?” he said to me. “You look like you could both stand to cool off a bit.” He laughed and then added, “I don’t want you to overheat again, or your mother will tear a strip off me.”

  I was about to protest—I even opened my mouth to say something—but changed my mind when I looked into Dad’s eyes. I could see that he didn’t want to hear any guff from me today.

  Martin easily vaulted from the pit and waited for me to lead the way. The swimming hole was on Tilley Creek, three miles before the creek joined the St. John River. The creek’s concrete wall backed up water so that even during the driest summers it was a great place to cool off. It was a popular spot for the kids in the area who didn’t feel like hiking all the way to the river for swim.

  “Just be back in time for supper,” Dad warned, as we headed for the tree-lined gully.

  I nodded. If I’m still alive.

  The trail to the swimming hole snaked its way along the upper edge of the gully for almost a mile. We could also have followed the creek bed, as it was pretty dry, but the trail was better near the top.

  It was nice to be moving through the shade and down a familiar trail, although it did feel awkward for a couple reasons. First, because I was being followed by a German P.O.W., and I was kind of nervous he was going to bash me on the head from behind and kill me. And second, it was a strange feeling to be walking. I usually ran to the creek. It seemed painfully slow to walk when I could be…

  Hey! That gave me an idea—an idea for my second attempt to get rid of the enemy.

  I turned my head and said, “We’d better run so that we can be back in time for dinner.”

  “Yes,” Martin said.

  If I couldn’t tire him out and kill him by making him do all the digging, I could certainly exhaust him by making him run. Maybe that would cause him to collapse and die. I began loping down the path at a light jogging pace. Each log and boulder on the trail was as familiar as the furniture in our house, and I easily leapt over every obstacle. I deliberately waited till the last second to duck branches and fallen trees, hoping to throw Martin off.

  Dear Pete, What do you think of this plan? Clever, huh?

  Dear Warren, Not bad. You sure can run. I gotta go. Grandpa’s in the middle of a story. It’s the one where you crawl in the chicken coop, fall asleep, and we can’t find you for eight hours. I could hear that another hundred times. Come to think of it, I probably will.

  I figured that if I was really lucky, maybe a branch would smack Martin in the head and kill him. Then I wouldn’t be in trouble, but he’d be dead. Pete would have called that a win-win situation. And Tom would be impressed with the elegant simplicity of that kind of “accident.”

  You’re all dead.

  Maybe not. I smiled and ran faster.

  As I rounded a particularly tight bend, I thought I’d lost Martin and glanced back over my shoulder. I was shocked to see he was only three paces behind me. Even in his heavy P.O.W. workboots he kept pace with me.

  And he was grinning like a big kid—like it was just a friendly foot race or something. Angered by his stamina, I sped up even more.

  Faster…faster…faster.

  Our feet pounded down the trail toward the swimming hole. Jumping, dodging, leaping—like two charging lions we powered along the path.

  I ran as fast as I could.

  Then, a hundred yards from Tilley Creek, my legs failed me. A fallen tree I had hopped over a million times caught my shoe, sending me careening into the brush.

  Unable to stop in time, Martin was forced to hurdle over me. Only he couldn’t stop after that either. The momentum of his huge frame kept him going for another thirty feet, before he too slammed into the undergrowth. Well, at least there was some good news.

  Chapter 6

  Gingerly, I clawed my way out of the wild roses. I brushed myself off and examined my limbs for damage. Other than some deep scratches on my palms, I appeared to be in one piece. I looked down the trail for Martin, hoping to see him lying on the ground with his neck twisted at an awkward angle. Like a…like a dead chicken, I guess.

  But as luck would have it—his luck, not mine—he wasn’t dead. He was fighting his way out of the scrub…unhurt. What a lucky duck! I mean, chicken.

  Distant voices suddenly reached me. I froze. I was hoping we’d have the place to ourselves, because I didn’t want to have to explain who Martin was. Everyone I knew had a family member fighting in the war, or one who was dead because of the war, and here I was palling around with a German soldier. That wouldn’t look good at all.

  I listened hard but couldn’t identify the owner of the voice. We were still too far away from the swimming hole.

  “PLEASE…DON’T!” screamed a voice—a girl’s voice.

  I listened some more. It was Gwyneth. I was sure of it. And something was wrong. She sounded scared.

  Martin heard it too and took two steps down the trail. But I grabbed his wrist and stopped him. “Wait!” I whispered. “Stay here.”

  “Something is not right,” he said.

  “I know, but let me look first. You’re…you’re not allowed to leave the farm,” I lied. “You could get in trouble.” Whatever Gwyneth was screaming about couldn’t be nearly as bad as harbouring a war prisoner. At least that was the way I saw it.

  Martin nodded that he understood, but I don’t know if he believed me or not.

  I scurried quietly down the path, hiding behind the thick willows and dense shrubs that grew near the bottom of the creek. As I neared the swimming area, I heard three other voices and a dog. The dog was whimpering uncontrollably.

  A gap between the trees opened up and I stopped to try and see what was going on. Gwyneth was standing barefoot in the mud, three feet from the water. And her little sister, Celia, was shivering and sobbing ten feet behind her.

  Gwyneth was a year younger than me, and I liked her. I’m not saying I had a crush on her or anything like that. I’m just saying she was swell (for a girl) and I liked her.

  “Just give him back!” Gwyneth yelled.

  She took a step to the left and I saw more of what was happening. Now I could see Brent Slater and Vance Peterson.

  “We’re just fishing a bit,” Vance said. “Calm down.” He picked up Celia’s puppy and threw it far out into the swimming area. The leash was still attached to the tiny retriever and its head jerked awkwardly when it reached the limit of the rope. After watching the puppy paddle in nervous circles, Vance hauled on the rope violently. The puppy choked and whimpered as Vance dragged it to shore faster than it could swim.

  “Stop being so mean!” Gwyneth shouted. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting my sister?” She pointed at seven-year-old Celia, who, with a string of snot hanging from her nose, clearly did look upset.

  I searched the area one more time. Confident that Rake Chambers (the third bully normally with Vance and Brent) wasn’t around, I left my hiding spot and ran down to Gwyneth. I must have startled her, because her whole body jumped when she realized I was standing next to her. She still smiled at me, though. It was only for a second, but she was definitely relieved to see me—to have an ally in her war against two jerks.

  “Come on, fellas, let the dog go,” I said, trying to sound reasonable and friendly.

  “Well, well,” Vance sneered, “if it isn’t the Rabbit Turd.”

  I ignored the insult and said, “Can’t you see you’re making her cry?” They were both two years older than me and not especially bright, but I hoped
to reason with them anyway.

  “You mean yourself?” Brent said. He picked up the puppy roughly.

  “Yeah, are you the upset girl?” Vance added, in case I didn’t grasp his friend’s idiotic insult. Like I said, they weren’t geniuses.

  “Don’t you guys have anything better to do than terrorize animals?” I said quickly. The dog looked exhausted and I didn’t think he’d survive being tossed in the water again.

  “We could terrorize you and your girlfriend instead,” Vance said. “But we’re having lots of fun with the mutt.” He grabbed the leash from Brent and dangled the puppy in the air. The dog choked for air as the rope tightened around his throat.

  Gwyneth gasped. “Stop it, you monster! You’re killing him.”

  I began to panic. I wanted to help, but I wasn’t sure what to do. If Gwyneth and I only had to deal with one fifteen-year-old, I’m sure we could have rescued Celia’s dog. But Brent and Vance together presented a much bigger challenge.

  I was about to rush Vance, even knowing I’d get a good licking as soon as Brent jumped in to help his friend, when someone suddenly flew past us. It was Martin. He tore past Gwyneth and me and stopped in front of Brent and Vance.

  Startled by the presence of the giant stranger, Vance dropped the puppy on the ground.

  Martin didn’t say a word. He gently picked up the dog, scowled at the boys, and walked over to Celia. She had been shaking as much as her tiny retriever, but now that they were reunited again, they both seemed to calm down.

  I turned back to Brent and Vance, wondering what they would do next, but they weren’t even looking at us. They were both staring up the trail that led to the county road. They weren’t alone. They were looking for Rake—their leader.

  We had to leave now or there would be trouble—big, ugly, painful trouble.

  I followed Gwyneth over to her sister. “Thanks,” she said to Martin.

  “You and Celia should leave,” I said. “We should all leave. Now.”

  Gwyneth ignored my warning. “Who’s your friend?” she asked.

  “He’s my…He’s my cousin, Martin,” I said. “From Halifax.”

  “Your cousin saved Tinker,” Celia said, “from those meanies.”

  Martin smiled, but didn’t say anything. I think he knew his accent would give away who he really was.

  Celia wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Thanks, mister.” Oblivious to the snot, she held out the same hand and waited for Martin to shake it.

  Martin didn’t hesitate. He shook Celia’s hand. “You are welcome.”

  Then he discretely wiped the liquid booger juice from his fingers onto his pants.

  Gwyneth smiled at Martin. Martin smiled at Gwyneth. I did not smile.

  “We should go,” I said again.

  “I didn’t know you had family in Nova Scotia,” Gwyneth said.

  “That’s because he doesn’t,” a new voice shouted from behind us. “What we have here is an escaped prisoner of war. A Pee…Oh…Double-u.”

  I looked behind me and saw Rake Chambers standing with his two goons. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips and he had a bottle of whiskey in each hand. Rake was seventeen, and without a doubt the meanest guy in Queens County. No one knew his real first name, so everyone just called him Rake because of his teeth. Each one was spaced a quarter inch from the next. When Tom and I saw Rake’s battered truck near the creek, we always left. Any encounter with him was trouble.

  Gwyneth twisted and looked up at Martin. For the first time she seemed to notice he was wearing a prison work shirt. “So what if he’s a P.O.W.?” she said defiantly. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “We’re leaving,” I said to Rake. “You can have the place to yourselves.”

  “What’s your hurry?” Rake said. He walked over and stood so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. When these guys drank, they didn’t care what they did.

  Celia hugged her puppy close with one hand and latched onto Martin’s hand with the other.

  “I think,” Rake continued, “I’d like to celebrate with you and your pet Kraut.”

  “Celebrate what?” Gwyneth asked, pushing back her long red hair. She didn’t seem to care that I’d lied about Martin being my cousin, which I thought was pretty neat. And she didn’t seem to mind that Martin was a P.O.W., which sort of confused me.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Rake slurred. “Today is National Nazi-beating Day.” He puffed up his chest and stepped closer. “And we’re all gonna celebrate right here.”

  Rake was barefoot and wearing only shorts. I looked down at the feet of his henchmen and noticed they had no shoes on either—they’d been swimming. Rake was tough and could take me easily, but I knew I could outrun him, especially since I had shoes on.

  All I had to do was turn and go.

  What would happen to Martin if I left him? Would they beat him to death? Possibly, but I didn’t think so. They might rough him up, but surely they wouldn’t kill him, would they? And so what if they did? I’d already tried to kill him twice—last night in his sleep, and again on the trail a few minutes ago.

  And how about Gwyneth and Celia? Would they be harassed too? Would little Celia have to watch whatever they were going to do to Martin? What would Gwyneth think of me if I ran away like a big, fat chicken?

  My brain raced through all my possible options, and then assessed all the likely outcomes. To be honest, nothing I imagined doing could end well for me. If I took off, I’d be the coward of the county. If I stayed and helped Rake, I’d be a murderer and be sent to jail.

  I think I was okay with someone else killing Martin. But not like this—not in front of two girls who thought he was a hero. And what would Dad say? I mean, it was one thing if our P.O.W. died and it looked like an accident. But it was a whole different story if I left and someone killed Dad’s house guest. In fact, it would look real suspicious that Dad signed out a prisoner from Ripples, and then he got killed the next day.

  Dear Pete, What should I do?

  Dear Warren, I’m thinking…I’m thinking…

  Sure, I had to kill Martin, but I had to do it on my own. No witnesses. No complications. Suddenly, I knew what to do.

  I twisted my face into what I thought was a mean look. “Just hold him still and I’ll start the festivities,” I said.

  Rake’s face registered confusion. “What do you mean?” Even though he was named after one, Rake wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed either.

  “This Nazi’s been giving us grief all day,” I said.

  “Oh, Warren!” Gwyneth moaned in dismay. “Please…don’t!”

  “Huh?” Rake put his whiskey bottles on the ground. He swayed back and forth, like a drunk leaving the town pub. “What d’you mean?”

  “First, he lets all the chickens loose. Took us two hours to round ’em up,” I said. “And then he drives the tractor into the well. The knucklehead snapped the pump clean off.” I turned so only Gwyneth could see my face and gave her a quick wink. I was desperate to let her know I was really on her side.

  Rake imagined the havoc, and laughed. With his hair wet, he looked even uglier than usual—like a giant sewer rat standing on two legs.

  “So just hold him still,” I said, continuing to rant, “and let me get a few good punches in first. Then you guys can take over.”

  Without waiting for Rake to approve, I pulled on Martin’s wrist and pushed him toward Rake. Martin let go of Celia’s hand and Gwyneth stepped in and held her sister close. Rake grabbed Martin’s forearm and bent it behind his back. Brent was chubbier and less fit than his pals, so Vance jumped in and grabbed Martin’s other arm.

  Rake presented the greatest risk to all of us, so I decided I would try and deal with him.

  I stood in front of Martin with a fake scowl
smeared across my face.

  Rake began chanting like a maniac, “Hit ’im hard. Hit ’im hard.”

  “Give this to Hitler!” I screamed and pulled back my fist. With all my weight behind me, I made as if I was going to hit Martin in the jaw. Then, halfway to his face, I changed the trajectory and let my fist slam into Rake’s nose.

  CRACK!

  To be clear, I didn’t actually mean to connect with his nose—I think I was aiming for his cheek—but I guess I miscalculated and…well, what’s done is done.

  Blood erupted from his nose and I was sure I had broken it. Rake staggered back toward the water, stumbling in his bare feet. He slipped on a wet rock and fell into Tilley Creek with a splash.

  Martin immediately twisted, crouched low, and exploded into Vance. It was like watching a tornado—he was that fast. Vance’s arms flailed, uselessly clawing the sky, as he flew backward through the air. He landed in the water four feet beyond Rake.

  Martin scooped up Celia (who was still holding the puppy) and headed off up the trail, Gwyneth hot on his heels. I turned, ready for retaliation from Brent, but he was too stunned to do anything. He just stood there, staring down at his defeated friends.

  I followed Martin, leaving Rake and Vance slogging their way to the creek bank. Glancing back, I saw Rake holding his nose and cursing us. Bubbles of red frothed around his hand, while he swore through the flow of blood.

  “YOU’RE BOTH DEAD, WEBB!” he screamed at us from down in the gully. “You hear me? DEAD!”

  Martin paused and waited for me to catch up. Satisfied they weren’t chasing us, we continued up the path. With each step, I wondered what the heck I’d done. First I was going to kill Martin, and now I was taking on the local bullies and protecting him. I trudged along and tried to convince myself I wasn’t protecting Martin. I was protecting Dad from going to jail, and I was protecting Gwyneth and Celia from those goons, and I was protecting Tinker from…

  Oh, heck, who was I kidding? No matter how I looked at what had just happened, deep down, I knew my problem had just quadrupled in size. This morning, only one person wanted me dead. Now I had to worry about four guys trying to kill me.