The major jerked his chin toward the opposite bank. There were still just as many refugees waiting to cross, if not more. Now there was another presence visible. Several military trucks had appeared, along with a squad of soldiers. They spread out in what appeared to be a loose battle formation. However, they were not Germans. They ignored the refugees, but their eyes were on the GIs on the western bank of the Elbe.

The Russians had arrived.

“Soldier, you did what you could for these people,” the major said. “Now put down those oars and go find your rifle. These Russians are supposed to be on our side, but I don’t like the looks of ’em.”

CHAPTER 8

Whitlock’s days at the Hotel Hitler fell into a mind-numbing routine. First there was the morning Apfel, or head count. The officers moved out into the chill morning and literally counted off. Whitlock soon learned there were eighty-seven American officers at Stalag Twenty-Two B. The number had not changed since Whitlock’s arrival. Then there was breakfast, which consisted of a hunk of bread and ersatz coffee.

“They used to serve real coffee, but not even the Germans have that luxury anymore,” Ramsey said.

Following breakfast, they were allowed an hour of exercise in the yard. Some of the more energetic men played baseball or football with a makeshift pigskin. No one was allowed within ten feet of the chain link perimeter fence. If a ball went out of bounds into this dead man’s land, the prisoners asked a guard to retrieve it.

“Don’t let the propaganda fool you,” Ramsey said. “The Germans are decent enough, considering that we are in a prisoner of war camp. They are more indifferent than cruel. Of course, these Kraut bastards know that soon enough the tables will be turned and they will be the ones who are held prisoner. But for now, don’t push your luck by getting too close to that fence. Those bastards with the guns mean business.”

Almost every day now when out in the exercise yard, they could see the contrails high above of bombers going to drop their payload on Berlin. Scarcely a Luftwaffe fighter was ever seen anymore, which meant that the Allied B-17s went about their business of destruction nearly unmolested, except for the flak guns that still peppered the skies.

“Give ‘em hell, boys!” someone shouted up at the sky. Several others whooped at the sight of the bombers.

Whitlock recalled the dead girls he had seen as the result of the bombing. The thought still made him sick.

He noticed that Ramsey hadn’t joined in the cheering, although he was watching the planes.

“It’s an ugly business,” Ramsey said, as if he had read Whitlock’s mind. “The sooner this war is over, the better.”

After the morning exercise, it was back into the barracks to pass the interminable hours until dinner. There was little reading material and nothing to do.

Ramsey looked out the window wistfully as the men in the enlisted barracks next door trooped out to work. Most of their day was spent in manual labor; lately, they had been spending time repairing damage from the Allied bombing raids, which was ironic.

“According to the Geneva Convention, officers aren’t to be made to work, but I’ve got to tell you, what I wouldn’t do to get outside in the fresh air with a shovel in my hands or maybe a pick,” Ramsey said. “Anything for something to do. That’s what got to poor Hinson in the end, you know. He got too much inside his own head and couldn’t get back out, poor bastard.”

The grounds of the camp were roughly divided into four quadrants, according to the nationalities of the prisoners. Opposite their own barracks were those of the English prisoners of war. The consensus was that they were uptight bastards, particularly the officers. Military decorum was strictly adhered to in their barracks, and the men were made to drill and sing patriotic songs. The approach was supposed to keep up their spirits. It all seemed forced to Whitlock’s eyes.

“There they go again, marching for King and Country,” Ramsey remarked. “Those damn Brits have the attitude that the beatings will continue until morale improves.”

In another corner of the camp were the French prisoners. They were considered to be disorganized and hot-tempered, with shouting at all hours of the day and night. It was no wonder that they might be a little crazy and lacking in discipline—some of the French had been prisoners there since 1940.

Finally, there was the Russian section, which occupied nearly half the camp. If the Germans treated the Americans, British, and even the crazed French with some degree of civility, this was not the case with how they treated the Russians. The Russians were made to work constantly, sometimes just moving piles of rocks from one end of the camp to the next. Those who slacked off earned a rifle butt to the head. There was even the occasional gunshot.