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In part because of that language barrier, there was little interaction with the Russians, except when they brought the Americans water and food. When questioned, their new captors simply shrugged, or muttered meaningless responses in broken English about “security.”

In the end, it was what they saw the Russians doing to their own kind that made them most anxious. The former Russian POWs were not greeted with open arms by their liberators. Instead, they were contained in their old prison quarters. Then, on the morning of the third day, individual Russian officers who had been the prisoners of the Germans were led out and lined up in the prison yard.

“I believe they’re going to shoot them,” MacDonald said in disbelief.

From inside the barracks, they watched as a handful of Russian soldiers with machine guns faced the line of officers, who stood glumly, knowing full well what was coming next. One of the NKVD officers, in his tailored uniform, read some kind of pronouncement from a sheet of paper that threatened to fly away in the breeze. Then he stepped back behind the line of machine gunners, raised his arm, and brought it down in a chopping motion.

Whitlock jerked back from the window, both horrified and fascinated by what he saw. As the guns opened fire, the bodies jumped as if on puppet strings as the bullets pumped into them. In moments, there was only a heap of bodies on the ground. The NKVD officer moved forward with a pistol, and shot the ones who showed any sign of life.

“I hate to say it, but things are about to get ugly around here,” Ramsey said.

They had a glimmer of hope the next day, when the Russians rousted them from the barracks and marched them out of the camp itself. They could only think that the Russians were marching them to rejoin the American forces.

Whitlock looked around at the German countryside and marveled at what he saw. Everywhere he looked, German civilians seemed to be on the move, carrying whatever they owned. Some pushed handcarts loaded with suitcases, pots and pans, and small children. One burly man carried an elderly woman on his back, in the same way one might give a child a ride. All the Germans were headed to the east in a slow, steady tide. The Russians showed little interest in the refugees, unless any of them looked like they might be former German soldiers. Anyone seen wearing even part of a German uniform was doomed.

“Where are they going?” Whitlock wondered.

“They’re getting the hell out of Dodge,” Ramsey said. “If what we’ve seen so far from the Russians is any indication, I’d say these people have the right idea.”

There were now sixty-three American officers remaining. Some still held out hope that they were being marched to be turned over to an American unit, but instead, they reached a railroad siding. On the rails was a battered troop train, pocked with bullets where it had been strafed by Luftwaffe planes that were now just a bad memory. The locomotive faced east—toward Poland and then Russia beyond.

From the sounds within the other cars, it was clear that the train was loaded with human freight. Any mystery about who might be inside was settled when a detachment of German POWs marched up and was herded into a car. The entire train seemed to be filled with POWs. Whitlock thought there must be hundreds of men jammed into the cars.

Then it was the Americans’ turn. This time, there was nothing jovial or subtle about their captors’ intentions. The Americans were forced aboard the train at gunpoint, crowded in like sardines. Then the doors rolled shut with a thunderous clang.

The POWs were now enclosed in what was essentially meant to be a rolling prison. Inside, it was nearly dark, with the only light coming from rectangular, uncovered openings high above their heads. To call these windows wasn’t quite right, considering that there was no glass, and they were not wide enough for anyone to crawl through. The latrine facilities consisted of a hole cut into the floor, about one foot square. It was enough to step into and break a leg, but not large enough to escape. The floor beneath them lurched, causing the men to sway and grab one another for balance. Then they could feel the train begin to move.

Toward the east. Toward Russia.

• • •

The atmosphere inside the rail car could be described as one of indignant anger mixed with disappointment. After months of German captivity, the Americans had expected freedom. It had been stolen away by the Soviets.

“That does it,” MacDonald announced. “We have to get out of here. Ramsey, you and Whitlock stand under that opening.”

MacDonald found the smallest man there, a skinny lieutenant who could have been a jockey, and had him clamber onto their shoulders. The idea was for him to squeeze through the opening.

“If he gets out, what is he supposed to do?” Ramsey wondered, grunting with the effort of holding up the lieutenant. “Run around and unlock the doors?”