“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 wife, 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.”
There were frowns and grumblings from the small core of true Nazis among the senior officers. While they didn’t subscribe to Bruckner’s wild statements, neither did they trust the Americans—any Americans. To them, Hopkins was more typical of the American character. Hopkins met all their expectations.
“Major Steuben.” Mueller piped up from the rear, coldly contemptuous. Mueller was the senior Luftwaffe officer and resident escape artist—or so he fancied himself.
“What is it, Mueller?”
“Same as always, Major. When will I get a hearing before the escape committee?”
“Let’s give Major Gilman a little time to settle in before we start taking advantage.”
“I don’t understand that, Major. Are we supposed to hang up our balls until we find out if Gilman has any of his own? I’ve got serious plans that require discussion, and I’m willing to abide by the rules—no independent efforts. But there are other men involved, and
we want a hearing.”
Hoffman stood behind him, nodding.
“So noted.”
Mueller’s eyes went icy with hatred. He was a disciplined officer, but his patience was sorely tried by Steuben’s unbending reluctance to permit escape attempts. If Mueller didn’t get his hearing soon, he might go without approval, and Steuben knew it.
“The escape committee will meet within the next forty-eight hours,” Steuben said, “to discuss the general issue of escape. No plans will be heard at that time. But we will let you know our thinking.”
Mueller’s contempt only deepened. “What more could I ask for?” he said, then turned and walked out.
“At least we know one thing about Gilman,” said Gebhard, the lone U-boat officer imprisoned at Blackbone. “He likes dogs.”
Everybody glanced at Churchill and smiled. Churchill recognized the attention and let out a happy bark. Bruckner snorted. “Making love to the dog was for our benefit. If Hopkins killed it, do you think Gilman would punish him?”
“It’s your own fault,” said Hoffman. “You had to go and name him Churchill.”
“Right,” said Gebhard. “Maybe if we call him Goering and kick him now and then—”
A few of the officers laughed. The Nazis in the corner glared at Gebhard.
Steuben dismissed the meeting and cleared the room. He stopped Bruckner at the door. “Hans,” he said, “I don’t understand where you get some of your ideas. Do you really believe the Americans are trying to find a way to kill us?”
“This is war, Major,” Bruckner said with a bitter smile. “Some things you wouldn’t dream of could already be reality.”
Psychotic? Or just paranoid? Steuben wondered if he shouldn’t turn Bruckner over to an American psychiatrist. There was no one on the prisoners’ medical staff qualified to judge. But Bruckner was paranoid about American doctors, too, convinced that they were conducting horrifying experiments on war prisoners.
A few months ago, when he had run a fever and suffered chills, Bruckner had not even admitted he was sick, he was so afraid of being turned over to the Americans for treatment.
“In their hands, I would just disappear like a bug down a frog’s throat,” he had told Steuben in his delirium. “You would never see me again. I would end up cut into pieces. They would attach wires to what remains and run currents of electricity through me, and I would go on and off like a lamp.” He had ranted and raved, and Steuben had ended up nursing him alone, not even permitting the German medics near him.
Since then, Bruckner had been more careful about his hygiene, his sleeping and eating habits.... And he had devoted himself to that dog, convinced that caring for another living being put him in good grace with God, and therefore he was protected.
“You are convinced we are losing this war,” Bruckner told Steuben. “I don’t blame you for that. In fact, I may believe it myself. But you are content to stay where you are, in the comforting bosom of America, the international tit. Your only concern is survival and, beyond that, repatriation. Some of these two hundred-odd men don’t share that view. Mueller, for instance. You keep putting him off, expecting him to come around to your point of view and realize that escape is hopeless. But some of our men do not believe it is over. And they have grown rather unhappy with you.”
Steuben was surprised to hear all this from Bruckner. “You mean they’re finally paying attention to your portents of doom?” he said.
“No.” Bruckner smiled. “I believe what I believe. They have their own ideas. And I...” He frowned, then gazed into space. “I live with what I know.”
He shook Churchill’s leash and made kissing sounds. The dog followed him down the corridor and out the door.
Steuben stepped back into his room and shut the door. Bruckner was right. His only interest was survival and, beyond that, going home. If there was a home to go back to. And it wasn’t just for himself that he hoped. It was for all two hundred of the men in” his care.
Steuben unbuttoned his tunic and lay down on his bunk. He closed his eyes and wished everyone away. Bruckner, Mueller, Hopkins, even Gilman. Send them all to another planet. The only thing he wanted right now was a glass of schnapps and the warm flesh of his wife.
Lust faded quickly as he thought of his family back in Germany, trapped like helpless mice, directly in the path of the advancing Russian Army. And here he sat in the comforting bosom of America—safe.
Chapter 4
“Hi.”
Loring held the door open. Warren Clark was leaning against the jamb—clothes rumpled, tie askew, damp stains on his shirt, drunk, and regarding her with a look of complete disgust. His head bobbed, and it seemed as if any second it might roll off his shoulders.
“It’s past midnight, Warren. What do you want?”
“Me? What do I want?” He laughed then spoke again, trying to control a slur. “My pumpkin has become a coach, my footman has become a dog, and oops, my glass slippers have become
huaraches.”
He laughed again and sagged against the jamb. His coat rode up, pulling his shirttail out on one side.
“You’re a mess. Go home and sleep it off.”
Warren’s face darkened. His foot lashed out, kicking the door wide. He tumbled into the room. “May I come in?”
Loring thought quickly. She decided it would be better to let him pass out in her apartment. In the morning, he would be his usual contrite, cooperative self, easier to get rid of. She shut the door. He fell onto the sofa, stretched out in a long heap, and stared at her.
“I’ve hit a dead end,” he said. “I can’t help you anymore. What do you think of that?”
Loring leaned against the door. “What sort of dead end?”
“You know.
Delaware Trader.”
“What have you found out?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes, I would. Do I have to pull your teeth to find out?”
“Maybe—you might have to pull
something.”
“Look, Warren, if you’ve got some gripe with me, can we settle it later? If you have any information about that ship, I would appreciate hearing it right now. It’s vital!”
Warren lay motionless a moment then erupted. “Of course it’s vital! Everything is vital to you except us! Well, shit! I’m tired of playing the lapdog! Warren, will you do this? Warren, will you check into that? Warren, would you use your connections? Warren, I don’t want to tell you this, but I really think you’re nothing more than the perfect doormat! And that’s what I think of you!” He waved a demonstrative hand. “Isn’t it?”
“No, and I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“You’re sorry for nothing. The only purpose I serve in your life is to run your goddamned errands and squire you around. You’re using me!”
She stayed at the door. “Warren, you want too much.”
“Too much? All I want is a sign that you care!”
She watched him a long moment then said quietly, “I’ve never encouraged you.”
He sank deeper into the sofa. The anger flowed out of him, replaced by defeat. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s right. You never have. Oh, God, you’re a cold one. You knew this would happen, that you could just frost me and frost me and sooner or later I would complain, and then you could wriggle right out of it by saying, Sorry, Warren, old asshole, I never fucking encouraged you! And, by God, you never did. You certainly never did.”
Loring moved away from the door. “I’ll make some coffee.”
“No!” Warren rolled over. His legs hit the floor and with effort he pulled himself up. He reeled from dizziness and dropped back again. “Okay. Go ahead. Make it. It’s the least you can do for me.”
Loring went to the kitchen, resisting an impulse to pick up a rolling pin and beat some sense into him. She put water up to boil then touched her cheeks. They were burning. Why should she be embarrassed, or feel guilty? She was only telling him the truth. She had never encouraged him. Simple as that. And he knew it, too, or he wouldn’t be so angry. The sleeping dog wakes. But he knew something, or he would never have had the courage to come here, even drunk, and pull this nonsense. She went back into the living room, flashing a smile. He was still on the sofa, watching her balefully.
She could blame her mother for this. She had wanted to get rid of Warren after the first date, but Mother had begged her not to be hasty. Mother, the professional club woman and would-be marriage broker. She had successfully found husbands for seven young ladies from the better New Haven families, but she had failed miserably with her own daughter, who had rebelled from the time she could spell the word. Bryn Mawr and Radcliffe hadn’t been good enough for Loring, even though her father—a Wall Street securities specialist whose portfolio remained fat no matter what the political climate—could afford to send his daughter to the top school in the world. Instead, she had picked plain old Columbia University in New York City. And not to study home economics, either. Entirely on her own and with no encouragement at home, Loring had managed to turn herself into a professional archaeologist. And it utterly burned her parents’ collective egos that she chose to soil her hands with field work. They would rather see her stashed away in a Park Avenue town house with good old Warren Clark, leading a life they could understand and at least partially control.
More than ever, Loring was convinced she could never let that happen. Besides, Warren did nothing for her sexually. Oh, he wanted it all right. The poor fool was beside himself with unresolved sexual tension. But he awakened nothing inside Loring, not even the remotest stir.