Prisoner of Warren
Page 8
“But…but then where can we go?” I said loudly. Panic pressed down on me.
“Follow me,” Martin said. “But remain at my side, on the outside.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Using his elbows and knees he moved forward down the track. The gully was on Martin’s right, and I was on his left. Keeping low, we crept along the tall weeds that grew at the edge of the farm track.
Thistles, rocks, and other debris dug into my elbows, as I tried to keep pace with Martin. I had no idea where he was going. Then, twenty metres from my start blocks, Martin turned right and into the weeds. I kept my head low, following blindly.
Martin stopped. And then I stopped.
We were lying in the tall grass next to an abandoned plough, which sat rusting on the edge of the gully. The steel blades of the plough provided excellent cover from anyone on the other side of Tilley Creek. I had roamed this area for years, but never noticed it sitting among the weeds. Martin must have spotted it from our track.
“We can wait here,” Martin said, “until they go. No one can shoot us if we stay hidden.”
Shoot us. I still couldn’t believe it. Someone had shot at us. But maybe it was just a stray bullet. Farmers were always shooting raccoons or skunks or coyotes, so it could have been a bullet that got away.
Dear Pete, You see anything from up there?
Dear Warren, No, the sun was in my eyes.
Very funny.
Who was I kidding, though? The bullet had come from across the creek, two hundred yards away. That was where Cementhead’s farm was. Well, his name was actually Semenko—he’s dead now—but people around here called him Cementhead because—
“It could only be those boys from the creek,” Martin said, bringing me back to reality.
“Huh? Yeah, if it was anyone, it was Rake. Do you think he was trying to hit us?”
Martin rolled onto his back and brushed dirt from his elbows. “If whoever was shooting at us is good with a rifle, they could have easily hit us. It is not too far away. So it may have been a shot to scare us. Another warning.”
“Like the cross,” I said.
“Yes, like that grave marker in your backyard.”
“But what if they’re a lousy shot?” I asked, knowing the answer. “Or drunk?” Or what if they can’t aim because their broken nose is throbbing painfully?
“Then they may have been trying to kill us,” Martin said, “and simply missed.”
I prayed Rake was a good shot—even a terrific shot—and that he was only trying to scare me. If he was, it worked again. I was terrified.
“How long should we stay here?” I asked.
Martin squinted up at the sky. It was about seven o’clock and the sun was still pretty hot. “The shooter will grow impatient soon, and will then leave. But it would still be best if we waited a half hour.”
“What if he comes closer?” I asked. “What if he crosses the creek and comes to this side?”
“No,” Martin said quickly, “he does not want to be seen. That is why he uses a rifle. If he attempts to cross the gully, he will make much noise as he moves through the brush, and then we will hear him.” Martin swatted a mosquito on his forearm. “He will not come closer.”
That made sense, and I did believe him, but I couldn’t help thinking we were being surrounded as we hid in the tall grass.
Lying on our backs, we listened to the sounds of insects in the gully. After ten minutes, Martin said, “Do you want to talk about sprinting, Varren?”
I wanted to talk about something to pass the time, but I didn’t feel like talking about running. Without thinking I said, “Tell me about the war.”
Martin rolled onto his side and propped his head up with his hand. “The war? Why do you want to know about the war?”
“Because as soon as I turn seventeen, I’m going to join the army.”
“That is good,” he said. “You will make a good soldier.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “How do you know if I’ll make a good soldier or not?”
“Because, as in the last war, German soldiers fear Canadian soldiers.”
I had never heard this before. “Why?”
“Canadian soldiers are considered by the Wehrmacht—that is the German army—to be expert and professional soldiers. And they are feared by the Wehrmacht as an omen of an impending attack.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said, now rolling on my side and facing Martin.
“Oh, ya. It is true. Your Canadian army often…” he searched for the right word, “spearheaded the assaults during major battles. Yes, Canadians are good soldiers.”
I had no idea. It was interesting to hear the opinion of an enemy soldier. “You almost sound like you want the Allies to win and the Nazis to lose.”
“I want the war to end. And the best way for it to end quickly is if the Allies win.”
“But, don’t the German people want to win?” I asked, wiping some sweat from my forehead.
“At first, when the war began, yes. However, now everyone would like it to end. Many German people believe Hitler has gone too far.”
A rabbit ran from the brush behind our heads, and we both froze for a minute.
I sighed, relieved it wasn’t a gun-wielding madman. “Then why don’t they stop him?” I asked. Everyone in the world seemed to agree Hitler was a nut, yet no one was doing anything about it.
“Many have tried to stop him.” Martin said, watching the rabbit disappear across the field. “People have even tried to kill him, to end the war, but his power only grows.”
I shook my head. It seemed hard to believe that such a man could become the leader of a country. “But how did it all start?” I asked. “I mean, how could an entire country follow a man like Hitler?”
Martin rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes. “You ask many difficult questions for a young man,” he said. “But I will tell you all I know, and then you can decide what is true.”
He seemed to be organizing history in his head, because he didn’t speak for a full minute. Finally, he said, “Have you heard of the Treaty of Versailles?”
I shook my head, but saw that his eyes were still closed. “No,” I said.
“Okay, then I will start there. Germany was largely responsible for the last war, so the countries that won—the United States, France, and Britain—made Germany pay billions of marks to pay for the cost of the war.”
“Good,” I said, “that’s fair.”
Martin opened his eyes and rolled onto his side again. “Yes, I agree, but you see that was only the beginning. The Treaty of Versailles split Germany up. And German citizens were found suddenly living in many other countries and states. Entire regions were given to other nations. The German people felt very ashamed—very isolated.”
He had my full attention now. “So how does Hitler fit into all this?”
“Yes, Hitler,” Martin continued. “Eleven years ago, in 1933, Hitler became chancellor of Germany. And he promised the German people all the things they were desperate to hear.”
“What sort of things?”
“He promised jobs for the unemployed. He promised to rebuild Germany to its former strength. And he promised more Lebensraum—living space—for the German people. He had much charisma, Varren, and he used it to convince the people to believe in his party.”
“But what about the treaty?” I asked. “How could Hitler just break a treaty? You can’t do that.”
“Ask your schoolteachers,” Martin said. “And they will tell you that it was not a real treaty at all.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, a treaty is something that is…negotiated…agreed upon. Correct? Yet German representatives were banned from the discussions. In the end, Germany signed the treaty because the British naval blockades were starving the people—”
“I know, I know. It does not make sense. The German people, too, are all disgusted by the war, and they want it to end. But now everyone fears Hitler, and few people have the courage to speak against him. Many people have disappeared for simply speaking out against the Nazi party.”
This was how the afternoon continued. Questions asked by me were followed with Martin’s answers. It was a strange situation, I thought. There I was, lying in the dirt, hiding from a sniper, with my face only eight inches from a German P.O.W. Martin’s honest telling of the war was both fascinating and horrific at the same time. He too was appalled at what had become of his homeland, and the beliefs of his people.
At one point, I asked if it was true that the Nazis believed they were a superior race. Martin nodded solemnly. “Yes, it is true what you have heard,” he said. “Hitler’s propaganda has convinced many German people that other races are inferior and…” he swallowed hard and looked away, “…and evil.”
I sensed a sudden change in Martin, and decided that maybe this was a good time for us to leave. “Come on, Martin,” I said, “let’s go. I’m thirsty.”
“Ach, ya. I too could use some water.” Martin began to stand, then suddenly sat down again.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, worried he’d spotted Rake.
“You have asked me many questions about the war, Varren, except the one question I thought you would ask.”
“What’s that?”
“You have never asked me how I was captured—how I came to be at the Ripples camp.”
I shrugged. “I thought maybe it would be too embarrassing for you to talk about. You know, recalling the moment we captured you, and locked you up, and took away your freedom. Anyway, I didn’t want to ask.”
Martin stood up again. “Well, that is too bad,” he teased. “It is a good story.”
“Hey, don’t be a fat-head!” I said, grabbing his arm and pulling him back down. “Tell me the story.”
Martin tortured me further by taking his time getting comfortable in the weeds.
“So,” I said, getting impatient, “how were you captured? Was it in the middle of a battle?”
“No.”
“Were you grabbed delivering top secret information?”
Martin grinned. “Yes, you are getting warmer now.”
I rubbed my hands together, eager to hear his adventure.
“It happened almost a year ago,” he began, “…in Sicily.”
“Italy?” I said.
Martin nodded. “I was posted there with an infantry company outside of a town called Trapani. We were camped on the edge of a beautiful vineyard and the officers occupied a nearby villa, using it as their command centre. One evening I was summoned to the villa by the commandant, Major Leopold, and given a sealed envelope.”
“The top secret papers?” I asked.
Martin held up a finger, indicating that I should be patient. “I was ordered to wait until sunset and then take the envelope by bicycle to another army post thirty kilometres away.”
“But you didn’t make it,” I said, stating the obvious.
Martin shook his head. “There was no moon that night and I quickly became disoriented and lost. Then, just before sunrise, I pedalled right into a division of British paratroopers that had just landed. I was wearing a German uniform and was immediately arrested.”
“Wow!” I said. “That was some rotten luck.”
“Perhaps it was good luck,” he countered. “I found out later that that was the beginning of the Allied invasion of Sicily. Months of heavy fighting followed. I may have died in battle had I not been captured.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I suppose that’s true. But what about the secret message you were delivering? Do you think when it was intercepted that hurt the German army?”
Martin laughed. “Yes, I’m coming to that. That’s the best part of the story. I was immediately searched upon capture and everything was taken from me—including the sealed envelope. Then, the following day, I was visited by a British intelligence officer who showed me the message I had been tasked to deliver. It was an invitation.”
“What’s that?” I asked. “Some sort of code or cipher or something?”
“It was an invitation from Major Leopold, inviting another German officer to attend a dinner party at the villa.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You mean the major sent you out in the middle of the night, during a war, to go and invite his pal over for supper? That’s cuckoo!”
“Yes, exactly,” Martin agreed. “That was very cuckoo.”
“So how did you end up here—in Canada?”
“The British prison camps were all overflowing and could not house any more prisoners, so they shipped me to Canada.”
I couldn’t help shake my head. “Gosh, that must have been scary.”
“The night I was arrested I was terrified, but once I was taken away from the front lines, I felt safer than when I was with my unit.” Martin’s eyes got a faraway look as he finished his story. “The boredom is very difficult and…and missing my family…”
I knew all about missing family, so it was easy for me to imagine exactly how he felt. After a minute of silence, I playfully punched his shoulder and said, “Come on, let’s go. All this jibber-jabber’s made me even thirstier.”
Martin nodded, stood up, and took a careful look around the area. He seemed satisfied that we were alone, but he still suggested that as a precaution I follow ten paces behind him. That way, if the shooter was still waiting, he couldn’t hit us both. I said that was a good idea, but I knew what he was really doing. He was trying to get the gunman to shoot him—the larger target—and not me. Just like when we crawled for cover, he used his body as a shield to protect mine.
As I trailed Martin home, I felt more ashamed than ever that I’d wanted him dead.
Chapter 11
“No,” I said, “I can’t.” We were close to the house now and walking side-by-side.
“But you must tell your father,” Martin said, “so that the Polizei can be called.”
“No! If I tell him, he’s going to get scared.”
“Good,” Martin said. “This is serious. Someone has shot at us, and you may have been killed.”
I stopped on the trail, far enough from the house that we wouldn’t be heard. “I know that, but if I tell Dad someone tried to shoot us, he’s going to get worried. And if he thinks we were shot at because you’re a German P.O.W., he’ll send you back to the camp—to protect you.”
“Yes,” Martin said, “that is possible. Your father is a good man.”
“But don’t you see what that means? If you go back to Ripples, I won’t have you to train me. You’re my coach now, Martin,” I pleaded. “I need you to help me win.”
“But those boys may try again to hurt you—to kill you.”
“And that’s another reason to stay,” I said. “You’re big and strong. If they come to the farm to cause trouble, you’d be able to help Dad fight them off.”
“Perhaps,” Martin said.
“But mostly,” I said, “I want to run in the Summer Games, and I want to win the one-hundred. And the only way I can do that is if you keep coaching me.”
“I do not like that they have a gun.”
“Then we’ll just have to be more careful when we train at our track,” I said, glancing toward the house. “And we can train at different times of the day from now on.”
Martin squinted, considering my logic. “Yes, that is a good idea,” he said. “And I do have other exercises that we can do. Exercises that will increase your leg strength many times.”
“Yeah?”
Martin
smiled fiendishly. “Yes, and we can do these exercises away from the track.”
The grin on his face made me a little nervous. Like I said, you never knew what to expect from Martin’s training program.
“Well, there they are,” I said, standing in the middle of our fenced-in cattle pasture. I had no idea why, but the following day, after breakfast, Martin told me to take him to see the cows. “We call them ‘cows.’ Don’t you have them in Germany?” I teased.
“It is not the animals I am interested in.” Martin winked at me. “It is the pasture I wanted to see.”
“Yeah, Martin, this is really exciting. I can see why you wanted to come here.” We stood beside each other and surveyed the grazing cattle. Forty animals dotted the meadow, and not one bothered to look up at us.
Martin ignored my sarcasm. “We have come here to play a game—a game that will make your legs stronger and your start faster.”
I knew what he was thinking and shook my head. “If we’re going to play Smack the Cow, you’re wasting your time.” Cow smacking was when you snuck up on a cow, slapped it on the rear, and ran like hell for the fence before it trampled you. Tom and I had played the nighttime version last year. As the beast slept, you crept up on it, hoofed it in the rear, and ran for cover. It was all very boring, unless you did it to a bull. By the time a cow realized (or cared) what happened to its butt, you could be ten miles away.
“You can kick any one of these cows,” I added, “and they won’t even stop eating to look at you. They’re all stupid.”
As if understanding my insult, the nearest cow looked up at me and grunted.
Martin threw his head back and laughed, causing five other cows to glare at us. “No, no, no,” he said. “We are going to play Bocksprung—leapfrog.”
“LEAPFROG! Are you crazy? There’s crap everywhere.” I pointed to a fresh mound near Martin’s foot.
“Yes, the cow droppings will make the game much more interesting. Do you not think?”
“What are you talking about?” I couldn’t believe he wanted to play in the cow patties.